Sometime during the battle, the basement lights gave up, and the radio stopped playing, as well. Sunlight still poured through the basement windows, but Clayton didn't like how dark his house got at night, and he definitely didn't like how dark—or how cold—his basement got at night. When his father spun the handle on the hand-crank enough times to power the radio, he tuned the channel and found that no all clear had been given. He kept it on until his supplied power faded.
Clayton in the meantime had been texting some of his friends, asking how they were doing. Two replied back almost instantly, stating that they were a-okay, albeit impatient of sitting around in their basements. The longer his other friends took to reply, the more anxious he grew. After almost an hour, each of his friends had reported in safe and sound.
In between and after his brief texts, Clayton stalked his trusted news sites, refreshing them an unhealthy number of times for updates on the creatures storming across the nation. No doubt, each of them was headlined with a report on the event. However, each of them trended the same ground, and they were too slow for Clayton's tastes in releasing new information. One news site likened the pale creatures to rampaging bulls and referred to the day's event as the “March of the White Bulls.”
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