We are hungry.
I run across the carcass of Üsküdar Square with a few of the younger men. The iskele, or pier is dead silent. Not even seagulls dare fly above. We pass the remnants of mosques and other smoking buildings; apartment, restaurants, kebab shops and groceries reduced to rubble. I hear some of the men weep. We run in search of food and water, amenities we're no longer used to having.
The I hear it.
Something wobbles and click-clacks into view. There is screaming. It has caught one of the men, a former university student named Altan. He's in deep trouble. The creature that has him in its clutches is shaped like a Byzantine church with a curving domed upper body. But what kind of miniature church wobbles the streets of Istanbul on lobster legs? The church grips poor screaming Alt
