A randomly chosen page from my novel Crunch, a book about collapse, about control (and the lack of it). 

Page 50:

apparent effort of listening more closely to the broadcast. One person was dead from a single shot that investigators suspect might have come from the roof or window of one of the downtown buildings. The surrounding area has been blocked off and authorities are still performing sweeps of various buildings. They have not apprehended anyone, and police say they don’t have any suspects yet, nor even a description of the shooter. They advise people to be vigilant and stay away from downtown if possible. The woman’s hands flex at the top of the steering wheel and she rolls her shoulders up and back a few times. She puffs her cheeks and exhales. Infiltration, she says. He pushes himself up from the base of the trench, using his right hand to press back against the wall and aid his legs in lifting his weight. Upright, he starts off, threading his way through the long stretch of walled-in soldiers standing or sitting in the trench, alone or in small groups, silent or conversing, loudly, jovially or in soft, conspiratorial tones, acknowledging no one as he goes, nor being greeted by others, neither hurrying nor taking his time, a blank look on his face disguising his intentions, if, in fact, he has any beyond simply moving. The faucet handle is turned and the pipe coughs, spitting water from its mouth. It then goes dry and silent. Deep in the wall something moans, then knocks. The loud report of a shotgun, and a body falls. Indeed, Rebecca means almost nothing to me now, the man says into his phone, his shoulders relaxing from their formerly tensed