Dakho
()[o__o]()
- Reaction score
- 75
It's pretty short, but yeah. Enjoy :thup:
She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the sun. It was all gray, as was the ground. All too plain. Things used to be different. Once, the sun was always there. Once, she lived in a world of vibrant hues of color. Once, she would dance and sing, and the crowds would cheer. There were no more crowds, and no more songs to sing. Only a wasteland.
The woman didn’t have much. The clothes she wore were the very same that she had worn for the past month, and over her eyes were a pair of cracked, oversized aviator sunglasses. Despite the lack of sun, it was still considerably important to shield one’s eyes out in the wasteland. Her eyes scanned across the horizon, always shifting about; one could never be too careful. Compared to others, she was somewhat well off. She pushed a shopping cart filled with supplies; food, batteries, a tarp, a blanket and a stack of clothes hangers. But her most important possession she carried on her person: a pistol. It was an Glock 17, in relatively good condition. She had hidden a case of bullets inside a food crate in her shopping cart. When she had retrieved the pistol, several months ago, off some body she had long forgotten, she had figured that it probably would never get used. She had gone through three clips since.
The cart rattled over the bumps and cracks in the long-unused road, keeping the woman in a constant state of anxiety. There was no wind, nor other thing to produce a sound. The only sound was the cart. Anyone nearby might hear it. She whispered a quick prayer, and gripped her pistol. Her stomach lurched when she heard a noise. Unsure of what it could be, she quickly drew her weapon and crouched behind a cluster of rocks, leaving the cart exposed in the middle of the road. The sound came closer: footsteps. Several pairs of them. Murmurs soon joined the footsteps, and all the sounds drew nearer and nearer. She heard one. “Holy shit... look at that cart!” He spoke with a southern drawl, rather unusual considering where they were. “Keep your cool, Jim. It’s probably an ambush.” She took only a split second’s glance at the two, but it was enough. The skull staked through one’s backpack was a sure indicator that these men weren’t here for anything but to kill, rape, and loot. Bandits. She allowed herself only a few seconds more before springing up from behind the rock. Two bullets for each. It was quick, even clean. The one named Jim collapsed with a gurgling scream, while the other fell dead without a sound. Jim clenched his chest with both hands, legs squirming in pain. She took aim, and lodged a bullet just above his nose.
She rummaged through the bodies like a rodent, searching every little compartment. By the end of it, she had uncovered four water bottles, three boxes of shotgun shells (and two accompanying shotguns), a dozen granola bars, and a flashlight. She quickly stuffed the items into the cart, and moved on.
Only an hour passed before sunset. A bitter cold gripped the land, and the woman had no choice but to stop. She had only stopped for ten minutes before the rain began. She found a small cluster of dead trees and, using the clothes hangers, she hung the tarp above. The blanket, tattered though it was, was her favorite possession. Not the most useful, but the most enjoying, as it was the only tangible link she had to her past. Stitched into the border was the name “Katie.” She wrapped it tightly around her body, and whispered, seemingly to the blanket, “goodnight, child.”
The woman didn’t have much. The clothes she wore were the very same that she had worn for the past month, and over her eyes were a pair of cracked, oversized aviator sunglasses. Despite the lack of sun, it was still considerably important to shield one’s eyes out in the wasteland. Her eyes scanned across the horizon, always shifting about; one could never be too careful. Compared to others, she was somewhat well off. She pushed a shopping cart filled with supplies; food, batteries, a tarp, a blanket and a stack of clothes hangers. But her most important possession she carried on her person: a pistol. It was an Glock 17, in relatively good condition. She had hidden a case of bullets inside a food crate in her shopping cart. When she had retrieved the pistol, several months ago, off some body she had long forgotten, she had figured that it probably would never get used. She had gone through three clips since.
The cart rattled over the bumps and cracks in the long-unused road, keeping the woman in a constant state of anxiety. There was no wind, nor other thing to produce a sound. The only sound was the cart. Anyone nearby might hear it. She whispered a quick prayer, and gripped her pistol. Her stomach lurched when she heard a noise. Unsure of what it could be, she quickly drew her weapon and crouched behind a cluster of rocks, leaving the cart exposed in the middle of the road. The sound came closer: footsteps. Several pairs of them. Murmurs soon joined the footsteps, and all the sounds drew nearer and nearer. She heard one. “Holy shit... look at that cart!” He spoke with a southern drawl, rather unusual considering where they were. “Keep your cool, Jim. It’s probably an ambush.” She took only a split second’s glance at the two, but it was enough. The skull staked through one’s backpack was a sure indicator that these men weren’t here for anything but to kill, rape, and loot. Bandits. She allowed herself only a few seconds more before springing up from behind the rock. Two bullets for each. It was quick, even clean. The one named Jim collapsed with a gurgling scream, while the other fell dead without a sound. Jim clenched his chest with both hands, legs squirming in pain. She took aim, and lodged a bullet just above his nose.
She rummaged through the bodies like a rodent, searching every little compartment. By the end of it, she had uncovered four water bottles, three boxes of shotgun shells (and two accompanying shotguns), a dozen granola bars, and a flashlight. She quickly stuffed the items into the cart, and moved on.
Only an hour passed before sunset. A bitter cold gripped the land, and the woman had no choice but to stop. She had only stopped for ten minutes before the rain began. She found a small cluster of dead trees and, using the clothes hangers, she hung the tarp above. The blanket, tattered though it was, was her favorite possession. Not the most useful, but the most enjoying, as it was the only tangible link she had to her past. Stitched into the border was the name “Katie.” She wrapped it tightly around her body, and whispered, seemingly to the blanket, “goodnight, child.”
