Six months into the sleep-zombie catastrophe, the survivors knew one thing: they were grateful for the winged, magic sloths.
One such survivor, Leesia, leaped over a crumbling stone wall marking an old boundary between fields. Gasping for breath, she dropped to her knees. Her brother-in-law Rayth joined her a moment later.
The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. It swam across her listless body and stirred the stench of rot that hung in the small space. She inhaled deeply and stretched her arms, feeling the weight of the heavy chains that wound around her wrists and attached to the thick metal rings bolted to the floor beneath the bed.
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I wake up sweating, with a blinding headache. Every muscle in my body aches, and my eyes burn. I lift my arm to check the scratches, and sure enough, they’re infected. My forearm is a weird shade of red, which oddly matches my nail polish, but the scratch is only two inches in length. I refuse to accept that I will die because of a stupid mistake.
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