"NUMBER 2-8-3-6. ARCHIE MASON. WE WILL MISS HIM."
The biting wind whistled through the abandoned streets of Chicago.
The temperature has been -40 for six weeks, four days, three hours, four minutes and 46 seconds.
Cynder and I have been wandering the streets, searching for food, for the entire time.
Her matted black hair blended against mine, whipped by the arctic snow and wind that filled the abandoned shops.
The sirens rang again. I hate that sound.
"NUMBER 4-3-7-2. ALISON MERE. WE WILL MISS HER."
I tried to run faster but my legs had run out of energy long ago. I found myself stumbling and falling into the freezing pavement.
"Perc