Young Writers Society

It was not, in fact, fun.

Micky Dee had lied about that bit.

'Fun' is going out to a bonfire, getting hammered and waking up the next morning not remembering anything you had done that previous night. Or, perhaps, slinging paint in an all-out color war with your friends. Even binge watching Preacher four times in a row would have been more fun than this currently was: haphazardly staggering across the top of a car going incredible speeds while holding something that could very well be the end of me.

What was I doing?

Well, besides the thick hot fabric of my gas mask nearly choking me off, I was a human sticky hand playing Plinko with high-grade explosive devices atop a speeding vehicle. If one could consider it speeding anymore.

A job was a job though, and I knew this run wasn't exactly going to be easy. The riptide of wind that violently threw my body in the wake of the roaring vehicle I was on, was enough of a lift for me to figure out exactly how I would be lighting up the first vehicle.

A sudden explosion rocked the ground as I staggered and gripped the roof. A bright plume of color seared my eyes and the shock sent waves of vibrations through my bones, blurring out my senses. I swallowed, wide-eyed and took a gasp of air that was a bit clotted. The jump of the vehicle, the wind, the occasional bullet, there was so much to focus on and so hard to do so. A ringing had begun in my ears after the initial pop of the first device, under the tire of one of the Renaults- throwing it aside.

I briefly closed my eyes, white-knuckled as I wrapped a few fingers around one of the inner rings to steady myself, taking another breath and gripping the lit bomb. Tossing it up as the brutal wind shifted, I chucked it directly into the grate of one of the beaten-up H1 Hummers that was dogging us.

A sudden shower of bullets rained on the Impala, and I winced as I heard the ricocheting cracks and pings each piece of ammunition made as they grazed and hit the car, causing me to flatten on it. When it stopped, I sat up a bit to check whether or not the small explosive I had tossed was still lodged in the front of the improvised vehicle.

The next explosion rang out with deafening bass and I fell back on my ass as it shook the pavement, cracking the road that we were on. A dark shape had landed just off the tower of rising flames as the Hummer went up in a firework display, effectively slowing the other two.

Laughing a bit as the adrenaline seared my chest and put the taste of salt in my mouth, I grinned a bit and fumbled for the next thing I would be throwing, legs shaking from the constant struggle to stay upright. The car was tossing me around, and every small rock or hole in the road felt like an earthquake right under my feet. Taking a few deep breaths, I glanced around at my surroundings to get a view of the road and knelt on the roof, hot sun searing the back of my neck as I reached down for the next object blindly.

Grass, some green, some seared tan whipped by so fast I didn't have enough time to see it. The next thing I felt put in my hand was confusing at first- a thin strand of something heavy cut into my palm, and raising the oddly heavy object, I almost wanted to drop to my knees with relieved laughter. I had been supplied with a salvaged paint can. Not just any paint, though. Ah yes, the glitzy glamour of hot cheetah pink was now in my hands, lid removed, contents awaiting the next victim- a younger man donning a military uniform with a head that was shaped much like a peanut. The paint stunk as its contents trembled- a slightly congealed mess from the raging heat.

His comrade, a tall female who was leaning out the window and recklessly shooting a semi at us, barely cropping the car at times, almost looked as confused as I must have when she saw the object. It wasn't hard to miss. The sun reflected off of it strongly enough to give my face a pink glow that definitely said, "I am the second coming."

Staring her dead in the eye as she paused the onslaught of bullets to stare at the can, I dumped it upside down and then let the metal bucket go. A delicate spray of soccer mom pink dotted the end of our car, and hailed the next Hummer with the heat-congealed contents.

"Get back in here! Overpass!" Micky yelled, her voice barely catching my ears. The Hummer started to swerve, the female was yelling instructions, but the thick wheels and top heavy vehicle had been its ultimate downfall. Hitting a pothole, the beast of a truck jerked to the side and went nose-first into the ditch, the end hiking up and teetering for a moment before, from the window, I could see the driver falling out of his seat and hitting the windshield. The truck groaned before landing upside down, and I snorted before ducking as another shower of bullets engulfed our Impala.

Gripping a ring, I swung down and landed in my seat, nearly losing my balance. The adrenaline left me grinning and dazed, fiery napalm under my skin- my heart was pounding in my chest and every moment feeling like an eternity. It was no wonder this was what I did. I loved it. It got your mind off the heat, of the little food we had and even the dangers that the government actually posed on us. Honestly? It was fun, plain and simple.

Maybe Micky Dee had been right. How could I have been wrong about this?

Now however, it was Abby's turn. We couldn't hope to put a dent in the tops of those Renaults, even with explosives. They were armored vehicles. Luckily, the underbellies of those mammoths were somewhat penetrable, which is what we had the smaller ones here for.

"Pipe bomb one," Abby dug into the cooler. It was really three or four that had been silly-banded together with old giraffe-shaped blue rubber bracelets. She eyed them for a second before gripping the chain that would (hopefully) keep her from becoming sliced deli meat, and proceeded to shore her leg up on the seat for support. In the brief pause in assault on our vehicle for reloading ammo, she vaulted out the side of the car and leaned far out, body rigid against the car as she studied the way the trucks came at them before nimbly letting the pressurized explosive go, just inches above the sun-bleached pavement.

It didn't take long for her to scramble to get back inside the car, my heart nearly exploding with relief as I saw her being reeled back in by the scrawny kid adjacent to her, small hands working furioudly on the chain.

It didn't take but a second for the impromptu bomb to hit the ground and burst, sending a small cloud of fragmented metal shrapnel viciously flying by. A louder pop had rang out with the force of the explosion. Two front tires on one of the Renaults had been blown out from the shredded pipe debris.

It most certainly didn't take me long to realize that something was horribly wrong.

The color had been blanched from the other Dropper, Grenada's, face, mouth slightly agape as she pulled the rest of Abigail into the car. If the blonde kid was pale before, she was paler now as the thick stream of crimson trekked over the features of my sister's face.

My heart stopped, everything slowed for a few seconds as a different fire made it near impossible to move. Pure fear.

"Abigail," I said numbly, before letting out a short, pained yell that barely reached my own ears. I launched myself over my seat and into the back, where I could see a deep cut had lanced across her face. Rage blurred the edges of my vision. It hadn't been a moment before the sharp crash of glass tore me away from the blood that was seeping into my clothes. It was happening too fast. Was my sister not bleeding out in my lap, her pretty hazel green eyes rolling back into her head?

A fine spray of scarlet shattered over me and my mouth dropped as the lifeless body of Grenada did, causibg me to jump in shock, limbs sparking back to life. Brain fragments, and thick crimson blood painted the back of the seats and car.

The slumped bodies of both children made me tremble in anguished rage as I ripped open the cooler and snatched out the remaining four bundles of pipe bombs, scrambled back to the window and vaulted half of my body out onto the trunk, and proceeded to haphazardly throw them down onto the pavement.

The last vehicle that had been closing in was thrown back and aside, the Impala lurched forward from the force of the pressure that had been exerted from the bomb. Sliding back in, I ignored the glass that scraped my arms and belly up. The distant sting was nothing like the angered pain I felt looking at the bodies.

Not like I felt looking at my sister.

Nothing could compare. I couldn't keep my cool. I couldn't act calm and confident.

The last piece of my life before the world went to shit was slowly slipping away from me, slowly bleeding out due to her own weapon.

All I did was let out a gruesome scream, ignoring Micky as she tried to grab me and calm me down, eyes wild.

~

"We should take her back to the Cull. They have a doctor there, a few actually. I'm no expert, but, this looks way too deep for butterfly bandages and some aloe vera," Micky commented, taking a breath. Her wild auburn curls were now pulled back as we knelt under the dying sun. The sky was a shade of violent blood, spilling over the silhouetted hills whose sparse trees stretched up in bleak hope of a forgiving sun. Our hands were caked in dirt, bodies tired from the work we had done, upturned soil marking out a shallow grave not too far away.

It was quiet. There was nothing but the drone of crickets and cicadas, the occasional soft crone of a grackle as it beat iridescent wings against the dying light. We had pulled over far after the downing of the trucks, looping back to the broken gas station we had stayed in the night before. My chest was heavy with the raw exhaustion of grief. Abigail was pulled into my lap. The blood had long since stopped rolling down her pale cheeks, and was now caked over their soft slopes, revealing the extent of the damage.

Shrapnel from her weapon, it seemed, had blown back before she could really move. A piece of steel had managed a deep wound that stretched from the right corner of her mouth, up into her cheek, twisting back and cutting off just below her eye.

She had survived, but just barely. Any deeper, the metal would have shattered the bones of her face, it would be an irreparable wound that would become a painful death. I looked away from the wound, pressing a small rag over it gently, keeping the dust from causing more problems than we already had.

Green grasshoppers leaped from the stalks as Micky set a bag down beside us and took a breath. In the faint twilight, the gentle green glow of light-bugs could be made out from the grass and even up in the trees that bordered the road just a few meters off.

"We're gonna get help?" The honey-haired girl asked quietly, barely moving her dry lips. Some blood had barely edged out, lightly painting the sickeningly deep wound and rag, with the little movement the question posed. A cool breeze lifted the edges of her hair and took off the searing heat the day had brought. The scent of pine and oak was just barely noticeable in the evening air, above the stench of blood.

I though back to what Micky said, closing my eyes as tired tears slipped past them, and ran my fingers through Abby's hair. She lost a lot of blood in the ordeal, and we didn't have much more than pickles in the ways of food.

The Cull.

It was a medium sized gathering place of sorts, just out on the edge of Fort Worth. Maybe an hour's drive, if that. It was the closest base-like structure we had down here in north Texas, and most certainly had protection and food, resources. It was a place of color and merriment for some. Retirement from a long life of dangerous road-rage for others. For the young ones, it was a sanctuary.

Right now, it was the only sort of hope we had.

I didn't quite like the place. It was too much, and the people that were more or less in charge there were questionable characters. Needless to say, I didn't want to owe any of them anything for helping us out. It was why we preferred to live a life of Dropping all by our lonesome. Micky Dee, Abby and I had this thing in the bag. What's better? We made our own weapons, used what we could salvage (literally anything) and went on runs when we could, when we felt it was best. We didn't have the bother of having others trying to regulate exactly where we were dropping bombs or killing the terribly put together military that the grand old party of the USA. It was just how we operated. Going there and getting help meant putting us in commission under their watch for who knows how long.

Looking down at Abby in my lap, her hazel eyes watching the sun slip down below the blackening horizon, I let out a soft sigh.

"Of course, baby," I hummed out softly. It would be worth it.

Micky helped me lift her back into the back seat. It had been a long, emotionally taxing day already. The kid we had brought on, Grenada, was quite dead- her blood now stained the back seats where the bullet had turned her into a human Super Soaker. We buried her just off the side of the road, nothing there to show who she was but a stake bearing her jacket sticking out of the ground above where her head rested. A last resting place.

With a pang of guilt, I thanked whatever was above that today had ended with her death and not my sisters.

I sat in the passengers seat after strapping Abby in, laying her down gently with the help of Micky, and sighed softly, glancing over at the wild haired driver, who looked back with an expression of soft understanding.

"You look tired," she turned the key in the ignition. Today, the eccentric, affable Driver was wearing a royal blue t shirt over a pair of short cut acid wash jean shorts and standard combat boots. Although normally repulsive wear on literally anybody else, she pulled it off just right. Nodding, I let out a soft sigh, pushing my short hair back and glancing in the mirror at my appearance. I was unrecognizable from before the fall of our nation, my long blonde hair and soft blue eyes gone, replaced with short, wind swept hair and a hard gaze. Soft curves became a lithe figure, soft hands scarred and toughened.

"I feel tired," I softly snorted, tearing my gaze away. It was true, I was absolutely depleted, worry and anxiety still gnawing away at my insides as I thought about Abby in the back seat.

"I'll wake you when we get there," she grinned a bit, a reassuring look in her eyes. I had already leaned into my seat belt, the rush and emotional exhaustion that came with the near death of my sister had worn me out, however much I didn't want to admit it.

Of course now I knew that it wasn't as bad as it had seemed, and once we arrived in the Cull, that she would be okay, I was able to breathe a sigh of relief and relax a little bit, watching the stars slip out over the already-dark horizon as the car rolled off at a much more favorable pace. The small voice of worry that had whispered softly in my ear was quieted as I heard the gentle snores of Abigail in the back seat. Gentle wind from the gaping hole that was a door at one point swept over my hot skin and cooled the sticky feeling from it.

Glancing over at Micky, I watched the play of light on her face and let my heavy eyelids droop as the toll of the incredible adrenaline rush finally crashed over me.

It's going to be okay.