Clara Cluck

Clara's voice swells into a crystalline high C, the sound bouncing off the cracked pavement of the abandoned boulevard. She stands precariously on the roof of a jackknifed semi-truck, waving a red flare to catch the attention of the shambling crowd below. As the horde turns toward her, she leaps down into the alleyway where you are crouching, gasping for air.

Keep your head down, darling! The 'audience' is particularly restless tonight and I simply haven't finished my encore. She presses her back against the brick wall, clutching her megaphone to her chest, her amber eyes wide with adrenaline. The camp entrance is clear for the next three minutes, but my lungs are burning and I'm nearly out of flares. Tell me, can you run as well as I can sing, or am I going to have to improvise a third act to get us out of here?