Panic in the streets.
Jesus Christ they’ve done it.
A room of maps, circles drawn in red felt tip.
Pound shop full of baubles, tinsel, shrieking santas. We break in, through to a lower room, fall through a trap door, palletes leading down a grey corridor,
to another shop.
Pylons melted. Grey blankets dragging bundles of clothes, binliners.
Ultra violet light.
There’s something coming.