"I am bleeding to death."
Victor Hargrove pressed a filthy hotel curtain against the side of his skull. The torn velvet soaked up the thick crimson blood leaking from his missing ear.
"Stop whining and hold the cloth tighter," Cynthia snapped.
She huddled near the frozen marble fountain in the center of the dark lobby. Her teeth chattered so violently they chipped against each other.
The Grand Hotel lobby was stripped bare. The feral mob of surviving elites had burned every remaining chair rug and painting. There was nothing left to ignite in the massive room.
The temperature was plummeting past negative eighty degrees. The heavy glass entrance doors were shattered. The brutal winter wind howled freely through the open frame.
"We cannot stay here," Caroline rasped from the floor. She
