Atlanta summers were a living hell.
The air, thick and humid — like a heavy hand wrapping around your throat. Acrid heat burned and sizzled its way into innocent skin. The sun seared down, liquefying every corpse, melting them down to the bone. Summer always brought an irritating itch that clung like a second skin.
The reek that stuck to the land seemed to intensify with every passing day, staggering heat creating a personal Purgatory.
And, she hated summers.
Amelia strolled through the dense woods, finding solace in the protection the trees brought against the blistering sun. She remained hidden to the changing world — always one to quickly adapt.
The moment the dead rose she learned to stay weary of populated areas and instead took leave into the woods, where her skills naturally flourished. Killing, hunting, and track came as second nature. Survival remained her main priority above all else.
Until she came across the child.
—
Amelia was calmly resetting a dud snare — attempting to relax. However, her mind and body remained hyper-aware of everything around her.
She could feel how her clothes stuck uncomfortably against her damp skin, suctioning tighter with every movement. She could hear the scuttle of weary animals rushing up trees, rustling leaves in their wake. The scattered rays that peaked through openings between the trees were blinding to her, too bright and hot as they flickered along the floor.
It was overwhelming as her body forced itself to stay aware — survival hardwired into every nerve in her body.
And suddenly, everything was uncomfortably tense. The hairs on her neck stood, and the muscles of her back bunched as her body coiled tightly. Her mind gave off warning signs of a lurking threat.
Shifting her body, she closed her eyes. Suddenly, everything was ear-shattering — the quiet hum of the woods, the rasp of dry wind and the awkward sound of human.
She could hear them. They tried to remain quiet, muffling their breath but it was labored and filled with fear.
She could feel them. Their eyes — they traveled along her body, searching.
She could always pinpoint the sound of man. Their movements are always unsteady — always afraid.
Amelia could always find them — it's what made her a good soldier.
Rising to her feet, she straightened her spin, loosely clutching her large hunting knife in her left hand, she scanned every inch of visible land.
Until finally, her glare met scared hazel eyes.
A child, she thought. Tilting her head, she watched them squirm under her intense stare. They were tucked tightly into the rotten part of a tree. Amelia can see the rapid movement of their small chest, practically feel their anxiety — it reminds her of the squirrels she traps, how they squirm and panic before she puts them out of their misery.
Blinking away, she does a quick perimeter check, searching for any other signs of life before turning her back and heading towards her cabin — escaping before the urge to help claws its way back up her body.
—
Her head pulsed, annoyance oozes off her body in thick globs.
She can hear the child's clumsy steps as they rush to keep up with her. And, every snap of a twig or rustle of foliage under the child's feet causes an irritating itch to cling onto her — the child was being loud and would likely get herself killed.
But Amelia refused to help, denying herself the chance to get attached. She wouldn't carry anymore guilt — another death.
So, she speeds up to a light jog, hoping to reach the cabin quicker and leave the child behind.
"Please! Please, you're going too fast!" She can hear the small tremor in the child's voice but didn't turn around, even as guilt starts to settle in the pit of her stomach.
It's only when a small yelp and the sound of a tumble that has Amelia turned around. She watched as the girl clutched onto her now bleeding knee — whimpering and silently crying as she slowly blew on the scrap.
However, movement behind the girl quickly catches Amelia's attention. She can see a small group of corpses stumbling towards them, likely attracted by the child's noise.
Unsheathing her knife, she quickly glanced at the now scared child before moving towards the group.
She can feel the adrenaline coursing through her body — welcomes it with open arms. She moves through the group swiftly as muscle memory takes over — killing the dead is easier than the living. The dead don't resist, they don't fight back like the living. Every kill stains her a bit more, gore coats her skin and clothes like a second skin — but it doesn't bother her anymore.
When she's done she wipes her knife along the leg of her pants before sheathing it.
Gazing down at the corpse fills her with a sense of comfort — like an itch has been scratched. She can finally feel her body truly relax.
She shakes the remaining buzz off her limbs before heading towards the child.
Reaching for the girl, she pulls her off her feet and tosses her over her shoulder ignoring her squeak of surprise. With one last look over her shoulder Amelia is taking off in a light jog to her cabin.
—
The jog to her cabin is uneventful.
And, the moment they arrived at the cabin Amelia quickly set the girl down before heading towards the door.
Once inside she's wiping herself down with a rag. "What's your name, kid?"
The child hesitates for a minute.
"Sophia. Sophia Peletier."
"Names Amelia Mara."