If the view from the inside was bad, walking through is abysmal.
The constant smell of rotting corpses, dust and disinfectant.
If the smell wasn't overpowering enough, the blood covered walls and floors certainly are. It's like living in a blood soaked world which makes my dingy little flat seem like blessed sanctuary.
“When was the last time you left the flat?”
“About a month ago; I went for a massive haul for supplies before the storm picked up and I had no occasion to leave. I was quite enjoying being alone until you reared your ugly head.”
“Aw, don't be like that. You know you only insult me because you want me.”
“Shut up. Dumb-a*s”
“B***h.”

We always go through this routine whenever we are stuck together. He tries to flirt with me and I shoot him down like an infected. Many of the people at the camp believed that Roman and I would end up together. You know, settle down and raise a family during the end of days.

How bloody pedantic.

We walk quickly.

England did always have a reputation for being the rainiest country in Europe; it still lives up to its reputation after all this time.
I never liked the rain. Even as child. While other children when out playing and splashing around in puddles, I was perfectly happy to just sit and watch under shelter. This may have been one of the reasons why the other kids were always so cautious about me; I wasn't exactly the definition of a normal child. I was pensive and lonely, not vibrant and playful.

I am completely freezing; another reason I hate the rain. The rain feels piercing against my skin. Even my jacket can't keep me warm any more which means I need to chuck it away. Crap.

“I starting to think you were on to something Ellie. Staying inside. Out of the rain and sleet and snow.” I hate a man that can make himself laugh.
“Yeah, I'm a genius. You should have established this by now.”
“I wouldn't go quite that far dear. You're nearly there but not quite at my level yet. Don't worry, I'll get you to that level one day.” He giggles. Complete and utter dick head.
“Oh yes, of course. You are a genius but we all know what you think with, don't we?” Oh yes, I win.
“Touché. Touché.”

We finally reach the old civic office. It became a base about a year back and, it serves its purpose. It contains tonnes of files about the old days and proposals for what to do when stuff went bad. They actually believed that they could survive everything. Arrogant b******s, thinking they were above everything. We found a few of their festering corpses when it was discovered. They must have been dead for a number of years; it scared the crap out of the kids.

I can hear the kid screaming from here. How stupid can you get? Talking is dangerous enough these days and all this kid is doing is drawing attention which puts everyone at risk. It does frustrate me but then again, I don't like children anyway. I never have and never will.

As soon as we walk into the meeting room, the culprit becomes apparent. Little Annie Stoker. Maybe I should give the girl a break, she's only just turned 12. She's so small for age; at her age, I was a lot taller and I had more of an athletic build. She is tiny and is just a sack of bones which is a dangerous thing in this world. In addition her injury does look moderately bad, I guess. Almost half of the skin on her leg is missing and her other leg lies at an odd angle.
When I broke my leg, I didn't cry or scream out. I was 10 years old. I had snuck out to go on a supply run, I was trying to rebel and prove that I wasn't just a defenceless child. I was a stupid b***h then; I should have relished in my youth but then again, in this world being stupid and a child gets you or others killed.
Anyway, I was scoping out this old supermarket that sat at the end of this dead end road. It was quiet, as always, and there was a back window that led directly to the stock room which had been pillaged over the years. However, there was still some medical supplies and food rations so it was worth the risk. There was a rusty ladder always propped up against the window; I had done this before and I had been fine, the ladder had always been secure. That day, not so much. I was just about to climb in through the window and the ladder fell, shattering like glass when it fell. I couldn't pull myself through the window. I thought I was going to die. I was about 20 ft above the ground. I tried and tried to muster the strength to no avail.

I had to let go. I was stupid and reckless so I deserved to die. The fall was fast so I didn't have time to think, just to fall. The feeling of falling was almost liberating, it was like flying but with a more permanent destination. I didn't want to land but gravity is a b***h. I heard the crack of bone and felt the searing pain of both a broken limb and a shard of the rusty ladder piercing my back. For a moment, I thought I had been paralysed. I thought that I was going to die at the age of 10 after trying to prove I was a grown up but I lived. I slowly repositioned myself onto my stomach and tried to muster a slow crawl. It was agonising and every move I made, I felt the shard digging its way into my back and my leg cracking but I had to continue, I couldn't stop.
The only thought in my mind was: “Oh crap, John is going to be so pissed. Maybe I should just let myself bleed out because the lecture I am going to get is going to tremendous.” I know, ever the voice of optimism, even as a child. The shard, due to the fact it was so rusty, should have given me tetanus in addition to the lovely tear across my spine. I guess I got lucky in that respect.

When I finally made it to an old bench that lie in front of the store front, I finally examined my leg. There was little I could do about my back with out killing myself or having eyes in the back of my head. My leg was a bloody mess. My bone was sticking out and blood was soaking my jeans. I had to sit and think about my next move. I noticed a stick at the foot of the bench; it was the only way I could attempt to walk back to the camp. What I did was reckless, impulsive and doltish so I needed to be lectured. To be perfectly honest, I was in too much pain to focus on the minute details.

When I made it back to the camp I went straight to Rita, the camp nurse, and she tended to my wounds, using antiseptic to try and stop me from dying of an infection.

I had never seen John so angry. I was lucky to ever leave the compound again.

Annie just continues to sit there, wailing. I almost feel sorry for her but I cannot allow sentimentality to overwhelm me. I didn't have to be there; I'm only here for the safety of my medical kit.
“Hey Annie, you're going to be alright now. Ellie and I are here with bandages, antiseptic and paracetamol. Let's do this.” Roman always has had a way with kids; he's always known how to calm children down. He bends down to inspect the wound. It is obvious from here that there is no compound fracture, just a broken bone which makes matters easier. He gently touches her leg.
“We need to bind the leg and then attach a splint so we can get her back to camp. Ellie, could you bandage her up?”
“Yeah, I guess. Do you have a splint?”
“Don't worry, I'm on it buttercup. Lucy, could you go and get a stick from outside, preferably quite tall? Thank you honey.”

Lucy Tailor. Reckless and totally infatuated with Roman, which is slightly paedophilic considering she is 13 and he is 22. I think she would follow him to the ends of the Earth; he says he doesn't notice but I think he enjoys the attention.

I sit down and take the bandages out of my rucksack. They aren't in the best condition but they will do; I always get nervous at this point in case I do something wrong. I can do this and I can do this with as little pain as possible for both people involved.

“You ready Elektra?”

I guess I'm going to have to be.

Chapter 3

After filling Annie up with enough Valerian to knock out a horse, it was peaceful. Too quiet. All of the other kids are just sitting; they're in shock which is natural. I'm not in shock because I'm detached, which I've always admitted. When I see people dying on the street, I just walk on by. When people have begged me for help, I have turned away in the interest of self preservation. I'm a cold hearted b***h and maybe that's why I hate Roman so much.

We carry Annie back to base camp; there's barely anything of her and it feels as if she is getting lighter by the second. The only comparison I can give is like carrying a rag doll. A rag doll with a broken leg. Roman keeps looking over at me; I think he wants me to do something. React in some way whether it is crying or puking or destroying something. The normal reactions when something bad happens. I couldn't even cry when my parents didn't come home. When I was ripped away from my home. When I killed my first infected.

“You okay? You did good back there. I never knew Rita taught you how to apply a tourniquet? You are just full of surprises, ain't ya.”
“There are a lot of things you don't know. I used to help Rita in the medical bay whenever I had spare time, she wanted me to replace her if something happened. I used to spurt off bull about her living forever. Let's face it if something happens, she'll be the first to die.”
“What the hell? Seriously Ellie, how can you say that? Rita has always been there for you and you can say something so callous? You really are a b***h!”
“Shut up. You want an argument, wait until we get back. We are not fighting in front of the kids. There are more important things at the moment like Annie, she's still not safe. So just...shut...up.”
“Fine. This isn't over. I cannot believe you sometimes you know that, you bloody ice maiden.”

It isn't harsh or callous. Rita is a doctor so it stands to reason that if there is an outbreak, she will die. She's not strong or a fighter. She's smart, incredibly intelligent but that is not enough. I'm not ashamed to say, if she became infected, I would put a bullet in her brain without thinking about it. It's the kindest thing.

Once we get to the camp, I'm taken aback. Nothing's changed. There is still a roaring fire visible by the open window. Lines of fresh linen possessing the garden like the first fall of snow. It looks so out of place, with its surroundings. It reminds me why I could ever call it home. It doesn't even look like a camp. The building used to be a care home before everything went to hell. Oh, the irony kills me too.

“Well, if I had a pound for everytime I came out here to see you two, I'd be a millionaire. But then again, I ain't got no use for that anymore, eh?”
A small, Asian woman waits in the doorway. Rita, chief medic and all round mother figure. She looks tired.
“Rita, how are you darling? Elektra and I were just talking about you, weren't we dear?”
“Oh really, all good I hope. Why were you talking about me? You know it makes me suspicious.”
“Nothing, it's not important, is it Roman? We were just discussing how we need you to check over Annie. Hence why we're carrying her. And we're covered in blood. That's was the hint.” Rita is the only one who gets my sarcasm; heck, she taught me everything I know about being a sarcastic mare.
“Well, I am getting blind in my old age. A tourniquet, I'm impressed. You did learn something from me then.”

Looking at her sickens me. It's been four months since I last saw her and she seems to look worse.
The black bags underneath her eyes have become darker. She probably hasn't slept in weeks. Her skin sagging, her crow's feet more pronounced. She walks with a cane. It's obvious that she has been smoking like a chimney recently, which means something bad has happened. Probably to one of the kids. She swore to me she would stop; even the end of days is not an excuse to bugger up your lungs. There's enough things out there to make you suffer with out having your body fight against you. I hate what she does to herself.

Roman and I carry Annie through to the living room where an operating table lay, complete with a saline drip and a trolley full with medical apparatus. It's not a lot but it's kept everyone alive at the camp, for the moment at least. Watching Rita with a patient is like watching a duck in water. She's in her element with a scalpel in her hand.
“Still going on the basis you would kill her?”
“I have to be prepared to. We all do. It's the only thing we would have the power to do. Roman, if the infection enters this camp, everyone will die. I've seen it before and so have you. You can't be ignorant to that fact; you will have to kill her if something happens.”
“I know, I know. I am prepared, kind of. But the way you say it, it's like you don't even care. I envy the way you can just detach yourself from everything. Not feel pain or anything. Why the hell do I envy you? A cold Jezebel?”

I'm sure I can see tears, streaming down his face in the light of the fire. It's so strange for me to see a fully grown man, crying. Men are supposed to be strong but Roman...he's so different to them. He may be a fighter but he feels. He cares.

“First time I've been called a Jezebel. God, are you crying? Are you sure you're not the one with a vagina?” I pause. “ You shouldn't envy me. I hate being the way I am; you think not feeling anything is a blessing? It's not. It's like I'm not human anymore; I would love to feel more but I can't because it hurts even more when you lose them because everyone dies eventually. That's why I can say that I can kill her.”

I walk away.
This is one of the only times I have ever confided in Roman. Huh, I guess that tragedy does bring people together. It's a cliché but like all the best ones, it's true.
When I enter the first room at the top of the stairs, emotion overwhelms me. My old bedroom, exactly as I left it. Books on the desks, torch with its batteries scattered across the floor. My 12” inch blade. John kept it the same; he didn't let another one of the kids take my room. It's almost as if he was waiting for me to come back eventually. It's just the little things that get to me; John does care about me in some regard.
Silence pervades the air like a pariah.
It's at this moment, I feel so alone. The thing is I do care. I do what has to be done but it does hurt. The prospect of the only parental figures I have really ever known terrifies me; I can't lose John or Rita, it would destroy me completely. See, I'm not entirely sick in the head.
I can feel my eyes welling up.
I feel emotionally exhausted and I just want to forget.
Forget Roman. Forget Rita and John. Forget the world.
But I can't. The only way I can is to shot up or end it all. I could just take the blade and slice my jugular. How can I do that? Have one of the girls come in to find me, bathing in a pool of my own blood. The poor buggers are scarred enough already with out finding an old room-mate topping herself.

The first tear rolls down my cheek. I never allow myself to feel so weak, at the mercy of emotion but I can't control myself. I can't stop the tears flowing and it's not long until I start hyperventilating. I cannot cope.
There's only so far being the tough little soldier gets you and it's not far enough.

The morning brings with it a sense of solemnness. I must have cried myself to sleep; just like I did when I was a child. On a positive note, I now feel numb, which is better than feeling the ache of loss and clarity. I don't know if I can face going downstairs, seeing the kids. Seeing Rita and John. Seeing Roman.

I finally gain the strength to get up. I look in the cracked mirror that hangs crookedly in the corner of the room.
I look like crap. My eyes are puffy and my face is smeared with blood; I must have rubbed my face during the night. I look like hell. My hair is sticking up in many different directions. My eyes. Even though my eyes make me look like a pig, my eyes are still piercing. Everyone used to comment on my eyes; my eyes are bright green with flecks of grey around the pupil. My best attribute according to Roman; they suit my ice queen persona.

I enter the bathroom and fill up the sink; it can't be later than 6 am, meaning I have time, before the kids wake up. My appearance is like a deranged savage. The cold water cleanses my skin; I haven't realized, how warm I am and the freshness of the water feels like being reborn. I can be pedantic too.
After, scraping the last of the blood off of my face with a rough flannel, I head downstairs. My god, I am hungry and I ache; the bed did not always used to kill my back. I try to make my footsteps as soft as possible, trying not to wake anyone, but it was useless. John was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
I move slowly, his eyes following me, studying me. I am anxious to approach him, but then again, I shouldn't be. His grey eyes seem to stare into my soul. Finally, his gravelly undertones begin to make their appearance.
“Now, what the hell do you think you're doing, madam?”

I run down the stairs at him; my chest aches with longing. I have missed him so much. He is the closest thing, I have ever had to a proper father, well at least, the only father, I have really ever known. He takes me in his arms and embraces me. I have missed his musk and his strong grip. He was the reason it was a little harder to leave the camp, he didn't want me to leave, but he wanted me to be safe and protected. I think he understood that the safest thing for me is to be by myself. But I have still missed him the most out of anyone.

“You know the usual, getting into as much trouble as possible. Would you expect anything else from me, you old git?”
“Walk with me, Lecci. I'll get you caught up on everything you've missed. You've lost weight and have you gotten taller or have I shrunk? Come along goose.”
“No, you've shrunk. What have I missed?”

We walk through and sit on the chairs that lay in the kitchen. Cobwebs still cling to the ceiling and there are still numerous cracks in the marble counter tops.
“Coffee?”
“I could kill for it, thanks.”
John gets up and turns the tap on. It takes a while, before the water flows through the pipes.
The pipes always make a weird gurgling sound when water flows. I always used to think that was the sound of a monster that was coming to get me, to kill me. Those were the days, when I was still so naïve. Monsters do exist, but not in the conventional form. They exist in all of us. Sometimes, they lie dormant for years and other times, they appear from birth. We're all monsters.

“Roman bring you here? Sometimes, I think that boy just looks for an excuse to be with you. I know he does, you shouldn't tease him.”
He breaks into a real belly laugh, from the gut. He knows that it embarrasses us both, he was the one who thought, we'd be shagging by the time I was 17. How bloody wrong he was.
“Yeah, Annie got hurt. He needed help applying the tourniquet. And I know he does; I am just that desirable, right?”
“Well, the boy seems to think so. I've always thought he wants to bang you like a drum...”
“Could we please, change the subject? I do believe I am blushing. You know, what a massive prude I am...that's why you're doing this, you b*****d. Anyway, how's Annie? She was out last I saw of her, Rita was working her magic.”
“It's difficult, she's still asleep. The break was pretty bad, not as bad as yours was, but pretty close. We've been running low on food recently, so we are all pretty weak, it's difficult to know if she is strong enough. She'll probably be fine, but there is still that chance.”
“Oh I see. At least you're honest. Why didn't you tell me? I could have gone on a run for you, make sure there were enough supplies. Why didn't you tell me?”
“There was no point, goose. Runs are becoming more dangerous and I thought we had enough to keep us going if I missed meals and I mean...Rita had her cigarettes, so she wasn't eating. I'm sorry, it's my fault if something happens to her...if she's not strong enough...like Isla...”

Silence reigns. I don't know what to say to John; he's a proud man who doesn't ask for help. I have always looked up to him; admired his strength, but this reminds me how vulnerable he is. He's not as young as he used to be; he's turning 60 soon. He's no longer the youthful man of action, who didn't need guidance or pity.

The whistling of the kettle is the only thing that breaks the silence.
“What happened to Isla, John?”
“She got sick. Came into contact with the infected somehow. Rita had to put her down, put her out of her misery. Maybe, if she'd have been stronger, she might have fought it off...”
“No, don't you dare say that! Nobody fights the virus off, John. No one ever survives, they just become weaker and sicker and more pathetic. There was nothing that could have been done and there is no point in blaming yourself, for something that is that far out of your control.”

It's pathetic reassurance, but it's all I can muster. Isla was his niece. His own daughter had died early in the days of darkness. She was one of the first, John knew who perished due to the virus, the first being his wife. Isla was a year younger than me. She was only a baby, when her parents were murdered for a small quantity of tinned fruit and powdered milk. John raised her as his own, trying to protect her from the inevitable. He has lost more than any of us. Now, that Isla's gone, I don't know how he will cope and that frightens me.

I don't know what to say. Most people would say, 'I'm sorry for your loss' or some other cliché, as if it's their fault. My relationship with John has never permitted that; he doesn't want sympathy or any bull.
“One sugar, you still like it like that, don't you? I forget these things. God, I miss having milk in coffee; I've been thinking, maybe trying to find a cow or something. We've got enough room in the back garden. What do you think?”
“Yeah, yeah good idea. John, you don't have to pretend, you're okay. I know you better than that; Isla meant the world to you, she meant a lot to all of us. Why didn't Roman tell me about it?”
“I am okay, as I've always said, everyone dies and we have to be prepared for that. I don't think he wants to accept it. They were close in her last few weeks and I think they genuinely connected in some way. He pretends, he's okay, but everything is starting to get to him. He wasn't born for this world, but then again no one is.”

Roman and Isla had always been close. Isla was a conventional beauty with wavy blonde hair and pale blue eyes, while Roman was the tall, dark and handsome stereotype. I'm not denying the fact he is attractive; he has dark brown shoulder length hair and honey coloured eyes. It was almost like, they were perfect for each other and they seemed to complement each other, personality wise. She was naïve and stubborn, while he was open minded and courageous, a real hero to her. When he wasn't chasing me like a little lost puppy, he would spend most of his time talking to her and to be honest, I think getting his leg over on her, but that was never confirmed. Isla's death should devastate him to the core, but why wouldn't he say anything to me; she was like, I use the term loosely, a friend to me.

John and I sit, just drinking our coffee in silence. It's true what he says, that everyone dies and we have to be prepared. I mean I live by it, but I know he doesn't believe it really, which makes it even more painful.
A pair of footsteps and a tuneless whistle, break the silence. Trust Roman to be the one to break a dramatic pause. On the upside, he's perked up, since last night, probably trying to forget everything that has happened. However, his eyes are still puffy like mine. There's no way to hide his little masculine breakdown last night.
“Ah John, Ellie and, how are we this fine morning?”
“...Alright. Since, when are you this chirpy at 7 am, boy? I usually have to use the ice bucket method to drag you from your bed. Is it because of our little visitor?”
“I'm getting taller than you, old man. I'm sure it's nothing to do with me, right Roman?”
“Of course, it is, I'm always chirpy, when surrounded by my ladies. Ah, you brewed coffee, this is why you are my favourite person, Johnny.”
“Call me, Johnny again, I'll beat your arse you idiot. Get a cup and sit yourself down...and put your tongue back in your mouth, you'll attract flies.”

I do love the way John doesn't take any crap from Roman; I'm starting to see, where I get it from. Ha, I got it from life, I don't need to blame my glorified mentor.
It is amazing, how he can pretend like nothing has ever happened; I envy that. I catch Roman staring at me with an unfamiliar expression. Oh god, I think its pity. Oh, that is sickening, the only thing stopping me, punching him is the fact that Isla is dead; she was always a pacifist. That's the reason she's dead. She resigned herself to just letting things happen, which is suicide, signing over any power you have over your own life.
I cannot stand people pitying me, like I'm pathetic or weak. I'm not and I hate people treating me like I am. Maybe, I should be less defensive about things, but I cannot stand the silent shout of 'you deserve my pity and sympathy'. I hate it, I hate it, and I hate it.

John senses something. I know he does; he is a good judge of people and interaction. It's not possible to be warring and for John not to have the intuition to figure it out. He winks at me, as if to say he knows what is going on.

“Alright, 'fess up. What's going on? I may not be the brains of Britain, but you kids aren't discreet. Come on, I do love a bit of gossip.”
“Nothing Johnny, I'm just gazing upon the face of an angel. Nothing more, doesn't she look radiant today?”
“Flattery never gets you anywhere, boy. Now what's really going on and cut the crap.”
“It doesn't matter; we just had a conflict of opinions, last night. Nothing important, right Ellie?”
“Yeah, nothing important. Water under the bridge.”
“Alright, I'll get it out of you at some point. Now, you going to stay here and scrounge food or are you going to earn your keep?”

I can't help smiling.
“Right you are sir, what do you need me to do; I don't need an excuse to get away from the flat.”
“Ah goose, you could move back here; I mean, we have the room and your room is intact and I'm sure the lads could use a role model to teach them how to get things done...”
“No, my flat is mine. Might as well make good use out of it; I'm sure, Roman is teaching them sufficiently. When he's not trying to get off with the teens.”
“What are you talking about Ellie? I feel like an army general and...Hey, I do not try to get off with teenagers, they just admire me...”
“Yeah, right. The girls' ovaries practically explode, when you enter the room. You say you haven't noticed, but I think you get off on the attention.”
“Oh piss off, just because you're jealous.”
“In your dreams, d*****bag.”
“If you two are done flirting, it's time to go to work.”

Time to go to work; oh it's going to be a long day...

There's this old saying that John used to repeat, when we were younger: 'calamity is the touchstone of a brave mind'. I never used to understand what it meant; it was cryptic as John always was. Now, I understand. It is at times of crisis that the great and courageous are separated from the sheep in wolf's clothing. I have learnt this so many times and yet human nature still perplexes me; people will always put up a front to mask themselves from the world, they will pretend to be stronger than they are to fit in. It sounds hypocritical coming out of my mouth.
John would always spout off old proverbs, when we went on a run. I think it was his way of reconnecting with the time, before everything went to Hell. The stories he'd used to tell about the days, when Christmas lights lit up Trafalgar Square, illuminating a city that never seemed to sleep. When commuters would wake at the crack of dawn and cram onto packed trains and the tube. When the world seemed to be alive. It would be mad not to yearn for that type of a world; instead of the perpetual silence that has fallen.

Roman and I walk in silence out of the front door; John has sent us on a run to get more supplies, I can be persuasive, when I desire to be, and I still cannot contemplate everything, I have seen and heard over the past day. To think I thought solitude was the best thing for me; maybe I am needed.
I am dreading what Roman is going to say next, he can't stand awkward silences. He is a lot more eloquent, when he expresses himself than I am.

“So medical supplies...food...yeah, cool. Wait, they had tonnes of supplies; I saw the medical cupboard. I do believe we have been had by the old codger; I guess we'll just have to talk instead.”
“Really, I'd prefer to get supplies. Not that I find your company dull, but I find your company dull, with the greatest of respect.”
“If you will insist on being a b***h about it. I really wonder what goes on inside your skull, you know that. Nothing fazes you, does it? Not killing people, not the prospect of death, not the idea of people you love dying. It can't be easy, but I guess, John has got you well trained in that ideology, am I wrong?”
“I guess you're not. I think I've proved things do faze me, I'm not a sociopath. I just want something to take my mind off of things. Like Annie and Isla...”
“Who told you about Isla? She's not dead, she can't be. Rita said, she was, but she couldn't be, because she was Isla and I was supposed to protect her and...”

Roman inhales, and places his head against the crumbled wall that stood before us. He begins to hit his head continually, until he begins to bleed and he begins to resemble Frankenstein's creature.
“Roman, stop. Stop. It wasn't your fault, it's nobody's fault people become infected. We all know the risks and you shouldn't have to bear the weight of her death. Que sera sera. For god sake, stop it! Do you need me to rohypnol your arse.”
“I still had responsibility for her. It was still my fault; you wouldn't understand. She was pr...”
Roman takes one look at me and falls like a log. You bash your brains in against a wall hard enough and you're going to faint, naturally. But he was going to tell me something, which seemed important. He was disorientated, so maybe he was just a little delusional, but just him to knock himself out, when things are getting interesting.

I have to continue on without him. He should be fine, if I leave him here; I can't wait for him to wake up and he will be fine. I just have to get a few things and if he wakes up, while I'm gone it won't be difficult to find me; I really don't want to sit and watch his dumb a*s.

I walk down the road. I shouldn't feel guilty, he'd do the same if it were me lying on the concrete. I can't think about it, I can't.

The sky seems somewhat darkened by the clouds, threatening more bouts of rain; absolutely fantastic. It still looks like it could be dawn, but it has to be somewhere about midday. I can see why the world misses clocks, they make things so much easier, when deciphering time. I still have my wrist watch, but it's been battered to hell. It hasn't told the time in years, but I've still kept it, I guess for the sake of being sentimental. It used to belong to my dad, from what I can remember. Or it might have been my mum's. It gets more difficult to remember my past. As far as I'm concerned, my life began again, when John took me in. There was no real life before, otherwise I would yearn for it, wouldn't I?

After 5 minutes, I reach my favourite goods supply; the old supermarket responsible for my broken leg and a literal stab in the back. You'd think, I wouldn't have ever come back after that 'trauma', but I got over it. The promise of feeding people is worth getting over your own crap. It looks even worse than ever; if I'm not mistaken, it looks like there's been a fire here, recently due to the fire damage and white smoke bellowing from the building. Crap. I'm guessing, that's all the supplies up in smoke, which means I am up the creek without a paddle. I just have to hope, that there are some supplies that are salvageable. I mean the fire may have not affected the stockroom; oh God, I am so screwed. Why are people such dickheads? Everyone's got to survive, for god's sake we need each other or we're all going to end up as worm meat.

I have some rope in my backpack, which I always keep in there in case I need to climb, which is the most common, or stem bleeding. Who knew rope had so many uses? Oh, that would be everyone that has survived thus far.
I throw the rope through the small opening in the window. My throwing is pretty bloody amazing, even if I say myself. I make sure the rope is secure by tugging it; I have learnt my lesson in regards to unstable climbing apparatus. I really can't afford to be disabled at the current time, but I have a choice.

Climbing up the wall never gets easier; I pride myself on my abdominal strength, so how the hell do the others do it. Oh wait, they don't because they lack judgment.

Once, I reach the destination, I realise how difficult this is going to be. There is still a small fire blazing in the centre. The gap in the window seems slightly too small. The last time, I went to this supply haunt, I was a few pounds lighter and smaller in general. It must have been a year, since I graced the building with my presence. S**t.

I struggle. The gap begins to look like the space is sufficient, but it will be a tight squeeze. Damn having muscle; if I was just a skinny little wretch, I would not be hanging with my head and upper torso in the building and the rest of me hanging in mid-air attached to the rope. Oh god, I am going to have cuts on my hips by the time I'm through.
Crap, crap, crap. My belt is stuck. My sodding belt is stuck.
If I wasn't so busy using my hands to steady me, I would be able to detach it somehow. Maybe it's a blessing that Roman knocked himself out. I don't think I could live with the shame of Roman always talking about the time he saw me with my trousers around my ankles, while performing a belly flop into a building. Uh, the shame. The shame.
If I move one hand, I can keep a hold of the rope with the other. I just need a few seconds. My only issue is if I drop my belt, there goes my knife. If I get into any s**t, I am dead. Well, at least without the belt, I have a chance.

Yes. The belt is detached. Okay, one last push.

Ow. All I can say is...ow. I was right. My hips have been cut to pieces. I look back. There is a significant amount of blood. I'm going to have a fun time tonight; picking out splinters with blunt tweezers. Damn, I need a disinfectant, otherwise I could get an infection, which could lead to septicaemia, which is not something I need to worry about right now.

I let out a little wince. Great...no weapon and now a trail of blood; it's like Christmas.
The fire doesn't appear to be near any of the supplies, which worries me. The last time someone set fire to a building with supplies it was a statement. It was saying: 'if I can't have these supplies, you can all starve with me, you b******s.'
History does have a tendency to repeat itself, which is why this worries me.
What are they trying to burn?
Purification by fire? Torture?
Oh god, Elektra, what the hell have you got yourself into?

“Get down on the ground! Drop any weapons and get on the ground!”
Damn. S**t's about to hit the fan.

“I don't have any weapons. Easy, easy. I'm getting down; it's okay, don't do anything irrational.”
“Shut up and just get down, b***h!”
I kneel down on the ground slowly, trying to formulate an escape plan. I have no physical weapons, but if I can get him on the ground, I can make a clean break for it. Nobody has to get their bones broken. I shouldn't have left, Roman. I'm not new to confrontation, but it's always ended in blood.
That's when I spot it. A shard of metal shelving. If I can reach it, then I have some form of leverage, a way to make this confrontation fair and not one sided.

“Give me everything, you have on you and I won't have to slit your pretty little throat. Nothing personal, but I have people to feed so hand it over. I will kill you, make no mistake.”
He is right behind me. Close enough for me to smell the odour of stale cigarettes masked slightly by mint. I have always hated the stench of cigarettes and my coffee is threatening to make a reappearance; if I am about to die, I'm going to spend my last moments with a little thing I call self-respect, not in a pile of my vomit.

“I understand. People to protect but really...do you have to kill me? I don't have anything on me; I don't travel with my supplies, so what would be the point in killing? The group, I'm with will be royally pissed if you harm me. We're a big group, fifteen strong and I'm sure you don't want to start anything, do you?”
I edge closer to the shard. He hasn't noticed. At least, I think it's a he; if it isn't a man, god give that woman a lozenge. I'm not technically lying about the size of my group; we are a group of fifteen, but ten of them happen to be under the age of fourteen. Plus, they would be pissed if one of their most proficient hunter, gatherers were to vanish or to be put out of commission.

“Oh really? I don't give a s**t about your group. I need supplies and if you ain't gonna give me what I want, I guess I'll just have to kill you...”
He pauses in the middle of his sentence, as if he is trying to subdue a cough. He turns his head momentarily and begins to have a violent coughing fit. Every cough seems to intensify, as if with every cough he suffocates more. When the coughing begins to calm, I hear him bring something up. The reflection from the shard hits me like a tonne of bricks. Blood. He's brought up blood.
Oh, my god. He's infected.
I am trapped in a blazing stock room with an infected with a gun to my back...typical Saturday afternoon.

If he's coughing up blood, he's pretty far along, which means in a day or so he will die choking on his own blood, struggling for breath. I cannot stay here. The longer I stay here, the greater the chance of becoming infected myself. He's reloading his gun. I have a few seconds. This is good; I can do stuff with a few seconds. I just have to strike.
I dart at the shard. He notices this and shoots at my abdomen. One of the bullets finds a way into my stomach. Getting shot hurts a lot more than I remember. However, there is an exit wound, which means that I'm going to bleed more profusely, but it is likely to be cleaner, at least that's what Rita said. The b*****d's really going to get it now. I was going to let him go, but now...how can I?

I crawl over to the shard. I block everything else out, especially the searing pain in my gut. I grab it. It is relatively sharp, but whether it is effective as a weapon still is to be seen. All I can see is a red mist. So, I dive at him, knocking him off of his feet. It is dangerous to be in such close proximity to an infected, but I don't really give a crap at the current time. It's either him or me and he's close to death anyway. I'm not planning on becoming worm meat, just yet.

From what I can tell, he didn't come prepared. He only had three bullets in his gun; all of them are gone. Two in the ground and one that ripped through me. He grabs hold of my arm and tries to twist it. I lift up my other arm, which I had been using to put pressure upon my wound, which would stem the bleed, and punch him in the face. I hear a crack; I think I just broke his nose as a great deal of blood flows out of it. He lets go of my arm.

I should leave. He's relinquished his minuscule claim on me, but I can't. I can't take the risk that he might leap at me again or might try to find me. No, I have to make sure he can't be a threat. He's heading for the grave anyway. I'm trying to think of it as a form of involuntary euthanasia.

I stand.
He grabs my foot.
I act on impulse.
I lean down and I...I ...I slit his throat.

The look of shock haunts me. I must have hit an artery, because I am greeted with an initial jet of blood. I've stabbed and shot people, but never have I used blood loss as a weapon. I've always been kind before; I've always delivered bullets and stab wounds to the head or heart, leading to a fast, almost painless death. The blood leaves his body as water spills out of a bucket. He makes a few sickening gurgling noises and then falls unconscious. He won't feel anything. He's already suffocating.

I just sit, in shock.
I just killed someone in cold blood. No, I killed him in self-defense. He was going to kill me, but I acted first.
Just as promised, my coffee makes its glorious reappearance.
It definitely tasted better on the way down. Now, it just burns like a b***h.

The adrenaline has begun to filter out of my system and now, my bullet wound really begins to become agonising. I need to get supplies and get back to Rita. An exit wound at close proximity, means that the bullet has ripped through me. I am already sitting in a pool of my own blood.
I drag myself up. I walk over to the shelves and grab a couple of tins. There's very little left; no medical supplies or anything really useful. Tinned food is starting to become the only consumable food item. Most medication has expired, which makes it more dangerous to get ill these days. Unless, you can manufacture drugs, you need to grow some form of medicinal herbs, if you want to stay alive.

I can't help looking at the assailant. He's wearing a balaclava and has a rucksack a few metres away from his corpse. Maybe, he has something useful on him. I need the supplies more than he does. I walk over to the rucksack; he has a few bottles of water and a pack of handgun bullets. I open the box. So that's what ripped through me. It's not too large meaning the damage is likely to be minimal. No food. I take the rucksack anyway, I need something to carry my loot. I walk over to the corpse and pick up the gun.
I'm tempted to take a look at his face. The face of the man, I murdered. No, I can't. I don't want to see him. I prefer to have his identity blank. An anonymous victim.

I walk over to the window. The place can burn for all I care. I secure the rope around my waist. It kills, but maybe it can stem the bleed. I don't know if I have the strength to try without the rope. I feel like I am going to pass out. The amount of blood I've lost, it's only natural, and I’m becoming a little hazy.

I finally reach the ground. The tug of the rope brings a little consciousness, enough to become aware of things. Pain is a fantastic thing for clarity.

I have to get back to Roman. To the camp.
I pick up my backpack from beside the bench and I walk on. I don't have the strength to try and get the rope back. It's going to burn anyway so it's not like I am giving somebody else an advantage.

I begin to stagger home. My head is so faint; I can't concentrate. Everything aches and the pain is consuming me. I am near the street where I left Roman. The bags are beginning to fall off of my back, but if I try to pick them up, I may not get up again. I need to stay awake. I can't collapse, because if I do, I'm dead. For good.

The fact that there is an exit wound, means that there is nothing to stem the bleed; I can only hope that little damage has been done, but I doubt that. It must have hit something, organ or bone. It hasn't gone through my spine, otherwise it would have been instant paralysis.

I can't. I'm going to faint. I'm going to faint.
I have to find a place to sit so I don't fall and hit my head. I don't need brain damage on top of everything else.
Oh god. Oh god.
I can't hold on.
If I can just get a little further, I may be alright. Along this road, there is nothing, but concrete. Maybe Roman is still there. I can do this. If he is still there, I may be okay. Huh, the only time I have actually wished for Roman to be there to scoop me up in his arms. Flash me a charming smile. Tell me I'm going to be fine. Oh god, did I actually just think that?
That's how you can tell my brain is being deprived of oxygen. I think, I just threw up in my own mouth. If I'm going to die, I might as well keep my sense of humour, the only thing I can control.

I can't. I can't hold on. Where is Roman?
The b*****d's abandoned me.
I can't think about that; why does he abandon me now? The one time. The one time. I have never abandoned him. I have always been there and he never returns the favour.

My legs begin to buckle.
I've lost control over my body.
Then, the world goes black.