Hello, my love,
I escaped last time by my wits. There were three of them, and they came as I was writing. Stupid, writing without any idea of where I was or what was around me.
I have become more careful since, and I have found some small hand mirrors and compacts to surround myself with, as I write by the light of fireflies.
They came over the wall, not climbing but just falling; the have no idea how to climb, so just by force of will they run against the wall until by chance they step on a branch on a hedge. Then they might fall off, or another foot might catch, or with their grasping hands they might reach at the top of the bush and propel themselves up higher. They do this, again and again, inexorably, with no thought and no concern, until finally they have reached just to the height of the wall, and they fall, head first.
I stopped my last letter when I heard a groan: one of them just plopped down, and I heard a soft moan—it did not sound like a groan of pain, but really just the air in his dead lungs escaping by the sheer force of physical laws. I saw him immediately, about 20 feet away, and started to move to get away.
But I was in a stupid place. I had planned to head in his direction, because I had been the other direction, to the west. I had escaped some other mobs, but knew they were still there; here I thought I had at least a few walled yards between me and them, and I was really just hoping they wouldn't be coming from the west.
I have learned to fear the houses, and the streets outside most of all. The houses, of course, are enclosed and small, and so very often occupied; the sliding glass doors are usually strong enough, though, that I can see them before they can manage to break through, so I usually feel safe enough out there. Some make it to the upper floors and fall out the windows, but I have been lucky so far.
But in the streets there are very few obstacles, and so that is where most of them wander, looking... for what it is they are seeking.
I used to think I knew what they were looking for, like in the stories: brains, or was it souls? But they do not go for the head. I remember seeing one of our neighbors—remember the short guy, long hair, he was all so tou