Prologe
You know how they say that someone's last words will stick with you for the rest of your life?
Protect your sisters with your life, give it your all. Die before you see them lie down, submitting.
Whoever said this was one-hundred percent right, because even in this Hell I still remember my Mother's dying words. It was used to usher out her last breaths; however, not before saying I love you once more before I had to put an axe into her cranium. Grace, only a ripe age of eight, was begging me not to do it; already on her hands and knees, sobbing her heart out. Lillian, just turning fourteen a couple months before, held Grace back, sobbing into her red hair. I would never forget those words, or the faces of my sister's as I killed our own Mother.
However, the audio clip that is stuck in a loop inside my brain is my Mother's dying screams.
The world had gone to shit, I never learned how to hold a gun (no mind actually shooting the damned thing), and that's why I joined a group of men that decided that women were going to used as their slaves. If it wasn't the end of the world, and if it wasn't for the deal not to touch my sisters-my pride would've stopped me. However I was only twenty-six, fresh out of college with a pre-med degree, and barely kept us alive for a week.
The leader of the group was a man called Dean Jamison. Six foot nothing, three-hundred something pounds, and completely intimidating. There were a mixed assortments of males in the groups, anywhere ranging from high school students, to a retired college professor.
Other than myself, and my sisters, there were four other girls.
All scared, petrified, and terrified; almost as much as I was.
First couple weeks wasn't so bad; they mostly had us cleaning their clothes and fixing dinner. We lived in an encampment, made up of ten tents in a tight circle, and a make-shift 'kitchen'; the children were made to sit at the table and clean the food while we were made to fix it up.
The second week is when they started taking women into their tents. We were promised protection, and in return we basically sold our souls to them.
Third week in, it was my turn. I fought back, not wanting my first time to be taken by some asshole I barely met a few weeks ago. I managed to break a nose, and jab a few ribs before they threatened to use Lillian in my stead. They started whispering about how she was growing, finally, and getting an ass on her, even quite a mouth. Dean commented that he'd give her a use for 'that mouth'. That's when I broke and said I would do anything. Those pathetic, stuttering words left my mouth before I could catch them.
Please, please; do anything you want, just don't touch my sisters. Anything but that, I'm begging you.
Fourth week, I had been used by everyone in the group. I felt like filth, and when I washed I wanted to scrub myself raw; anything was better than feeling a million fingers on my skin, comforting themselves.
Half way through the fourth week, the Dead attacked. They started coming in from the outskirts of the town we were camped around, and just kept coming. Instead of picking up knives and guns like the other women did, I through any food I could get my hands on into a knapsack, got spare clothes, and my sisters; that's when we got the Hell out of Dodge.