At night, we cluster close together, even though all of stink of death and bodies that haven't seen a bath in months. It's better than cowering alone and listening to the knock-kneed haint come walking by. We think it grows by consuming us - it eats the starved ones up and walks on borrowed bones ill-fit together. And so many of us have wasted away, and so many more are bound to follow.
In another month, that thing will be a god.
—Wishbones, by Cherie Priest