He turned the dial, flipping through static and soft rock until he landed on a local news station. Weather. Traffic. A segment about a bake sale. Nothing. Not a single mention of the chaos he’d just witnessed—no reports of the strange black shapes or the people fleeing the beach in terror.
He leaned back in his seat, sweat cooling on his skin. What the hell is going on? He looked down at his hand gripping the steering wheel. The reddish-black pigment was still there, faint but undeniable. He rubbed it with his thumb. Still no pain. Still no rash. But it hadn’t faded.