A story about... Overpopulation © 2000 Damon Diehl, Marg Frey, Greg Gbur, Bryce Graves-Hurst	BRYCE
			GREG	DAMON & MARG
				MARG & DAMON
			MARG	DAMON & GREG
				GREG & DAMON

Outside, the air was hot and humid. That made it the worst possible evening to go for a walk, the way things were. People were irritable enough when the weather was nice; when it was hot, with the congestion and constant interaction, murder was not a possibility, it was a certainty. I didn't really care that night, though.

I had to step between several people sleeping on the front porch. They weren't supposed to be sleeping there, at a private residence, but they did anyway. The shelters were just too crowded these days. People would do just about anything for some space.

On every porch, along every alleyway, were people sleeping, or pretending to be. Most slept uneasily, at best; these were not the times to let your guard down. It was more than an hour, though, before I actually enountered some other people up and walking about.

I became aware of the stealthy pad of concealed footsteps behind me. I looked over my shoulder, but saw nothing. This is the part of the movie where the hero ducks into a deserted alleyway, but, of course, nothing is deserted anymore. It didn't matter, though, because no one cares anymore. You don't need a concealed alley to kill someone when no one is looking anyway.

I picked up the pace, looping around to try to get back to the safety of my building. I panicked. Stupid, stupid. Trying to watch over my shoulder, trying to keep everything in sight. That's the first lesson you have to learn if you're going to survive... you can't watch everything, so learn to watch what's important.

I missed the obvious.

I made it back to the building at a sprint, not sure whether I'd lost my pursuer or not. I scrambled up the steps to a cacophony of complaints, but managed to get through the door. I raced up the steps and sank to the floor outside of the bedroom door. Heart racing, blood thumping, filling my ears with a roaring sound.

Too late my mind separated the internal whirl of blood from the pad of slippered feet on concrete. I felt something hard and sharp hit the back of my neck, and I fell over, twitching. A curious numbness encased me, and I found I couldn't move... my gaze locked and staring at the bedroom door.

Someone stepped over me, then kicked me out of the way.

"You were in my spot," Tina said, as she curled up in her usual place next to the bedroom door, my blood wetting the knife she clutched between her hands.