It has been hours, twenty to be exact, since sleep last came for them kindly. The concept of time is all but out the window. They haven’t bothered to trace their steps, or think over the last moments of being surrounded by civilisation. It is lonely down here. They feel apart from everything they are familiar with. The realisation they may never leave scares them.
The fatigue weighs down, burdening their minds with bleak and mind-numbing thoughts. A tired mind contemplates peculiar thoughts, bringing on stress they don’t want to experience just yet. What about Joe, is he alright? Every hour or two they raise the question, wondering, continuously wondering if they will live to see tomorrow.
It was an accident. Joe wasn’t supposed to be there. He came at the wrong time and place, changing life how they know it for good. The plan was perfected, Monica and Sam entering the house at the chosen hour, taking care of her, and moving on. They had a ritual of cleaning up afterwards that never took place. Clumsy Joe exposed their plan and weakened their final steps.
The brain gives them another little nudge of exhaustion. There is an urge to rest their eyes and minds, but it is impossible. They are cramped up in a small room with no window, little air circulation and a few bodies piled into one corner. I know, it is a horrible scene to envisage, but trust them on this one.