Silence. Everything is quiet. The court is empty, the streets are barren. Distantly, I know I should be hearing the sound of other students running from campus, close as the church is. And yet, suddenly, I am the only person in the world.

  I’ve never experienced an attack firsthand, but they happen often enough that we’re given lectures on what to expect from the day we learn to speak. Dead zones last maybe fifteen minutes at most, and if you’re not out by then, you pray really hard.

  Then, you stop moving and, best case scenario, are paralyzed for the rest of your life. Worst case scenario, you die.

  They don’t like to elaborate too much on that part. It’s easier to tell kids how to get out as fast as possible under the ambiguous threat of “getting got” than it is to explain the horrors of becoming braindead. Sure, we have medical advancements capable of treating most injuries to the brain, but they cost a fuckton.

  I think the biggest reason, though, is convenience. A simple and clean half-truth, the “nothing left to see here, literally.” The last thing they want is for some curious brat to go and make the same mis— no. Not right now. I can’t afford to be freezing up. I’m in a clearly abnormal situation, one that we have absolutely no training for and for which there is very possibly no precedent.

  Just moments ago, I am very sure that I was not on this street.

  … I am very sure that I was not in front of the church.

  Very, very sure.

  Right?

  And yet, my affirmations feel hollow. I do not mean what I say. How could I not mean what I say? I know it’s true. Objectively speaking! I was just on some unfamiliar street, and then… and then I wasn’t, and I can’t even remember what the last street sign read? I’m pathetic at convincing myself of things that aren’t true, and I know this. So why am I insisting on an obviously impossible scenario?

  But it wasn’t impossible, or untrue. It wasn’t! It can’t have been. Why does it feel like the more I repeat that, the more it feels false?

  Ugh. Not thinking about this.

  I glare up at Minerva, for little more reason than to have someone else to direct my anger at.

  Someone?

  Not thinking about that right now, either.

  Okay, then. I need to identify my surroundings first, be aware of any threats in my vicinity. Assuming there are any, they must be extremely patient, because they kindly waited for me to manage my impending panic attack first.

  I have to keep forcing my attention away from Minerva, her presence an itch sending shivers down my spine. I turn slowly, scanning the streets, head on a swivel for any signs of movement. Nothing. The entire city, as far as I can see, is dead.

  I pivot to the street sign a couple dozen yards down the street. The sign is there, but… it’s blank. I pause again. Why did I look at the street sign, specifically? Because you had a premonition it might be a clue. Right, that makes sense.

  …

  That thought was not my own! I whirl around again to face the statue, and.

  No.

  No, no, no no no. Minerva has been… changed. Is that even Minerva? She has morphed, her face into one of agony, metallic wings ripping from her back, leaving her flowing garbs in rags. I halt my spin, facing her fully, precisely in time to watch her eyes shatter into impossible shards of should-be-blue. In their wake is a pair of gaping black holes, streaming electric blue tears of blood, not human blood, not even blood, just pain and agonizing suffering of having every nerve lit on fire. She screams, and her pain is known to me, I know her pain more intimately than I know my own. Yet she is still and still a statue. It’s all she ever was. Right?

  If she is a statue, why am I thinking of her as she and not it?

  Statue or not, she looks human enough. It makes sense, right? But once again, I fail to convince myself.

  Statues don’t change poses or sprout wings. And they sure as hell don’t cry tears of blue blood and wail intangibly. It doesn’t matter what she is. We HAVE to help her! True that. Slight problem: Minerva is a several-tonne statue carved from marble and literally four times my size in volume. I have no way of moving her, if it’s even possible given the way the base of her podium merges seamlessly with the tiled courtyard.

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  My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps. It’s faint, but echoes just enough to hear from what has to be several blocks over. Because otherwise, it’s so silent you could hear a pin drop, I realize. Hope blooms in my chest. I’m not alone! I’m not alone! Thank the gods, someone is here to rescue…

  “—ould be around here.”

  “You think? Of course it’s around here, that’s why we zoned this area, dumbass!”

  “Yeah, yeah, my fault for making conversation. Tone it down a little, eh?”

  “Not like anyone’s here to listen…”

  As the voices quiet to a just-audible murmur, I gulp, dread rising in my gut. Thank the gods I didn’t immediately shout for help. I return my gaze to the statue, and realize she’s changed again. Her voidless, blue-spilling eyes are trained directly on me, her gaze locked with mine. She is holding out her spear in her right hand, but where her shield once covered her left, now she almost delicately holds a chalice, the same intricately carved marble as everything else. I should take them.

  Take them. Hurry!

  I don’t stop to question where the thought comes from now; there is no time for that. I step forward, my hands shaking even as they push through my terror and wrap around the cold stone shaft of her spear, lifting it from below, up and out of the hooked grasp of Minerva’s cold stone. Gods. It’s heavy, even having expected as much from a solid stone construct. Still, for all my lack of strength, it seems to shift its weight just barely, subtly, but enough to keep steady as I lean it against my collar bone and wrap my right arm around it for support.

  Turning to the chalice, I hesitate for a moment. How best to take it without spilling? I know better than to expect one hand will be sufficient for a second stone artifact.

  The footsteps resume to my right, volume increasing incrementally.

  No time!

  Okay, then. Screw prudence, we need to move now. My left hand reaches forward, fingers closing around the cup, just above Minerva’s. I lift the piece out of her hand slowly, despite my rush, its weight still too much for one spindly arm to handle. The footsteps are getting louder. Shit!

  Try or die, I guess. My arm quaking, I lurch my hand back towards me, the chalice quivering in my grasp as its contents slosh violently, only for me to nearly drop the thing in shock when its weight vanishes. Minerva, I realize. Her stone hand is still around the cup, arm moving with my motion to bring it down before my face.

  The surface is smooth, so smooth I struggle to believe it’s still just marble. I can practically see my reflection in it. Then, the chalice lowers still, its lip level with my own. I peer down into it, my eyes widening at what she wants me to do. Still, the clock is ticking. Better this than whatever would inevitably happen were I taken prisoner by the people headed my way. I squeeze my eyes shut, tilting the chalice to meet my lips, and drink.

  It tastes awful. No time to think.

  My stomach is actively trying to hurl its contents, a building sick that has me gagging in futility. I retch, but there’s a pit of utter disgust sitting in some intangible feeling just above my stomach, like I should be able to push it up to my throat and out, but can’t. Somehow, it’s still half full. What the fuck is this stuff?

  It’s blue, the same sapphire that Minerva cries. I barely pause for a gulp of air, before I return to lapping up the contents of the chalice. Yet every swig of the blue liquid seems inconsequential, like no matter how much I consume, it refills itself. The footsteps are rapid and crisp now. Any second now. Come on, just a little more. Someone is shouting, the footsteps pick up the pace. Just a little more. Steady strides become pounding impacts as two sets of boots begin running around a corner. Just a little more! They sprint around the same corner as the blank street sign, turning in unison to stare down the street.

  Directly at me.

  I take one last gulp, the repulsion of the taste at odds with the burning frustration that I couldn’t finish it all. There was more, so much more. But it can’t be helped. Better this than stay for more and get caught. I need to run.

  Except… It’s pretty clear that I can’t outrun these guys. We need strategy. Think! I should probably first break line of sight. Anything obscuring their view of me is another thing between me and their bullets. Do they even use iGuns? I can break the glass out back and make a run for it, double back or something if I can. Can I even escape, if I was basically trapped in this area anyways?

  “Shit, a mannie!”

  The first guy’s voice yells behind me, and I realize I took too long. In the back of my mind, there's a slight indignance that bubbles at the name. Even in a dead zone, where it’s the only thing keeping me alive, I can’t catch a fucking break.

  “I didn’t even know those still existed in the States,” his partner replies.

  The pace of the footsteps doubles again. I don’t bother to turn around. I really am on my own. Somehow, that thought is relieving, just slightly. Now, things are simple. Dead zones last ten to fifteen minutes. All I need to do now is run, hide, and attack or flee anything that moves. Which includes the two people behind me. Minerva’s spear still clutched to my chest, I pivot to face the courtyard behind her, and bolt, stone practically weightless as the last burst of adrenaline I didn’t know I had finally takes hold.

  The church door isn’t even locked.