They had starved. They had been so terrified of that child--no, that monster--the monster with a long red whip instead of an arm, the monster that beat the young ones until there was no more skin on their back. They had spent long sleepless nights praying until the good girl decided that there was no God in the FAYZ, and until the Rock Boy had taken up the Bible. And they had survived.
Not everyone. No, in fact only a handful of people.
A tall blonde boy with dirty hands and pursed lips: Sam. His girlfriend, Astrid. A boy in a faded fedora with calloused, weatherbeaten hands from desperate and then skilled fishing: Quinn. A tired-looking hispanic boy with owlish, kind eyes: Edilio. A girl with dark, once beautiful hair and the ghost of a weak smirk: Diana. A black girl with dreads and bitter, grieving clenched teeth: Dekka.
Others survived too. The living did outnumber the dead, believe it or not, but oh god, there were so many dead. Orc. Howard. Bette. Mother Mary Terrafino. Dahra. Caine--Caine! Drake, thank god. And Brittney. Brave little Computer Jack. Brianna, the Breeze (poor Dekka). Justin, Roger (Edilio still cried over him, both of them, too). Duck Zhang. Diana's baby girl that turned into that godless thing. Little Pete. Penny: again, thank god. Panda. Poor, mad Cigar. The little black girl Sam couldn't save from burning to death. Countless babies, silently and innocently neglected. Countless cats and dogs, eaten.
But hush. Hush, children, don't cry: it's over.
It's fucking over.