When the rest were fighting, or running, I hid. I was paralyzed with fear. George, Wendy, the mailman, the kids from next door: I heard them all die, ripped apart by those things. I heard Mr. Singh empty his shotgun before they got into his place and finished him off.
I hid, and I listened, and I’m not sorry. I’m not. If I’d have come out, if I’d have tried to help, if I’d even made a sound, I’d be dead too. Anyway, there’s no one left to judge me.
Sooner or later, rescue will come, and they’ll never know.