Thomas's POV
The wheelchair squeaks as I roll down the hallway. Damn thing needs oil, but who has time for maintenance when your pack's about to get slaughtered? My hands grip the armrests tighter than they should. Arthritis in my knuckles, weakness in my legs, and a mind that's seen too much s**t over the years.
Sixty-three years old and I feel every f*****g day of it tonight.
"Thomas?" Margaret's voice comes from behind me. "Are you alright?"
I stop and turn around. She's holding a cup of tea, steam rising from it like incense. Always the caretaker, even when the world's falling apart.
"Fine as I can be, considering we're all probably dead by tomorrow night."
"That's not like you to be so negative."
"That's not like us to be so fucked." I gesture toward the security office where D
