This story is pure fantasy and comes from my own demented head. My grammar, punctuation ect. aren't
the best, but I dropped out of college, so, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. It gives me something
to do when sweet sleep escapes me on these cold, Winter nights.
Before all this, shit, well, I was in and out of mental health facilities. After the war and after what I experienced there, it fucked me up. I learned a lot. I've learned how to kill people. It's prepared me for this, the apocalypse, total collapse of this disgraced country. However I'm not stable and I lose grip on reality with every sunset. I'm not raving or mad like one of those things, but I'm dying slowly in my head. I can't escape myself. Self-preservation is the only thing keeping me going at this point. At night, I'll listen to the wind blow. During the day, I'll walk miles on foot, looking for something to believe in.
The people I've met so far were usually frightened by me. I'm not menacing in the least, but whatever bad energy I impose on others keeps them away from me. I'm just a woman, but I'm tall and have defined muscles from years of training, before all this shit, and even now, with the strain put on my body every day, I'm learning more about my physical ability.
Before, I had a mass of wavy golden hair, not too long, but I never really styled it either. It was always just kind of there. It hasn't changed. The only differences between before and after for me are two simple things. I'm always disgustingly coated in dirt, blood, vomit, and grime. The rivers here don't do much to wash it away, and recently, I stopped trying. It's not worth the effort most of the time. I'm more interested in food and ammunition.
The second thing is, I'm always carrying around my rifle in this new and dangerous world. I haven't used it in a few weeks, and I never do unless it absolutely calls for it. I have a few boxes of ammunition for my main weapon, but a dumb zombie doesn't get that honor. The last time I used it was on a person. A living, breathing person, who unfortunately had something I needed.
"Sucks for him," I said as I pulled his body from the bed of his truck. I had watched him in my scope from afar, in some tree line, breathing hard from the cold. My asthma is usually aggravated by the dry and cold air, but I deal with it when this time of year rolls around. The man, obviously part of some badass mercenary group unknown to me, was packing boxes of food and whatever else on the bed of his truck. He had an assault rifle around his back, a machete at his hip, and a nasty look on his face. He looked as though he was angry about something. I could see his lips move through my scope, from my vantage point, and barely audible cursing graced my ears.
"Say goodbye," I whisper as I line up my shot. My mind is working overtime during these intense moments. During my training, I won sharpshooter at boot camp. From then on, I trained mainly in rifles and close quarters combat. After training, they shipped off in a tin can and dropped in the middle of the desert to pick off malcontents from a mile away. Without a spotter, it is kind of difficult to take in all variables, but I never am that far away from my targets. I find a way to sneak closer, get in personal with them sometimes if need be, and it eases the worry I have of actually missing.
The shot rang out fast and loud, hitting the intended target in the back of the head. A glorious splatter of brain matter and blood shot out in all directions. I didn't waste a minute scurrying towards his supplies. He had food and ammunition, and I gathered all I could then. "Where are your friends?" I thought to myself. It was strange, but I scouted the location in every direction, and no one else was around. I made off with two backpacks full of food and medicine like a bandit in the night.
That leads me to where I am now, in a Mexicali stand-off with some assholes from around these parts. "What have I got myself into?" I think to myself. It's weird there's real groups of once regular jack offs or convicts running wild in the Georgia winter, but here I am, hiding in some garage, hoping to whatever asshole created this world I can find a way out of this. I pull my cargo jacket tight around me. Normally, I wear a ski mask or a scarf of some sort over my head to hide my light hair. It's a dead giveaway most of the time. This time I opted for a black headscarf I found in a nursing home I tried to scavenge, but it had already been picked clean by the time I arrived.
I peer out of this broken second floor window down the street below me. The advantage is I can see all of those dumb asses from my spot at the garage, top of the street, but they have numbers. Numbers, I think, trumps any skill or cleverness I may have. I counted seven. They haven't found my new hiding spot yet, but if I give them time, they will.
"Come on out!"
"You bitch!"
Their words taunt me, but I keep myself under control for the time being. I had to go somewhere. I couldn't just sit here like a fucking idiot. The town hall offered excellent views, but the trouble of actually getting there undetected worries me. "Go check upstairs!"
Shit. They're inside the garage now. From what I can hear, there's only two. The rest had fanned out to look around the small town we were in. My body works slowly as I lay my rifle against the window sill, and unsheath a hunting knife from its place at my side. Slow. Slow. Slow. I'm inching my way to the only door to the upstairs loft, and hide by it, waiting for my prey. He's lumbering up the winding metal stairs unaware of what waits him.
The door cracks open, and he steps into the dark and trashed room. He's short and dirty looking. "Fuck," he curses as his flashlight flickers on and off. I'm only a few feet away from him, and he doesn't notice me yet. Very slowly, I use a gloved hand to shut the door he walked in from. That gets his attention, but in that minute moment, I pounce on him. We fall to the floor in a heap, but he can't scream because of my hand over his mouth, and the knife to his throat. We lock eyes. His fear makes him unable to move. I swallow all emotions I feel, the few I do, if they're even there, and cut open his throat.
He gurgles for a minute or two, coating me in his disgusting blood, and just passes out, or dies. I don't wait to get down the stairs and find my next target. He's outside now. The nameless bandit dies in the same way as his friend, choking on his own blood. My escape from the garage is swift, and I sprint down the street towards the town hall. A few walkers amble about, but there's not enough for me to worry about. Anyway, I will use them as a defense against those bastards if they try to corner me. I can have numbers, too.
I'm up the stairs and at my next vantage point in a matter of minutes. I lock the door behind me . "Now, where are you?" I whisper to myself as I scan my scope. There are five left for me to dispatch, and two now stand over their dying friend, in the street, like a couple of sitting ducks. "Four," I say as I pull the trigger, hitting one in the back. "Three," I say again as I snap the bolt of my rifle back into place, placing another round in the chamber, and take aim at the other one. He's dead, too. I'm sure of this one. I shot him in the neck.
A truck roars to life in the distance now, and it's headlights come racing towards the sound of my gun fire. Three. Two in the front and one in the back, weapon ready, aimed where he thinks I'm at. He starts firing random shots into different buildings. My heart is beating like a bass drum against my chest. Whatever calmness I had about the situation is lost when I see these rednecks driving towards me like an apocalyptic chariot.
I take aim at the driver, but I miss. I miss again, again, and finally I hit him. He swerves and crashes into the front of the town hall. The collision sends a shockwave throughout the building, knocking dust and furniture loose. They know where I am now and shoot hell fire in my direction. My instincts kick in, and I jump to the floor, before I know it I'm crawling to the back of the room. I can only listen as they enter the building, shoot the walkers, and climb the staircase. Damn. Fuck. Shit. What do I do? The walkers didn't do anything to slow them down. Not one bit. As pathetic as it is, I was hoping they could do something against men with automatic weapons.
"Come on out, girly! We aren't gonna hurt ya!" One of them yells through the hall. "We just want to teach you a lesson," he adds.
I aim towards the door and listen to approaching footsteps. My knuckles rap against the wall behind me, and I aim towards the middle of the door as the man approaches. He tries the doorknob and I fire. Assuming I hit him, considering the groans and screams, I unlock the door and peak out into the hall. He's bleeding from a gut shot. Very painful, but not anything immediately deadly. His yelling attracts the attention of his friend, and I wait with my rifle aimed down the hall. As soon as he peeks his head around the corner, he lets go a hail of gunfire in my direction, ripping apart his friend's body, sending the man to the depths of hell.
He rushes the door, but he's too slow. I've already locked it. He slams his heavy body into it repeatedly, when he's away from the door, I open it, and he comes charging into the room at full speed. He's not easy to trip, it is almost comical how he falls with such a simple action.
"You bitch! BITCH!" He cries, looking up at me, into the barrel of a gun. "What the fuck? That's some bugs bunny shit."
I shrug. "Give me all your weapons," I command. "One false move and you're dead. You're the lucky one," I smile wide. "You won't die if you don't want to. Now do what I say, dumbass."
"Fine, fine," he mutters, throwing all of his possessions at my feet. He's kneeling, looks up to me, and then away like he's remembering something.
"Hey," I say, "Who do you work for?"
"It doesn't matter now," he replies solemnly. "You're dead, anyway, Negan's coming for your ass now. After all this!" I shrug again like a nonchalant jerk, unafraid, or maybe, unaware of how mean this Negan guy is. His lackeys seem dumb as rocks, which says a lot about his judgment. His warriors do not make me flinch.
"Negan, you said?" I ask, inflecting the last words a little higher than normal. I crouch down, and grab the handgun he had thrown at my feet, pressure check it, and find that it's loaded. I point it towards his face, right in there, and his eyes widen.
"You go tell Negan I said, "come find me."