Barlowe considers climbing out the window, then removes it (and part of the wall) with one swipe. He’s aware of his muscles creaking distantly, like the rigging of a schooner; it doesn’t seem connected to any particular effort.
Dawn blues the horizon and the fire escape mostly breaks his fall. Shamblers fill the street, aimless, turning whenever they bounce off a wall or lamppost. Their voices are a rising group moan: communication? A bee dance, maybe, about feeding grounds and dangers. He can’t understand it. Their congress teases but eludes his mind.
In which, he thinks, it’s just like being alive.