WHO: Jamie and Thomas Kemp WHAT: Struggling during the apocalypse WHEN: Apocalypse-times, mid-November WHERE: Some tiny, abandoned 'safehouse' WARNINGS: Badness?
Night was well on it's way to conquering the day, and Thomas could see his breath hang in the air like melancholy clouds. It's so cold, he thought to himself, because if he said it out loud, his teeth would chatter.
The small house Victor had found for them was not as bad as the previous slum they had taken shelter in in the city with hundreds of other refugees. Here at least they were protected from the crowds of people who might harm them for a scrap of food. Their new place was in a zone that was relatively safer. Victor had connections to Heaven and at least it kept them out of main war zone.
Victor occasionally stopped by to bring them supplies. Thomas' symptoms had appeared around about the time the Apocalypse began to wind up and things had degenerated since then. He had trouble keeping still, and he was in vast amounts of pain. Sometimes he got confused about where he was or who he was with and speaking was a trial. Even when Victor did come by with supplies, it was often too difficult for Thomas to eat much because he had such trouble swallowing. But Victor hadn't been by in a few weeks. They were out of supplies. No medication, no fuel for their fireplace, no candles. No food or clean water, though in a pinch they did still have the questionable water that ran in the taps. They could boil it if they had a fire.
Thomas lay in bed, trying to pull the covers tightly around him. Sometimes he jerked and writhed, unable to stop himself, but for now he was still. He was cognizant. He was cold and hungry, and most of all, he was terrified for his son. His precious Jamie, who was out trying to provide for both of them. If Thomas had any choice, he never would have allowed it. But the choice had been taken from the both of them.