14
Edith guides me into her living room. The only light is coming from the landing. I pull the curtain slightly to peer into the street. There are several Necs roaming—some just sitting in doorways—while others are beating fists on front doors and windows—most likely trying to break in to feed on some poor bastard. But for all I know they could be trying to get into their own homes, some kind of sub-conscious memory left over after death.
I sit on the couch next to Edith. Her frail, pitiful body, almost hunched in her seated position, makes me wonder if she truly knows the severity of today’s events. I mean, she’s old, maybe seventy-five, and she seems surprisingly relaxed. But then that doesn’t mean anything. People deal with stress in all sorts of ways. She’s not exactly senile. Yeah,
