I used to be bigger. You should get going, pup.
You grab a fanny pack because you can't see your green backpack anywhere. Back through the trash-strewn hall, past Scarper screaming for Clay to be quiet and Clay screaming in mindless pain. Out the busted screen door, into Black Tarn's frozen garden. You almost expect her to be there, but no. A sudden bang, and you jump. Gunshots? No, a peal of thunder overhead, in the white sky. When you look up, lightning crawls slowly across the pale heavens, passing from west to east, then over the horizon.
You know the woods behind the recycling center, and though you have no problem avoiding the cops, you have to stay in town and risk exposure a little while longer, because you need one more thing before you leave: clothes. Your old parka is ragged and filthy, your gloves more duct tape than leather.
You head to the pharmacy you don't normally use and buy a loofah with soap already in it, a pack of new white t-shirts, and thick wool socks. Then you lock the store's bathroom and clean yourself up in the sink. There's a lot of dried blood, but you scrape it off and dump everything in the trash can. The fleece and parka go, too—they're beyond saving. That means you have to hurry down the street, arms crossed, to the cheap consignment shop.
It's cold in here, too, a cold not helped by the ugly glare of the woman behind the counter. She looks like she's biding her time, picking out a really good slur to call you. But you have money now to buy clean clothes. Good ones, not so expensive that you can't afford to explode out of them in a burst of Rage, but not the dirty, sweat-smelling cast-offs Clay used to toss your way. You look for something that will get you out of town without problems. After searching the racks and making sure you have enough money for necessary cold-weather clothing, you pick out—
Tactical clothes. Functional and aggressive; easy to go from "ignore me" to "don't mess with me."
Hunter camo, a mix of arctic and woodland. If everything falls apart (and it probably will), I can retreat to the wilds.
Something half-decent for once, college boy clothes. Not too prep. "Regular human" clothes.
Black on black. Because it hides the blood while still being honest about what I am: a killer.
Something barbaric and intimidating. I don't want to "look like a werewolf," but I want regular people to know I'm not one of them.
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