The air up here is thick with dust.
I crouch near the edge of a warehouse roof, chest heaving as I catch my breath. It's huge, this one and a few others scattered nearby, but I picked this spot for the height and the view.
I'm just outside the city edge.
And the city?
Hell no.
Anyone dumb enough to step foot in there is basically asking Death to shake their hand - blade, teeth, flesh ripped while you're still alive. Whatever he feels like using and if you somehow make it out? You're already screwed if you've been bitten or scratched.
Zombies.
Yep. My new, exciting life.
Rule number one - even before the world ended, don't go to cities. Big towns aren't much better. Still, here I am, too close for comfort, because I need supplies. It's been days since I've eaten properly. days since I've had ammo and worst of all, almost no water left.
I lift my pink water bottle, tilting it toward my face. The last few mouthfuls slosh around inside.
Great.
With a sigh, I shove it back into my Hello Kitty shoulder bag I securely strap across my chest.
Yes. You heard me, it's cute.
Whoever owned it is definitely dead, so I don't feel bad. I needed a bag for my shit, and it was there.
I've been alone for a long time. Maybe that's why I've started hoarding pointless things, eyeliner, perfume, shampoo, conditioner and body wash. Like any of it matters now.
God, I'd kill for a hot shower.
Streams will have to do.
My thoughts drift, people I used to survive with and my chest tightens instantly. Mood killed. Trust is a luxury I lost a long time ago.
Just me. Myself. And I.
Time's up. Rest is a privilege I don't have, if I don't get back to my hideout soon, I won't get back at all.
Then I hear it.
A rumble.
I drop lower as movement catches my eye through the open top of the warehouse. A guy rolls in on a bike, face half-covered with cloth. Crossbow strapped to his back, leather jacket, dark pants, heavy boots and there's a gun holstered at his side.
Ammo.
My fingers itch.
He kicks the stand down, scanning the area. His crossbow slips loose and he swings it up smoothly, already ready.
Careful.
He could be part of that gang, the ones hunting survivors as much as zombies. I barely escaped them last time. I plan to leave this area as soon as I get supplies… and a vehicle, which has proven to be difficult.
He heads into the opposite warehouse.
That's my chance.
I drop down quietly, sliding along a support pole and landing soft. The door creaks as I ease it open, listening. A few zombies shuffle somewhere outside, distant enough not to worry about. Lone ones aren't the problem.
Groups are.
I move fast, low, straight to his bike.
And there it is.
A fucking Snickers bar.
You've got to be kidding me.
I grab it and shove it into my bag just as an arrow whistle past my face, close enough to feel the air shift.
Shit.
I jump on the bike and gun it. He yells behind me, arrows flying. One clips my arm - I hiss - and the distraction costs me. I don't get far before I lose control.
The bike skids. I fly.
Hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean out of me.
The bike slams into a building.
My vision swims, then I see it.
A zombie, ugly and fast, lunging.
I kick its legs out and roll, samurai swords already in my hands. One clean strike - head gone. Another comes. Then another. I swing, slice, move. Muscle memory takes over.
Silence.
I flick blood from my blades and turn - freezing.
His crossbow is aimed straight at my head.
"Give me my shit back," he growls, his accent familiar, an Aussie.
I smirk behind my mask and nod toward the wrecked bike.
His fault. He shouldn't have shot at me.
He looks at what's left of it, jaw tightening, then back at me with a glare sharp enough to cut.
"You'll pay for that."
"Try me," I say, muffled through the mask.
He frowns. "Do you not see what's pointing at your head?"
"Zombie," I say, nodding behind him.
He glances.
That's all I need.
I shove the crossbow aside as another dead thing stumbles toward him. He shots at it, I spin, blades flashing, one sword stopping just short of his throat.
His eyes lock on mine, sharp blue against my brown.
Annoyingly… he's not bad looking.
Focus.
He ducks, grabs for me. I jump back, slip, kick him hard. He grunts, hits the ground, and yanks me down with him. My swords clatter away as we wrestle.
"For a fucking chocolate bar?" I snap. "Are you serious?"
He snarls something and I knee him where the sun doesn't shine.
"And my ride, Bitch."
I push up - too slow.
He's on me in a second, slamming me against the wall, knife at my throat. I laugh.
He freezes. "The fuck are you laughing about? I've got a knife to your throat."
"And I've got your gun aimed at your balls."
His eyes flick down. He swears under his breath.
Then everything goes to hell.
Zombies pour in from every direction. Too many. Too fast.
"Fuck!" he shouts, let's me go instantly.
We run.
I slice a path, he fires behind me. We dodge, climb, vault, lungs burning, legs screaming.
I trip.
He grabs me, yanks me upright, and keeps running.
We barely make it, shoving into a tight space and slamming the door behind us.
Silence. Heavy. Close.
I'm crouched between his legs, both of us breathing hard. Sweat drips from his hair, plastered to his face covering. His arms brace on either side of the wall, trapping me in.
Why would he help me?
After the bike. After the Snickers.
His gaze drops to my amazing shoulder bag.
"What's with the bag?"
"I like it," I say quietly. Warning clear.
He snorts. "You're odd."
He better watch it, I'm a lot closer to his jewels than he realizes.
Then, he muttering,
"Fucking Hello Kitty."
Actually?
I take it back.
He's a prick.
once this clears, I'm definitely eating it right in front of him.