Eighteen

Sigmund gave up trying to drive the car by the time they got to Von Neumann Avenue.

“Sigmund!” his dad said when Sigmund took his hands off the wheel. “What are you doing?”

“It doesn’t need me, I guess.” Sigmund gestured as the wheel turned itself to round them onto Briers Way.

David watched in existential horror for a moment, before swallowing and closing his eyes. Sigmund didn’t blame him. They could barely see through the ash and smoke, and the air was heavy and scratchy and smelled like sulphur and rendered fat. The car wasn’t driving fast and, as they crawled through the streets, he could see vague, malformed shadows writhing along sidewalks and in abandoned front yards. There were a lot of them. Lain claimed they weren’t aggressive, but Sigmund was thankful he was in the car. He felt even better when he found the button on the dash that put the convertible’s top up.

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