It was now dawn, but I had been awake for hours, up on the walls with scraped and brick-burned limbs. What a splendid way to awaken, with the verbal expressions of the infected.
The infected were below me, drawn by the smell of the dead rabbit. They were bounding around in sick glee, ripping apart the scraps of discarded rabbit hide in a tug of war with one another like a pack of demented puppies.
People before the age of the virus called the infected 'zombies' and laughed at the idea of these slow, mindless creatures that ate brains like they had made them out to be in 'movies'. They of course were the ones who ended up creating the virus that would spread, in order to create a better movie: We nowadays don't have movies, but we've heard tales about them, fantasies portrayed on a huge screen which they spent money on to see. But nevertheless, they were wrong. The infected are strategic, fast, agile, very resourceful, with a hunger for muscular flesh that could never be satisfied. The only reason people lived through the virus was that humans discovered that the infected have no tolerance for scaling walls.
One infected woman looked up at me with dead, calculating eyes that shone a dark green and sniffed at me with her shrunken nose. An animal roar was beginning in her chest, a sound I hated so much that was so foul to make me want to be sick. With that sound raising the hair on my neck I felt the sudden need to kill this abomination. But if I did kill her I'd have have the other six of her pack on me like flies on rot.
The infected are a stone shade of gray, with dry skin stretched over taught muscles and a bony frame. Once infected, the eyes are one of the only ways to identify them, for the color stays the same and the pupil enlarges, leaving no white. We try not to think that the infected were once our family members or lovers but it is difficult not to, especially when we actually recognize them and they have no memory of us or humanity. I suppose I am fortunate to have neither lovers nor family to worry about.
"Back. Get back." I growled, straddling the wall and holding myself up with my thighs as I fished out my bloodstained knife. My knuckles were white but not from fear, as I was higher than a kite on adrenaline and I didn't have quarrels with killing the infected. But I am just one girl, and against seven of the infected I was as good as pre-hamburger for their convenience. "Leave, you don't belong here. Get ya gone!"
The other pack members looked at me, ignoring the dead rabbit. They had the look that if it was on a human would have said 'Yeah, well what are you going to do about it bitch?' I couldn't help but feel inferior with them having that look, "Smirk a' me lil longer and I'll shove my boot up your ass sideways!"
After a moment of expected silence, I spat, "Like you 'ave an ass, do you? I'm talking to meself again aren't I? I need to stop this, cos I'm freaking meself out..." I bit my lips and screwed my eyes shut, I really did need to stop all this. What did I expect them to reply with anyway? I decided to stick with the 'boot up their ass sideways' deal.
One more note: Although they cannot scale walls, they can still ram them, apparently.
An infected male rammed the wall and I staggered, accidentally slicing my knee open. But I did not scream at once, as I was too high on my self enabled drug to notice it. Only once I gazed at it for a moment or two and saw the blood seeping out of it did I yelp, more in surprise than pain. Angered that I had done this to myself, I wished I could shoot them. I know I should carry a gun, but guns attract too much attention. Right now I wouldn't mind either.
The wall was rammed again, sending ice and a jolt down my spine. The old bricks were breaking, I could smell the chips flaky earth scent. Dear Nequam, just strike them down. Almost more frightening than the threat of the wall crumbling was that I had just prayed to the god of the rogues. My father had worshiped this god, whose name was the Old Language for rogue. But just saying Nequam's name filled me with a strength to inspire me. So with his name in my head and heart I squeezed the wall with my thighs and shed my coat. I picked up my knife with my left hand, and my last grenade clumsily with my right hand.
"Last chance!" I called down. Tearing my pants leg farther I rolled the grenade in my blood so that it would attract their attention. It's a good thing that they like blood more than they are smart. I waved it around, imagining the red wisps of scent catching in their dry nasal cavities. When they snapped their heads around to look at the grenade I knew I had them. So with the tip of the knife I pried out the pin and launched it as far away as I could.
They chased after it like bird dogs and I closed my eyes tightly. The echoing, ear shattering, boom came a few seconds later, making me startle off the wall.
Hitting the sand drove the breath out of me but I forced myself up and started sprinting. Running was what I was built for, long legs with muscles primed for sprinting not beauty. But I wasn't in the best of conditions: Currently half deaf, cramps going up my side, a sliced knee, and combat boots made for hiking not sand. Next thing I knew was that I was falling face first into another dilapidated wall.
And to think, this is what I had been striving for. Stupid stupid Brayburn, I accosted myself with my last name like my father had used to. The city of Stamina was closer and decently safe. Great Nequam I am an ignoramus if I've ever seen one.
But a little bit of luck was on my side, after all, the infected pack lay dead. The thought was calming as I lay my cheek upon the still cool remnants of the labyrinth. This temperature was soothing in a way I was not accustomed to. The reason I had chosen Survivor was that the Guard sends out search parties on motorcycles every morning to find people and kill off the infected. Yesterday I had arrived too late for the morning search, and now another one should be coming... especially since I've blown a section of their 'city' to hell and back.
"Any people?" A voice bounced between the walls, followed by a crescendo of mechanical pops and revs. My gaze lifted to the polluted sky and to the un-beautiful dirty wound that was the sun, the color of a fresh gash.
"Here!" I croaked out, raising my voice over the motorcycles.
Sand blew around the corner creating a ghost wind. I jumped up in an attempt to show no fear, backing myself to a wall and transferring the knife to my right hand for the citizens of Survivor's superstition.
A younger man than I had expected dismounted the bike and pulled off the smokey full face helmet. "Miss, do you have a card?"
"Uhm, I think I lost it. I've been moving around lately and it probably was budged out of my pocket the little bugger." It wasn't a total lie, it just wasn't the complete truth either. I knew that my 'card' had been within the pockets of the coat I'd sacrificed on the wall.
"Well do you have a name?"
"Of course, Shay Brayburn."I coughed out, not loosening my grip on my precious knife.
The man was probably ten years older than me, making him twenty nine or so. He looked a tad familiar, but then again I've been to most cities in what used to be the United States so most people I come across look somehow familiar. "Shay Brayburn, Shay Brayburn, Shay Brayburn..." The man was highly attractive, with striking baby blue eyes that I couldn't help but stare at. His face was startling in the way he was handsome, everything from a killer jaw line to a distinguished philtrum above naturally smiling lips. "This doesn't have you listed under a city." He said as he flipped through the sun dried pamphlet. "So where do you fit in?" He drew himself up to his full height, making him a head taller than me.
I had been hoping to avoid this kind of situation. What he meant was 'what type of person are you?' Survivor and all cities have categories for people, creating a complicated web: there are the loners, the rogues, the city folk, the day folk, the night folk, the infected, and lastly the nomads. Some of the reasons that they were what they were overlapped, which is why I personally found them brain-numbing. Such as being born outside a city included both the rogues and the nomads, and the fact that both the day and night folk were both city folk. Meanwhile a loner could be either city folk or not. I am technically complicated under these labels. For sure I wasn't infected or city folk, but I came from the courtship of a nomad huntress and a rogue passerby. But since I left both my mother and my father I don't figure I count in either category. But a little white lie never hurt anyone, right? I assume I'm either a rogue or a loner, which wasn't great for me because cities are highly suspicious of loners. My lungs tightened with anxiety, I would've rather been taking on the infected than facing this attractive man asking me questions. At least nobody could judge me when I was alone. His three simple questions had left me stunned, with the hated metallic taste of fear on my tongue.
"I-I'm not." Hearing my own words and how they made absolutely no sense, I added, "I guess I'm either a loner or a rogue."
His gaze flicked up from the pamphlet to my face, moving his head not an inch. He didn't blink for the longest of time, sending the hair on the back of my neck and my arms to a standing ovation. "A rogue huh..." He jotted something onto his paper. "Were your parents rogues too?"
"Me mother was a nomad, me father is still a rogue as far as I know." I tried to calm my frayed nerves by rubbing my thumb along the flat of my blade. This only put me off farther because my left thumb found no blade as my knife was in my right hand. Damn superstitions, these stupid beliefs were going to kill me if I wasn't calm.
"Derek!" A voice echoed throughout the labyrinth, originating from behind the man.
The distinguished man turned and flipped up the collar of his well fitted trench coat. Was that leather? Nobody in the last half century owned leather, it was practically an anomaly because of the infected slaughtering all the cattle. But nevertheless, this man had a leather trench coat. This man, this 'Derek', watched as another motorcycle rounded the wall.
"Derek, some rogue man blasted a group of infected to hell. It looks like a bomb went off, man." The younger guy, probably twenty five, yanked off his helmet.
"It wasn't a bomb sir, just an everyday grenade." I forced my voice meek as I tend to be too forceful and I am in no position to be so.
Derek let a smile move the corners of his lips, casting tiny shadows on his face in the cold, bright sunlight of early morning. "So Ricky Rick, you want to rephrase that anytime soon?" He crossed his arms over his chest and laughed a deep laugh, a little too deep for his appearance.
Ricky, a tall lanky redhead with freckles all over his face, blushed a dark crimson. "Desperately." He eyed me, looking me up and down at my haggard appearance as if deciding whether or not I was capable of doing such damage to the pack on infected. Apparently I passed his test, because he added, "Sorry. Most people who can give the bastards a one way ticket to hell are men." He blushed again, "I'm going to shut up now."
The rarest of smiles graced my lips, stretching my mouth un-naturally. I was pleased that I could still surprise people, but underneath that pleasure was a deep rooted discomfort (to say the least) around men. Especially these men who worked in the Guard and probably didn't see women much. As usual when I was around men, scenes flashed in my head from my formative years and the smoldering fear and resentment for men came back. But I would hide that.
"I'm well practiced sir, with both explosives and a bow 'n arrow, thank you." I added the 'thank you' on instinct. In a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere and to express the lion in my stomach's demanding orders I continued, "Have the citizens of Survivor eaten breakfast yet?"
"Yes they have but we can get you back before lunch and have you registered under our city." Derek said in his suave voice, pulling on his helmet. A shadow moved beneath the mask part in what I assumed was a smile because of his chuckle. "Hop on, Miss Brayburn." He patted the small space behind him on the bike.
More events flashed into my thoughts, a parasite in my head. "On the bike? With you?" I pursed my lips, my stoic composure gone with the wind.
"That is unless you want to run all the way to Survivor." Ricky smiled, laughing in his higher pitched voice. "Derek is the best we've got, you'll be as safe as can be."
If only Ricky knew that my safety on that Nequam-forsaken contraption, if only he knew that safety was not on my mind. "I would actually prefer that," I blurted, speaking without a thought process.
The odd look I received from Ricky and Derek told me that quite obviously, my decision was not allowed in the Guard's protocol. This was confirmed by Derek patting the space behind him with one gloved hand and with the other he waved me over like a small child. "Miss Brayburn, if we wait any longer for you than we will miss lunch."
I panicked, doubting my need to ever go into another city... ever. Bad things happen in cities, scary things, scarring things... This fear made me feel like a child again, something I was absolutely not fond of. But I couldn't help but feel the clawing of the lion in my stomach, but my hunger won over my fear. I spanned the gap between me and the bike and mounted the space behind Derek, clinging onto his waist as he sped toward Survivor.
I'd missed half of it and expect nothing more than a little general, despite never seeing any zombie movies. But that's okay. And I understand about the stupid Twilight fiasco, and wasn't planning on anything going on between her and Derek, just a plot twist. I don't like the guys too dazzling. 
Besides, Shay doesn't like men. But I'd love to review some of your work in return.... have any requests?
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