I ducked behind a waist high wall of concrete and took my carbine off my shoulder, swinging it around and looking through the scope at the dilapidated building in the distance. I clicked the safety into the off position, and took a slow breath; inhale, slow exhale. I squeezed the trigger, and the carbine jumped a little in my hands, the subtle sound of the gunshot not even disturbing the birds that sat on a fence a hundred yards away. I watched my target fall, and cycled the bolt, bringing the rifle up for another shot. I went through the same procedure. Inhale, exhale, pull trigger. Another one fell. I continued this until eight targets were down, exchanging the empty magazine for a fresh one and stashing the empty in a pouch on my belt to be refilled later. Inhale, exhale; pull trigger. The horde was starting to notice that the ones that shambled on the edges were falling. Cycle the bolt, inhale, exhale; pull trigger. I needed to hurry and dispatch the rest of them. Eventually they would notice the sound of my rifle; after all, it wasn't completely silent. Cycle the bolt, inhale, exhale; pull trigger. They turned away from the building, their glassy, dead eyes searching for the source of the noise. While I cycled the bolt, I took an extra second to look up at my immediate surroundings to ensure that there wasn't one sneaking up on me. I sighted in, inhale, exhale; pull the trigger. This time they figured out where it was coming from. They slowly began shambling towards my position, even though I knew they hadn't seen me yet. They followed noise; it was in their programming, if you could call it that. I stayed calm. The probability that they had seen me was slim to none, and I knew that I would be done before they reached me anyway. I had done it a thousand times before, and this time was no different.
Cycle the bolt, inhale, exhale; pull the trigger. Two targets fell and I allowed myself a small smile. I would hasten to believe that if such a thing had occurred five years prior I may have laughed, but things had changed since then. I cycled the bolt, inhale, exhale; pull the trigger. In all honesty, it wasn't the environment that had changed so much as it was my own mind. A majority of my life had been spent after the Fall, and it was because of this that the others resented me. Cycle the bolt, inhale, exhale; pull the trigger. I was a machine. I was one of the few able to do my job without the compassion that others reserved for the dead, and the sword on my hip served as testament to that ability. Cycle the bolt, inhale, exhale; pull the trigger. The rifle was still smoking when a new magazine was slapped into the magazine well. I stood up, no point in hiding any longer, as they were less than a hundred yards away. My coat fluttered in a slight breeze, and I raised the carbine. Eight shots, eight targets fell; there were only three left, and I decided to save the rounds. I rested my rifle gently against the wall and pulled my coat aside, drawing my sword and reveling in the metallic rasp that it made as it left its sheath on my hip. The three targets shambled forward, and I flicked my sword out to the side. It gleamed in the sunlight, a monument to everything that being a Hunter was about. As the first target stepped within striking distance, I widened my stance and brought the sword up and around, vertically slicing through the creature's skull. It fell. The second shared a similar fate, and the third continued on, despite the fact that behind it lay the testaments to my strength. If he had known better, I may have even admired his bravery; but it was cold instinct that forced him onward, not bravery or logic. He was an abomination, not by choice of course, but an abomination nonetheless, and he needed to die. I stepped forward and brought my sword down in a whistling arc, cleaving his head in two and terminating his miserable existence. He fell, and as he fell I looked on, noting the trail of rotten bodies leading to the washed-out building that they had originally crowded around. I mentally scolded myself for not being quicker and letting myself get distracted by my thoughts.
I wiped the blood from my sword on the shirt of my last target before sheathing it and striding over to my firing position. With meticulous care, I picked up the spent shells and put them in a pouch on the side of my bag. Twenty seven. I'd taken out twenty seven walkers. I sighed and slung my rifle onto my shoulder. Though it may have been true that taking them out meant that there were that many less in the world, it did not give me peace of mind; there were hundreds of thousands more to kill. I pulled my scarf up over my face and put my hands in my pockets, making my way towards the building the walkers had surrounded. I would spend a bit more time looting, and then try to make it back to the nearby Quiet Town. Always looting, looking for walkers, never getting any rest...it was not the best life, but it was mine; the life of a Hunter.
The life I chose.