"You know what they call a large group of crows, right?"
Stephen knew but didn't say.
"A murder. A murder of crows. Oddly fitting, innit?"
Connor's voice was quiet, subdued as they walked along the empty motorway, meagre supplies hastily stuffed in knapsacks on their shoulders. Stephen kept his rifle in hand just in case, though they hadn't seen another living soul for three days. Their footsteps sounded surreally loud, every crunch of glass underfoot startling.
He glanced back. Behind them, the dead city loomed against the sky, with only the dark, wheeling shapes of crows overhead.
