The sunset is the color of blood, and the boy dozes beside me, pale hair across his forehead.
We try to sleep during the day, because that’s when the Wretched sleep. I think of him waking to another night of this hell and I shudder.
Corpse-pale, with eyes like smoldering coals, the Wretched stalk the ruins. They drag the survivors into the streets, tear away their limbs, devour their flesh.
Each night, the screams grow closer. Within yards now.
I have no gun to protect the boy. To end his misery. But this pillow, while not as quick, will suffice.
When night falls this time, his nightmare ends.