I figured the forest would be the most direct, least conspicuous route to take. Although my leg barked at me as I began to run, the pain soon disappeared, and I felt an exercise high as I increased my speed.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch,” I said to myself. “‘We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was. Better, stronger, faster.’”

As I zipped through the woods, it was as if I were a passenger instead of the person doing the work. My legs pumping, I raced down the trail like a machine, leaping over fallen branches and dodging various obstacles as if I’d done parkour my whole life. Maybe the fatigue would come later.

I felt that all of my abilities were heightened, like I could do anything. My Spidey sense was at full power, turning this route through the dense woods into a breezy running trail. Too bad Maggie couldn’t see me now. Then she’d know.

But my exhilaration was tempered by the question of How? How could I be so powerful? How did they make me into a freak without anyone knowing? How could my father let this happen?

Were my new abilities a blessing or a curse? I didn’t know. I consoled myself that Spider-Man asked himself this question, too, and he was Spider-Man. I was glad that I could defend myself and then some against big, tough bullies like Luke and Troy, and being a brilliant quarterback certainly was more fun than running aimlessly in the backfield and flinging the ball in panic.

I wasn’t a flawless machine quite yet, though, because in the midst of my football reverie, I caught a tree root near the bottom of a hill and tumbled ass over teakettle or however the Brits would charmingly put it.

“Damnit,” I muttered, and slowly lifted myself off the ground. I stood and tested my limbs. Everything was intact.

Then I heard a low, guttural grunt behind me.

I didn’t need a visual or Spidey sense to recognize that the sound came from a wild boar. I could smell it, too; it was so close. These animals weren’t uncommon in these woods, but they normally didn’t go after people. When they did, things didn’t turn out well for the humans. Boars killed hunters every year in forests in the region—and that was before the whole post-evacuation crazed-beast thing.

As I turned toward it, this particularly large, ugly animal charged, narrowing the small gap between us quickly. I scrambled to my feet and yelled “BLALALALALA!” at it, and it paused for a second before resuming its charge. I thought I should run behind a tree, but my body did something else: squared myself off against it, and when it reached me, I leaped over it, grabbed it by the ears, and pulled it down with all my weight.

That thing was heavier than I was, but it went down with a crunch, and while my right hand hung on to the boar’s ear, I punched the animal with my left. I felt my stitches tear. Oh, well. I punched again, my knuckles colliding with the boar’s eye and nose with a sickening squish.