Chapter 4: Fallen angel
The Witch cried. Nobody knew why she did. She just cried and cried, her lonely voice echoing through dark chambers or abandoned tunnels.
Sometimes she even walked, slowly moving around, still crying. Maybe it was the pain of being alone. Maybe it was the pain of knowing nothing could help her.
She just cried and cried and cried, straggly, faded blonde hair hanging over her face in thin strands, hands and fingers over her face to block the sight of her tears.
If she was startled by Survivors, however, it was a different story. Her elongated fingers were claws, like normal fingers stretched to a foot long ending with a point. No fingernails. Just the flesh of her fingers hardening into deadly scythes made for decapitating. Every memory of an attack came flooding back to her ...
Eyes flashing, flashing like fiery coals; a mouth, screaming, warning her enemies and telling them to run; and standing, standing as she began the attack ... Swiping, slashing, trying vainly to kill until bullets were emptied into her body ...
Maybe that's why her clothes were so meagrely applied: a lifetime of bullets ravaging them to nothing but a shredded vest and underwear. Similarly coloured to her hair, like straw but more brown, stained, dirty.
She was crying now, tears glittering as they rolled down her grimy cheeks, leaving a clean trail to show her sorrow.
The Witch lived in the sordid city, with appalling conditions, overrun with zombies. The Green Flu did this, made her this monstrosity, destroyed her life and happiness.
Witch gave an angry screech and, in a sudden haze of grief, attacked a lone car, savaging it to scraps of metal.
She sat back and howled, head tilted back, sharing her inconsolable agony to the world.
Like an angel with broken wings and cast down to earth to discover a world of misery and inhumanity. A world of cruelty and disarray.
A fallen angel.