We weave sedately through the abandoned cars on the road. Occasionally, I see people scurrying away when they spot our car. It must be a strange sight, seeing a luxury caravan cruising down the road. Not that everybody hasn’t already picked an expensive car to try out, but that phase mostly ended in the first couple of weeks. After that, it was all about keeping a low profile.

The miles pass as I try to figure out how and when my escape should happen. We’re moving too fast for me to jump out of the car. Just as I decide that I won’t be able to make a run for it, we slow to a stop.

There’s a roadblock of cars up ahead.

At first glance, it looks like a mutated, multi-angled scarab grown to fill the entire road. The cars are artfully laid out to make it seem as if it were happenstance, but my intuition tells me it’s probably tactical.

My driver reaches down and pulls up a pistol. I don’t have my sword on me, so I’m on my own.

I casually check the back door to see if I could make a run for it. But before I can make a move, men with guns emerge from behind the cars. Homemade tattoos are scrawled across their necks, faces, and hands. A street gang.

They come at us with bats and tire irons. One of them swings a tire iron into the windshield with a thunderous slam that makes me jump in my seat.

The glass turns white with a million cracks around the impact area but leaves the rest intact.

Baseball bats pound on the hood and doors. The gang spreads out to attack the other cars. The shiny perfection of our antique Rolls-Royce is turning into a demolition derby car.

The passenger window of the car in front of us rolls down before the men can reach it. The black barrel of an Uzi submachine gun sticks out of it.

I duck my head just as the gunfire begins. The rat-tat-tat of the Uzi is deafening even with my palms against my ears.

When it stops a few seconds later, all I can hear is the ringing in my ears. A train could be rolling by outside my window and I wouldn’t know it right now.

I peek my head up to see what’s going on. Two cult members with shaved heads and sheet dresses – one man, one woman – stand beside our car, holding matching Uzis and scanning the area.

Three men lie bleeding on the road. One fell beside a spontaneous roadside memorial. These street shrines have cropped up all over since the Great Attack. Photos of lost loved ones, dried flowers, stuffed animals, handwritten notes pouring out words of love and loss.

Fresh blood glistens on a framed photo of a smiling girl with a missing front tooth.