He started to back away, but knew it was no good. He had nowhere to go, and what was the point? He stood still. Stood tall, as tall as his diminutive stature allowed, and faced his demise. The car was almost upon him. He put up his arms in a futile attempt to protect his face and took an involuntary step backwards.

His back bumped into something and he glanced back.

The door!

The shop's entrance, as so many were, was automatic and, with him backed against the glass of the door, it realised its job. There was a quiet swoosh as it slid open and he fell inside. He turned back to face the car, preparing to roll out of the way, but it was too late. It was upon him, only inches away from driving right over him and crushing him under its wheels.

He closed his eyes again, not wanting to see it as it squashed the life from him.

"Can I help you son?"

Thomas opened his eyes. Standing over him was a man in a shirt and tie. The tie, he noticed, had a grinning Bugs Bunny printed on it, eating a carrot. The man was smiling as widely as the rabbit.

"Are you OK? Would you like a basket or trolley? The toys are down aisle nine."

Thomas blinked, not expecting such a... normal conversation. He pushed himself up and stood, trembling slightly at the thought of his two brushes with death.

"Can you talk, son? Would you like me to find your parents?"

Thomas shook his head slowly. He didn't trust himself to speak, worried as he was that his voice would shake as much as he felt his body was doing. But he had to.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Manners, eh? I like that. Well, like I said, the toys are on aisle nine and the alcohol is on twenty three."

Thomas frowned. Why would the man be telling him where the alcohol was? Couldn't he see he was only a boy?

"Thanks," he said. "!'ll find them."

"Have the wonderfullest of days," the man gushed, his smile widening enough to practically split his face in two.

"And you too," Thomas answered.

He turned and hurried away, wanting to lose himself amongst the aisle and the shoppers. They wouldn't know he didn't have any powers. He would be just one of them, after some sweets or can of fizzy orange. He went to push the metal looped barrier that separated the entrance and the vacant customer services booth from the main store, but it swung open on its own as he neared. He walked through and into the stop proper, where he could lose himself in the rows of dog food and loaves of bread. It was a supermarket. He'd be safe there.

He went along the various aisles aimlessly. He wasn't there to buy anything anyway. He just wanted to keep away from sea monsters and driverless cars. The shop was busy. A son walked beside his mother, staring at his phone. A daughter next to her father, looking as if shopping was the worst punishment imaginable. A couple arguing over a brand of coffee. A lone man. Around twenty three years old. He was pushing a small trolley, the sort a person living alone might use. It was also, of course, the sort someone would use if all they needed was a loaf of bread, maybe some dog food toilet rolls and the coffee the couple couldn't decide on.. He was smiling and nodding his head in time to music being fed through the earphones he was wearing.

It was an odd scene. No one flew or levitated. The shelves were well stocked. People were paying and not taking what they wanted. The only stern words were between the coffee loving couple.

There were no powers on display. Perhaps none in existence. Thomas, for once, was not the odd one out. He was the same as everyone else.

He thought he would like that. He thought that it should be everything he could possibly have hoped for. But it wasn't. It terrified him. He didn't feel as if he was finally at home. He was still alone. Alone in a world that was holding its breath. Waiting. They didn't know, but he could tell. They each had an expectant look on their face.

He needed to get out of there. He'd have to find a way past the car. There should be a rear entrance. A loading bay. Somewhere lorries pull up to, to drop off supplies. A shop as large as this must have had a massive one. There'd be plenty of opportunities to escape.

He made his way to the back of the shop. He could feel eyes on him but, when he turned, everyone was going about their own business. No one was concerned with a young boy wandering alone. He was looking for his mum, obviously. Or going to the toilet. Either way, he was just a kid.

By the cartons of UHT long life milk, he found a set of double swing doors. There was, thankfully, no number pad to punch a PIN onto. He looked around. His skin still crawled with inquisitive eyes, but no one was taking any notice of him. He slipped through the doors and just managed to duck to one side as a staff member came from between two floor to ceiling racks containing countless boxes. He crouched and waited, listening for any further sounds. There were none except the murmur of shoppers and a muffled tannoy announcement. Remaining crouched, he crept forwards.

A shout from within the shop made him stop and hold his breath. It was a surprised yell and was quickly followed by more. Plus crying. Plus screams. Then, he assumed, the crashing of items falling from shelves. Not wanting to but knowing he must, Thomas returned to the doors and carefully peered through the dusty, smeared window.

The calm of the supermarket had descended into the violence of the immediately post Outbreak world. Fights had broken out that had people thrown across the store from one side to the other. Laser blasts were being shot in all directions. A man was curled into a tight ball, his face twisted in agony as a ridge of sharp bones erupted from his spine, piercing the skin. Another was flying over the aisles but looked as if he, too was being thrown. He had no control over his direction or height, so was crashing into the ceiling and bouncing off the shelf tops.

A young girl who had just incinerated her parents, who were still staggering away from her, ablaze, turned to face the doors.

And saw Thomas.

And raised her hand. Pointed. Screamed.

The newly empowered customers and staff all stopped what they were doing. Control was suddenly imbued and each one turned towards Thomas. And pointed. And screamed.

The boy stumbled back, crashing into one of the shelving units. Even though he was far too small to dislodge anything, the large, heavily laden unit wobbled, then began to topple over. It hit the one behind it which followed its sibling in shaking from side to side before falling into the next. Like giant dominoes, the row of shelves, filled with groceries of every description, overbalanced. The boxes fell to the fall with the contents spilling out.

But...

The cereals were closest to Thomas. The outer box was unlabelled, as were all the others throughout the storeroom. They were plain brown and had no discernible branding or notice to say what was inside. The larger box contained around a dozen smaller boxes and these were labelled. Thomas recognised it well. It was his favourite cereal and was the only way he could get his father to allow him to eat chocolate in the mornings. It had come open, allowing the clear plastic bag inside to Peek out, exposing its contents. At first, Thomas thought the small, beige balls were simply in the wrong boxes. A mistake at the factory.

As he looked around, he realised that wasn't the case. It was the same for everything. Cans of dog food, popping open upon impact with the floor, filled with a mush that was the same colour of the cereal. And the bags of sugar. And the countless bottles of lemonade, cola, orange juice. It was all exactly the same colour. Though they had the same or similar look and consistency of the real items, they were not the same colour. They were beige.

No, not beige. Thomas was unsure of some of the more obscure colours, outside of the primaries or those of the rainbow. Mauve. Puce. Fuchsia. What were they? Though the colour facing him was familiar, he didn't quite know what to call it.

It was sort of...skin. The colour of flesh.

He held out his hand to compare and saw he was right. Whether it be cereal, bacon, toilet roll or wine, it matched his skin almost perfectly.

He didn't wait to investigate further. The shoppers would follow at any moment. The exit had to be at the back, so it was in that direction he headed. He had to jump or climb over the strewn boxes, using the fallen shelves as islands in a flesh toned ocean of spilled goods. Without looking forward or back, he moved quickly, unable to run but still as swift as a ten year old boy could be. The light from the front of the warehouse was fading the further he went. There were no windows and none of the light fittings seemed to have bulbs in them.

Before long, he was running blind.