The oppressively warm air of darkness fills his lungs
  Pain in his head, a river of blood falls over his brow like a waterfall of red oil obscuring his vision.
  Piles of trash, rags and rotting food against huge buildings.
  His mind starts to function again. Gotta move before who ever did this comes back to make sure I'm dead.
  Standing and dusting himself off he starts down the narrow concert pathways.
  No lights down here by the water, well none but the moon.
  The wind's cool and salty, a refreshing relief from the summer night.
  A woman's voice screams across the pathways of the breeze and hits his ears. Help. No. Stop. Help.
  Sounds like the bodies who got to him found another victim.
  He should help her, he knows that, but papa always said "There's a time for playing hero and a time for playing safe."
  Nows a time for finding a room, curling up, and hoping it doesn't get infected.