The skyline looks like something out of a horror film she saw at a drive in once: there's an SAR helicopter lodged in what used to be the Sky Points; a substantial chunk of the North Side Capital Bank is missing, presumably relocated in the surrounding streets as lethal debris; some buildings are simply gone, serving as gapes in the fractured skyline as if they'd never been constructed in the first place. A thick, heady cloud of smoke cloaks the buildings that still stand. From down below, cowering behind dumpsters and ducking through deserted streets, it's almost impossible to truly comprehend the how much of the city remains intact.
It's impossible to comprehend anything.
It's been three days since Michonne's last seen another person, another human; it was a frail, older woman, clinging to the fire escape of one the high rises that populated the city. Michonne only caught a glimpse of her before an explosion shook the building and spat out another cloud of smoke. She lingered beside the building for half an hour, maybe more, waiting for any sign of the woman's survival. But there never was, and it was the last she'd see of another person for weeks. Which was weird, Michonne couldn't help but think, considering how often she heard screams ringing out throughout the seemingly vacated city. It was possible that they were all hiding, waiting for the federal assistance the local radio stations had promised, but, even so, it was all very strange. Auron was a city of ghosts, and Michonne couldn't for the life of her unearth any bodies.
"Nobody's bodies", she murmurs as she crouches behind a dented mailbox. Before the mailbox, a trail of letters spews across the sidewalk like white blotches of water. There's a stamp with a pack of dogs chasing a freight train on one such letter; Michonne faintly recognizes it as an antique from her stamp collecting days. She begins to peel the stamp off the envelope, only to pause with the paper tears. The train breaks in half, and the ground carrying the locomotive splits into a cavernous fissure. The sight strikes Michonne as sad, inciting a damn near incapacitating wave of nostalgia, so she rises to her feet and continues on her trek.
The duffel bag dangling over her shoulder is almost empty. She'd gone through the supplies more quickly than she'd care to admit, and the emergency broadcasts have been off the air for two days. She doesn't know when support will arrive, but it's likely to be for a couple of days at most. And with the three cans of tuna and five bottles of water within her duffel, they're likely to be a rough couple of days.
And then there's those things.
They aren't human, that much Michonne knows for damn sure. They don't talk, they can barely walk, and they don't think about anything but eating. Michonne's had a few run ins with them since the Archler Tower went up in flames, but she hasn't had any actual contact with them. It's a small blessing, she supposes as she scurries through an alleyway. With all means of communication down, she has no way of knowing what these things truly are; there's no way of knowing if any souls still occupy their decomposing bodies, and she doesn't have the right frame of mind to yet take a life. And, sure, maybe the katana firmly sheathed within her duffel contradicts this fact. But the city's in ruins, Michonne's alone, and her daughters are...gone. There's room for caution.
Halfway through the alley, she finds a pothole the size of a semi truck to have developed and swallowed a Volkswagen Beetle. The earth sifts beneath her feet, and she stumbles forward, arms flailing for purchase of something, before she loses her footing and falls to her bum. Jagged concrete and shards of glass prick her skin as she rolls against the downslope, and she bites her lip, cognizant of the warrant a shout of pain holds. When she eventually crashes against the hood of the Beetle, Michonne allows herself to groan, cradling her bloodied forearm in her hand. Red trails down the length of the appendage, and she turns her nose up, instead shifting her attention to the car beside her.
The windshield has been shattered. A pair of fuzzy, blue dice dangle from the rearview mirror, a stark contrast to the blood smearing the driver's seat. Upon further investigation, Michonne finds a trail of blood extending from the passenger seat, but there's no sight of a body. She narrows her eyes, crawls past the wrecked car, and shakes her head. "No body", she whispers, fingers clinging to the strap of her duffel.
Her wounds aren't too bad: a few scrapes and cuts, one of which might need some hydrogen peroxide, but it's nothing of a life threatening nature. Even if it were, she hasn't the means to tend to such a situation. All she can do is keep hold of her duffel and keep moving until help arrives.
Ducking beneath a chain-link fence, Michonne tugs the sleeves of her suit up and winces. Mud seeps through the already soiled fabric and brushes against her face. Her jacket gets caught laong one of the wires, but it only takes a few tugs to remove herself. Once she has, she rises to her feet, brushes her hands over her thighs, and looks up.
54th and Staton.
She's never been on this side of Auron before. Prior to the Archler Explosions, Michonne had only known the upper east side of the small city. Taking a moment to further discover her city had always been a dream of hers. Now, the dead walks freely, and the living remains in hiding, and she just wants-
Staton is a nightmare, as is the rest of the city. A cell cite has been disrupted and lies in the street, mile long rows of vehicles extending from each direction of the cross section. Telephone circuits spasm about like electrocuted limbs, and a truck lies on its side, spilling mountains of toilet paper. Michonne grabs six rolls and tosses them into her bag before carrying on. Most of the vehicles have been abandoned, but quite a few of them still have occupants. A man sits in the seat of a red Ford. He's come back, and, upon seeing Michonne approach him, has begun to reach forward. His seatbelt keeps him from accomplishing anything, but his white eyes and unhinged jaw keeps her on alert until she squeezes past and continues down the street.
There's an upturned Little Debbie's truck here. The lower half of someone's torso leans out the driver's window; there's no sight of the upper half, the hungry half, so Michonne approaches the vehicle with caution, peeking around the extensive cargo hold with light footsteps. As she steps around to stare into the back door, she withdraws her katana and narrows her eyes. A mountain of brownies, cupcakes, Twinkies, and ho hos spill from the hold and to her feet. Fingers twitching for her katana, Michonne crouches and tears open the box of Twinkies. A packet falls into her hands, and she stills, eyes filling with tears; a memory from before flashes behind her eyelids, and the packet multiples into four; she swiftly takes two in each hand, places them into two aluminum lunch boxes, and turns to be greeted by exuberant squeals.
A gasp pierces through Michonne's chest; the Twinkie falls from between her fingers, and she blinks, raising a hand to massage her temple. A gust of wind rattles the driver's door against the cargo, prompting a sonorous groan from the rusting metal. The sound is sharp enough to halt the trembling in Michonne's body and return her to focus to the deserts at her feet. She spends the next three minutes emptying the treats from their respective boxes and shoving as many as she can into her duffel bag before she stands once more and takes off down the street. Behind her, a crowd of the undead presses onward, slow and unthinking but dangerous all the same. Michonne pounds her feet against the pavement, her bag slamming against her hip with each movement, and takes a sharp left, then breaks right before proceeding to scale an ailing fire escape. Panting heavily, she bends over, palms resting against her thighs, and watches as the crowd draws closer to the abandoned truck. She swipes a hand over her forehead, pauses to steady her breathing, then continues up the fire escape as yet another cry sounds from a few apartments down.
"Not my body."