We didn’t make it far. 8.30am In an unfamiliar bedroom, in an unfamiliar part of Kent, it’s my turn to keep watch on Kay. She’s asleep right now but I wouldn’t call her stable. Her breathing is laboured and she looks fragile where the infection has eaten away at her. I’m sitting across the room as I write, in a rocking chair that I have no energy or inclination to rock, while I bat tears away with the back of my free hand. Some of the tears have made it onto the page, causing the ink to run in places, as though my words are crying too. I feel worse than useless. Earlier this morning, Clay had taken Kay’s temperature with a thermometer he’d found in the family bathroom – 105 degrees. I didn’t know, but apparently 105 degrees is bad, like really fucking need-an-ICU-now sort of bad. She was yelling a stream of nonsense – I heard her say Sean’s name a couple of times as though she was talking to him, like she thought he was in the room with her.
What do You think about Blog Of The Dead (Book 3): Lost?
