My senses are in overload: the smell of decomposing flesh, mingled with the copper smell of blood, the agonising screams, the sting of open wounds on my hands and knees, the lack of oxygen in this humid air, the heat.
I’m heaving, bringing up bile, and I can’t stop.
I feel weaker with every second. I still don’t know where Tabby is. I collapse on my knees, propping myself up on my arms, but topple over to the side the next second.
I draw up my knees to my chest, wanting to disappear, but there’s nowhere to hide in here. I want to call out for Tabby, but I can’t find the energy to do that either. I lay on the ground, weeping, willing myself to get a grip, to get up and move on, but I can’t do it either.
As I lay, weeping weakly, I feel the gentle movement of the air above me and I sense
