With each labored breath, his lungs burn, a caustic fire that tears through his chest like open flames through dry grass. He hasn't stopped running, not since he watched Texas slip back into hysteria, not since he lost Mike during their escape. The empty look in the Burners eyes, the sound of his gnashing teeth, the very lack of humanity was a mortifying experience. It was the fear of knowing that his friend was out there, wandering Motorcity, a violent threat with a delusional taste for flesh, that kept him moving. Sweat sticks to the back of his neck like syrupy glue. His shirt is soaked through, sagging heavily on his shoulders as he shoves his way through thick underbrush. Solid, leafy trees extend up, far above his head, creating a canopy of viridian so thick he can barely see the paneling of twinkling circuitry beyond their grasping branches. Everything hurts. Each step he takes sends a wave of pain up through the length of his legs, but he's too afraid to stop, too worried that Texas is trailing him. He can't remember when he stepped foot in such a dense labyrinth of shrubbery, or how long he had been traveling through this subterranean jungle. Everything is a blur of terror and doubt and sweat and pain. But he knows he's alive, somehow, he knows he needs to find Mike. Chuck stumbles, his canvas sneaker catches on the weedy length of an exposed tree root. He falls sharply on his shoulder, into the dirt and vegetation. Awkwardly he tries to gather his legs beneath him, push himself up, continue on, run, but he's drained. His body surrenders to exhaustion. He eases his eyes shut, just enough to alleviate the headache pounding like a ball-peen hammer on the back of his head. He lays on the ground, his face pressed into the greenery, the smell of dark soil and cool grass tickling his nose. Sleep weighs down on him, pushes on his eyelids, until he eventually gives in to the lulling warmth and slips into unconsciousness on the tangled jungle floor.
