Creeping Things Footsteps creep by outside, military-style boots. Breathe slowly. Militia, looking for conscripts. Or target practice. Stomach rumbles. It’s been hours. Low voices. So hungry. Moving away. Something creeps across your hand. You grab it instinctively. It squirms. You stuff it in your mouth. Crunchy. Suddenly you’re a kid again, hunting crickets in the…