Storm

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A thick grey fog clung to the hull of The Big Easy, making it impossible to see anything beyond. As I stood on the sun deck looking toward the bow, sinuous tendrils snaked over my boots. The air was cold and wet and the chill seeped into my bones. We drifted aimlessly, the boat bobbing up and down beneath my feet, gentle waves rocking us like a mother trying to persuade her baby to sleep.

But the only lullaby was a far-off cry of gulls, and the chilly dawn air dispelled any thoughts of comfort.

The bed I had climbed out of half an hour earlier was comfortable. There, I could snuggle beneath the blankets with Lucy and dream of a better time.

A time when my friends were still alive and the world had not yet tipped into the deepest region of hell.

A dream that had startled me awake. There was no way I was going to get back to sleep after that. I had dreamed of my brother, Joe, and my parents sitting in a cage in a dense forest. I was running toward the cage, determined to break them free. But as I approached, the forest suddenly became alive with shambling figures hell-bent on stopping me. Alive wasn’t the right word. They were undead.

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