Us in the town square, slowly moving further into the centre as the light fades and them in the buildings, eyes beginning to glow and stomachs waking up. By the almanac we have about forty eight minutes to go until the light's faded enough for both groups to exchange their surroundings.
It's a kinder way of phrasing the manic dash that occurs when the automatic lights flick on in the buildings and the sun's low enough to not hurt their eyes. Of course we'll swipe at each other in passing, them with their teeth and claws and us with knives and whatever guns have the most ammo for now.
Out of our two groups, they're the only ones who know what their enemy looks like despite the fact that they've been hunting us for almost two years now. All we ever manage to see are glimpses of jagged talons and hands with too many fingers and knuckles and teeth. They leave drawings for us to find in the morning but lord only knows if that's what they look like or what they want us to think they look like.
They know us by name now. Not that they're built to speak like us. Not that it stops them from trying, howling rough syllables to the stars until a word begins to form and they catch it, clinging onto it until it becomes enough of a name for them to try and lure us outside into their night.
We're all exhausted from trying to outrun and outsmart and outlive each other and at this point we aren't even living. We're existing because we can't think of anything else to do or any other way to be other than one step ahead, one one foot in front of the other until we're down to one final survivor.
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