She was hungry.
No surprise. She’d
huddled in the old church, in the dark, for days. All the time swimming in and
out of a hot fever, dazed from fear. Listening with confusion for the sounds of
them, the sounds of the dead
shuffling and shambling and groaning outside. Not so long ago Cleo could have
strolled across the street for a bag of chips and a soda from the deli, no
problem. Tonight, the simple distance—maybe fifty yards at most—might as well
stretch half the planet. The flesh-eaters hunted out there. Two weeks ago, they’d
taken the one last living person Cleo knew.
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Art by PatrickFinch |
