Plague War

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They ate Jorgensen first. He’d twisted his leg bad — his long white leg. The man hadn’t been much more than a stranger, but Cam remembered five hundred things about him.

It was a weakness.

Cam remembered someone who never cursed, who kept his credit cards and driver’s license for some reason. He remembered a hard worker who exhausted himself the day that he fell.

Later there were others Cam had actually talked with, where they were from, what kind of jobs they’d had. Talking made the days easier, except that ghosts seemed very real after you’d sucked the marrow out of someone’s finger bones, and Cam got extra portions because he volunteered for wood detail even when the snow drifted up over the roof.

Each night stretched longer than his memory. Erin refused to have sex more than it took to get warm, and then there was nothing to do but pick at his blister rash and listen to the nightmares and slow whispers that filled the hut.

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