~Garth's Point Of View~
We keep moving, trudging forward like the undead we're trying to avoid. The exhaustion weighs on us like chains. At this point, every step I take sends a dull, aching throb through my legs.
My arms are sore from swinging my knife too many times, and my stomach growls with hunger, but stopping isn't an option. Stopping means death.
"We need to rest," Trish announces in a sharp and decisive voice.
I rub a hand down my face, feeling the dirt and sweat mix into a fine paste on my skin. "No argument there."
"I third that," Benji says, like he wasn't already half-dead on his feet. He grins anyway, because that's what he does. Grins like we aren't one bad decision away from dying. "Preferably somewhere that doesn't have 'guaranteed death' written all over it."
Vic snorts. "That doesn't exist."
"We could make one," Dom suggests. His voice is serious, but the words are stupid.
Typical of Dom.
