Then it was some water for me, and a makeshift sandwich of wheat bread and butter and the last of the strawberry jelly. My hand shook as I lifted the sandwich to my mouth, but I made myself eat anyway. That burst of panic, of terror, had used up a lot of my reserves.
The silence in the house seemed to press on my ears. I noticed the voice had been suspiciously quiet since I’d returned.
Finally, I set down my water bottle and snapped, “All right, you want to tell me what the hell that was all about? How can a pasty creep like Chris Bowman be immune when everyone else is dead?”
No reply at first. Then it was as if someone sighed quietly, far back in my mind. We cannot control who is immune, only what happens to them after they have survived.
“‘We’?” I demanded, figuring I’d ask the most
