A Fantastic Holiday Season: the Gift of Stories
“A few shouts and gunshots.And the moans.Always the moans.Long, and low and plaintive. Uttered by mouths that hung slack, rising from chests that drew breath only to moan—never again to breathe. The moans spoke of a hunger so old, so deep, so endless that nothing, not even the red gluttony of a screaming feast, could satisfy it.The hunger existed.Like they existed.Without purpose and without end.The mists were as thick as milk, white, featureless, hiding everything until far too late. Figures mo...ved through the fog.And the dead waited for them.2The man and the boy heard those moans and huddled together, biting the rags they wore as scarves to keep from screaming.They were beyond tired. Beyond weary.Both of them were thin as scarecrows. Barely enough meat on them to allow their bodies to shiver. Clothing was torn; patched with duct tape and rope.Most of the time the man carried the boy. Sometimes—like now—he was too weak, too starved to manage it. The boy stumbled behind him, clutching his hand, too weary to cry.MoreLess
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