Shit shit shitshitSHIT. Who's bright idea was it to venture into the stale shadows of the abandoned, creaking, and most definitely creepy, convenience store, without a gun, or a knife, or a really big fucking stick with which to defend herself?
Oh. That's right. It was her fucking idea.
She swung the bag off her back, crouching and rifling through its many pockets frantically, keeping an eye on the dark corners, the corners that she was certain she'd seen movement in, from her peripherals.
Her hand, scarred and mottled from weeks upon endless weeks of scavenging and fighting and killing without discrimination, hit upon what she was searching for. Flare gun.
Not because zombies are affected in any way by bright lights, of course. Which is a shame, 'cause it'd be great if they burst spontaneously into flames or shied away or even, hell, stopped to do a fucking tap dance. Anything. But they don't burn or shy or dance in the slightest.
Not why she wanted it though.
She just wan