Ryan Anderson ran. He had to get out of here. They would find the carnage he had created any time now, and they would know who had done it.
He stumbled through the once-familiar practice facility, which had now become a maze of torment. Each corner brought the dread of confronting more of the Pelicans staff, or worse, uniformed police officers waiting to arrest him. Feeling the cold metal that covered his right arm, he wondered if he would have to use the device again. He hoped not, not after what it had done to his teammates.
Suddenly, he saw a light. The exit! He ran, hoping that his escape would go unnoticed.
“Hey Ryan, what’s the rush?” It was Cynthia, the front desk receptionist, smiling as always, though her face showed some concern.
“Gotta get going, I have things to do. See you tomorrow!” he replied, barely breaking stride. He knew his suspicious behavior would only incriminate him further, but he had to get out, had to go somewhere to think things over.
He got in his car and drove home, as carefully as he could with only one hand to work with. His head spun. Why had he done it? He envisioned Anthony Davis in front of him, begging for his life, before being incinerated by a jet of flames. Had that really been him? Was he the flamethrower?
He found himself alone in his condo, with no recollection of how he had gotten there. He took off the overlarge sweatshirt that concealed the device on his arm, and again looked for a way to remove it. The portable flamethrower seemed to be a replacement of his arm, rather than a covering. He couldn’t feel the fingers that he presumed were inside.
A few faded letters caught his eye as he investigated, embossed in the metal. Barely legible, the spelled out some chilling words: “Smoothie King”. He knew where he had to go next.