The faceless horde approaches. The light clack of plastic to concrete resonates across the empty street as they shuffle closer like a ragtag marching band to a metronome beat, slightly out of sync, but ever so slightly. Two of them seem to be in the lead, as if they smelled prey and wanted first blood.
Clack.
There is nowhere to run, only one option left. Peripheral vision tells me there is a car about four feet to my right, and some lone trashcans some distance to my left. Cul-de-sac, some room to maneuver, but there is nowhere to run. Nowhere. Run.
Clack.
The grip of my Colt is slick with sweat, warm. It is comfortable. There is no hesitation as I put four rounds into one of the lead mannequins. Polyethylene shards fragment into the shuffling masses behind it, deterring them little. Holes in its chest, quarter of it's head gone, the lead loses no speed, pacing with its partner, now closing seemingly faster.
Clack.
They are five feet away, fanning out, arcing the front line to trap me. I break for the car, clambering on top of it. I fire again, emptying the clip between the damaged one and a few others. There is no stopping them. The hissing grows, like white noise.
Clack.
They have no weak spot, no flaw to their evenly dense enamel. The hissing grows louder, unbearable.
Clack.
Two feet away, arms reaching.
Clack.
Clack clack!
Hiss.
The sprinklers pop up, spraying water into the flowerbed near my window, as rude of an awakening as ever.
I jolt, sitting up straight, reaching for the gun under my pillow as my other hand shields my eyes from the morning glare.
Damn mannequins.
