“Honey,” she says to you. But you already know what she’s going to say. “You have to go.”
“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” you say.
“You drew the short straw. We all drew straws, just the same. We all had the same chance. Please. Tabitha needs the water for her baby.” She looks like a glowing angel, even in the dark of the entryway. Power had to be conserved for the living areas. “You just need to be brave.”
“I can’t go. I- I-” No, you can’t cry in front of her. You can’t let her think you’re scared, that you’re not a man. A real man would go out there. A real man wouldn’t cry.
But it’s so hard, you can’t stop. You’ve seen what they’ve done. You’ve seen how they become. You’ve seen their eyes. Yellow as the moon, red as blood. You’ve seen how they move. It reminds you of spiders. A drop of water escapes your eye, and you pray she doesn’t see it glistening in the weak light coming from the door’s crack.
“Honey, honey, don’t worry,” she hushes, “They don’t come out at night.”