They were goners.

I knew that the moment they walked into our small, little town- what was left of it anyway. Tired, scared, only a handful of ammo left on them and guns as their only weapons...it was over before they even stepped foot within the limits. I watched them from the rooftops above, waiting for the undead to pick off the remains. One of the men was smart- shot himself in the head so he wouldn't have to suffer. The other two didn't get by so easily.

You could've helped them! a part of me had said before being silenced by cruel common sense. Saving people was bad; it only gave them room to take and sacrifice you in their place. It happened once. Things just didn't go as planned.

Past sunset, the streets are clear with only two living corpses walking around. Massive blood strains on the concrete road are the only things that tell of the men's existence anymore. I wish the slaughter had been faster; I've come to hate the dark.

It's almost as bad as the noises.

The rest of the dead have spread out through town, their slowly rotting bellies full of human flesh yet their hunger never satisfied. The shots had drawn them here and although the men had arrived at this spot around noon, it had taken quite a few hours of waiting for the area to be cleared enough to be deemed safe. On the bright side, I won't have to go looking for food tonight; there's already a bounty of goods below for me, waiting my inspection. I see the leftover backpacks even from up here and in the light of dim, solar-powered, street lamps.

A low, rumbling sound softly erupts from my stomach. It wants to look in those backpacks too.

I look around with a bird's eye view to make sure nothing else in coming. Content with finding no other threats, I check to make sure my knives are clipped tightly to my sides- how often I've found them trying to slip off- and move quietly off the roof, down the steps, and to the last level. A glass door seperates me from the outside and I take one moment to stare out of it, steeling myself. It's a little cracked from another time before, when a few of the dead saw me and chased me in here. Even once I had raced to the rooftop and shot them from above, the event had frightened me enough to keep me inside this small sanctuary for a full day.

Opening the door a bit, I stick my loaded bow out, gripping it firmly. I make a tiny clicking sound with my tongue, as if I were trying to call a horse or dog to me, grasping the attention of one corpse. It stumbles toward me, not getting very far after I send an arrow through its skull. Only after I take my first step out and my first breathes of night air does the second one notice me. It too far to do any harm and one leg's broken. I could tip-toe over to the packs and be gone before it's even halved the space between us.

I shot it too. The less of them there are the better.

I hate the dark.

Once upon a time, I used to love it- would go outside and sit on the porch swing, listening to music. I would sit around a fire with my mom and step-dad. I would walk through the fields and down the gravel and dirt paths at dusk, and not be back until it was too dark to see.

But that was a long time ago.

I give a silent prayer first- people deserve that much- before taking their things. I wish to thank them; their loss helps me live. Slipping the backs over one arm after stuffing them with bloody, fallen weapons, I head back into the same abandoned building as earlier. I'm not traveling around like this, not now.

"I hate the dark," I hear myself whisper, just to hear a voice. Any voice would do. Darkness meant secrets, and ambushes, and death by those things. So when darkness came, it was safer to bunker down and wait until dawn.

When I find myself on the roof again, I search through the packs, cramming all that I need and want into the largest one. The rifle would be trouble, but it would be good to have it too. And it's in such good condition. It'd almost be a waste to discard it.

I hide it in a special place on the roof. It's mine now, but it stays. It'll be my special weapon if I have trouble on my future runs.

I find food. My mouth salivates and my stomach gives me another reminder that its empty. There's canned goods, but no can opener. Not much else- just tough jerky and crackers. I rip apart the meat with my teeth like a puppy desperate to chew a bone to nothing but splinters. Those men were smart with food. Preserved food is good. But just where is that can opener? Maybe they have a car somewhere with one in it.

Tearing my way through the packs again, I find another thing that makes me smile; water, bottled water. And a nice kind at that- Fiji water. It's always been my favorite, but it was always too expensive before.

It's gulped down slowly. I want to savor it, but I also want to drown my thirst. What else is in the packs? I reach in...

Pictures. Photos of families. Photos of good times and good days. What a silly thing to carry around. Then again, isn't moral important for survival? I don't like them. Attachment is bad in this world. The pictures slip from my hands, carried off by the wind and away from me.

They aren't my memories anyway- only the dead now have rights to them.

((Author's Note: This will mainly be updated on my quizzaz account, but there's probably going to be more typos in those versions. It shouldn't be that hard to find me on there- I'm the only person I know with a star wars bounty hunters' guild quiz.))