I can still smell the fire from last night's raid. It's nothing but a ghost now. It's now ash and memory sticking to my clothes and thick in my lungs.
The trees are quieter today, almost reverent, like they know what we're about to do. Or maybe it's just me, holding my breath in this post-massacre silence.
Trish walks beside me, machete swinging low in her grip, fingers twitching like she's hoping a zombie will jump out just so she can relieve some of this bottled-up tension.
Dom is unusually quiet. He is trailing behind us with a haunted look that hasn't left his face since Vic screamed his last and was swallowed whole.
I keep reminding myself that we lost Benji last night. I don't know why. Maybe it'll help from thinking about Maggie's safety.
Benji is the loudest mouth in the entire damn wasteland and we didn't just lose him but a whole group of kids he was trying to save. It doesn't make sense that their guardians ran off without giving a batshit about them too.
