Not On Purpose

"AAHH—!"

"Someone… someone died!!"

"Call 120!!"

"Help… help me! It hurts!"

Amidst the turmoil of frantic screams and anguished cries that echoed through the streets, He Juan remained rooted in place. He felt as if a frigid chill had seeped into his veins and frozen his bloodstreams, making him feel cold all over. The onslaught of pheromones assault had descended like a tornado – chaotic, destructive and lethal – striking down every person in its path without discrimination. 

He Juan's vision was dominated by red. 

Red of crimson blaze of the setting sun that painted the sky, red of the scarlet leaves from the maple trees along the roadside, and also red… from the spilled blood that marred the pavement where the contorted bodies lay. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and he could no longer tell if the metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat was the stench of his own blood or that of the fallen.