«Even if you're not thirsty, drink a bit more. We don't know when we'll get another chance to feed,» Kimberly urges, handing me a bottle of water.
After going down the steep stairs to the basement—with me on her back because of the sharp pain in my spine from the recoil of Blood Word Burst, which still keeps me from moving—we shut ourselves inside a small, dark storage room. It's dimly lit by the faint glow of a few surviving bulbs filtering through the cracks of the door.
I sit with my back against the wall, and Kimberly sits the same way in front of me, slightly to the side. We're exhausted, breathing heavily, as if we've just finished the New York marathon. Our faces and clothes are smeared with dust and stained with blood—both human and not.
