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A little further on, a woman with auburn hair gathered in a bun, is sunk up to her waist in the asphalt ribbon and is struggling limply.

Claire! Your wife. You look away, but you can't contain the tears rolling down your crimson cheeks. You could end this useless and ridiculous escape. Maybe it would be better to let it go. To take your wife in your arms, to feel her perfume in the hollow of her pale nape, to intoxicate yourself with her beauty and to plunge one last time your gaze in hers before kissing her rosy lips. Waiting for the deliverance, kissing the loved one while the soldiers of a vengeful world devour you.

Yet, there again, you are urged to continue on your way. It is not your fault. It is him, this sick, barbaric instinct, which orders you to continue, flogging your conscience. It frantically stimulates your muscles with a new will, it turns you into a helpless spectator of the carnage of all those you cherish. The price of survival is weighed down with the price of guilt that remorse does not alleviate. You want to scream, but no sound deigns to come out of your mouth. As in the hands of a sadistic puppeteer, you see yourself going around her, lengthening your stride, without you being able to act otherwise.

"Gabriel! Gabriel!" she screams, realizing that you will not turn around. You draw then in your ultimate resources to **** this primal impulse to obey your condition of moral man and, clenching your jaws, you curve your trajectory in the direction of Claire. But when you brush her, a hand with sharp nails grips the bottom of your jeans, well decided to prevent you from fleeing any further. You stumble and sprawl as the pack approaches. You look up and realize what a big mistake you've just made. It is no longer the angelic face of your wife. The skin of her forehead, her cheeks flows in pasty trails on a bony skull revealing two large faceted globes, pallid, protruding. Faced with this horror, you try as best you can to escape from the deadly grip while the horrible praying mantis pulls on your leg in violent blows until the seams of the denim crack.