r e s i l i e n t

It was impossible not to be curious at every little action she took. He had run across hostile strangers before, but he couldn’t recall a reaction to his presence quite like hers. That didn’t mean he didn’t understand it, though. Still, he knew what to do in the face of a gun, a knife, a makeshift weapon staring him down, suspicious eyes aiming his way. He had been trained for that, after all. This wasn’t like that at all, though, and it was hard to know if the right thing to do was keep trying, or give up and let her be. There must’ve been something going on in her mind, a private debate of sorts, as he watched her close her eyes, clench her fists. This was something more than just not trusting a stranger, this was something bigger than the usual wariness with which everyone greeted strangers out in the world now. He had to wonder if maybe he reminded her of someone who had hurt her, or if it was something else entirely.

Either way, the longer he stood there, the more convinced he was that he was wasting his time trying to get through to her, when he could’ve been keeping on his search for supplies, for other survivors who might want to join up.

He raised his eyebrows at the venom behind her words, but wasn’t too surprised. It only made sense to be wary of strangers out here, and she was usually right, after all. If he had been someone else, he would have been expecting something in return for offering aid. But he wasn’t someone else, even if at times he wished he was, wished he was the type of person who could care less, whose heart was a little more hardened than it actually was. It would’ve made everything a lot easier, that was for sure. But he wasn’t; instead he was the type of person who cared too much, to the point where he felt his whole purpose now was to keep a group of people from harm as best he could.

“Usually, you’re right, but I don’t want anything. I travel with a group of people who believe giving a little help to those you find along the way if you’re doing alright yourself is for the best. We’re just all trying to survive, and a little kindness goes a long way. So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’d do the same for any other friendly survivor I met out here,” Stonewall said with a little nod. It seemed like she was trying to give him a chance. He was surprised to realize how much that meant to him.

Her shaky smile, more of a grimace, confirmed that. He shook his head, and offered her a small smile. “Don’t you worry, I’m not asking for anything in return, just wanted to offer the little aid I can. You don’t have to take it if you want, though. I’m more than happy to go on my way now, if you’d rather that,” he said.

A part of her wanted to trust this man, wanted to give into the help he was offering and ask him for supplies before she ran off on her way, likely never to see him again. The other part of her, the part that remained too firmly focussed on the past, wanted to leap from her position in the bushes and bash his face in with her chain, leaving him a bloody mess on the floor before she took his equipment and left.

               For once the rational part of her mind won and she pulled herself up from her squatted position in the brush and exposed herself fully to the man. Her hands were clenched into tight fists, her trusty chain dangling limply from one hand as she contemplated the worth of what she was doing. She still wasn’t convinced that staying and taking his aid was the right thing, still wasn’t convinced that he was somebody she could trust. She’d been lied to before by people she knew – why would this stranger be any different?

               Though she didn’t move further from her position, she snorted as she heard the words that came from his mouth. “A group of do-gooders in this world?” She gestured at the tainted, grey-brown trees around her, an eyebrow raised challengingly. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” Her words laced with the derisive tone she’d attempted to rid herself of previously. In her opinion it wasn’t unreasonable to be suspect, the world had broken, it’s inhabitants with it.

               Humans were not exempt from nature’s fury. They, like the world around them, had mutated into little more than beasts. Packs of them roamed the Earth, hunting for their next prey. It didn’t matter to them whether their target was a food source or merely just play – they ripped apart whatever they came across then continued to repeat the cycle. She’d come across her fair share of violence during her travels in the years since the world had ended.

               Pulling herself back into the present, she refocused on him as more words came from his mouth. Before she could stop herself, words started spilling from her lips. “No! Don’t go!” Emiliya winced as they came out, feeling pathetic that she was so desperately craving what this man was offering her. “I mean- I’m a bloody idiot. Why did I say that?” The switch from Russian to Bulgarian was seamless before she dug her teeth into her bottom lip as if to prevent more unwanted words from spilling out, her empty clenched fist punched into her thigh as she took inhaled deeply through her nose.

In the years before the bombs, Ernesto had met many different people as he traveled across Europe for whichever theater company he’d been apart of. In moving around so much it was difficult to cultivate real friendships, so instead he mostly formed friendly acquaintances. It made the process as a whole much smoother, allowing him to enjoy his time in a new exciting city, all the while making his eventual departure a bit more easier. He’d often found it was hard to miss someone if you never allowed yourself to truly get to know them.

If memory served him correct, it was while he was traveling for a production of The Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest when he first met Emilya and Alexei. The play was a dream of his to be apart of, not only getting a chance to play the legendary fictional Spaniard, Don Juan, but it also was one of his first major leading roles in a large production. A hollowness begins to grow in his chest at the thought of that old life, of all the people he’d gotten to meet and work with, now long gone or much worse, and all of the grand historic cities he once traversed, now turned to ash and rubble.

Too lost in his own thoughts, he isn’t quick enough to catch Emiliya when she staggers back, his hand coming just short of her’s as she falls to the ground. The pain his presence has so visibly caused her fills him with a guilt he hadn’t expected, as he watches her struggle at the very sight of him. He briefly considers just leaving her there, thinking if he’d vanished like the ghost she thought him to be it’d be easier on the both of them. No matter how tempting the thought was though, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when she was like this.

“Si, si. I am here. A bit more worse for wear,” he laughs faintly, his hand rubbing across the lines that’d worked their way into his features over the years, “but I am here.” Stepping closer to her he squats down to her level, taking off his hat so that his face can be more visible to her. Although his words seem to give her no comfort, luckily Loba’s presence does. Smiling warmly at his companion he strokes her back as Emiliya focuses in on her instead of him. It is then, as he watches the two greet one another, when he notices just what is wrong with the picture before him-

Emiliya is alone.

Breaking his gaze from the scene, his eyes dart around his surroundings, as he listens for any signs of another occupant in the house that had yet made themselves known. Yet no matter how hard he tries, the house remains as eerily quiet as ever. And it was in that silence when he learned the full depths of the sorrow in the woman in front of him. He verbalizes none of this to Emiliya though, at least not yet anyway, instead only nodding his head when she speaks his name. Now was not the time to bring up such dark truths.

Standing up with her, he struggles to find the correct response to her words, unsure of what to say to make the situation any easier. “It does seem like a lifetime ago, yes” is what he manages, “but I am glad to see you have survived this new world.” Looking around the kitchen once more he looks back at her, “Do you live her by yourself? Or are you scavenging like us?”

It was easy to be angry at people. It was easy to direct hate towards those you once knew – it was easier to be alone than to try and form relationships with people in a world that was more concerned with tearing apart every shred of humanity you clung to. It was easier to forget about the life you once had control over and forget about the people you once knew, were once friendly with.

               It was the reason why Emiliya tried to force the man away with harsh words, tried to make him forget about her before she could develop any fondness for a friend in a life that she didn’t even consider her own anymore. A few years previously she would have jumped at the chance to reconnect with an old friend, would have loved the travelling companion, the company in a world so grey and harsh. A lot had changed in those years. A lot of lives had been taken, a lot of blood trickled down her body from the countless thorns that had wormed their way into her mind.

               She could still remember the faces of those she’d personally broken apart. She could remember those that were human before their face met the heavy padlocked end of the chain that had never left her since she’d ripped it from Alexei’s undead fingers. She remembered the dim eyes staring back up at her of those she’d fought back against, remembered the times when small children would run over to the bloodied body of their parent and weep as they were left alone in a heartless world.

               Glancing away from the man’s furry companion, a wry smile curled up the corner of her lips as she saw him glancing around the house, clearly looking for the man who, once upon a time, was her biggest anchor. Shaking her head slightly, she refocused back on the dog before her. She still found it odd that it had survived so long with so little injury but she wouldn’t say no to the small reminder of the world she once lived in. For once she allowed herself to indulge in reminiscence as she remembered flashes of cats and dogs running down the streets, playing with kids on green fields, littered with flowers and smiling faces.

               Her attention was brought back to the present as Ernesto spoke up again, a snort of laughter left her. “It’s really not much different from modelling,” she said, shrugging helplessly. “Only rather than try to end my career, I have people pointing guns at me trying to end my life.” Once again the brunette woman shrugged before she turned away from the man, returning her attention to one of the cabinets closest to her. As she began rummaging through the mostly useless treasures hidden within, she shook her head once again.

Dust covered Otto’s upturned face and he blinked just in time not to get an eye full. The cloth that was tied over his nose and mouth gave his lungs refuge as he inhaled rapidly from the sprint down the warehouse aisle and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. “Drop!” Otto repeated, this time trying English in desperation. The woman continued to hang there and tug on the creaking metal. What was she doing? Otto’s attention flicked between the woman with her flailing legs and the Walkers that staggered towards them.

          His feet shifted as he fought the urge to run. He still could and he knew it. If he left now, crept off without another sound, they’d be drawn back to her. He’d tried to help her. He’d done his best and risked his life in doing so. To stay now and fight three Walkers by himself would be suicide.

          Just as he had convinced himself to make a hasty yet silent retreat a body landed in his arms. She was light as Otto had expected, but that didn’t mean it was easy to catch her weight. The woman seemed to plummet from above, her arms and legs spread at the most awkward of angles like the joints had disconnected for his inconvenience. She brought metal with her. It was twisted and snapped at the ends where gravity and the woman’s grip for life had bent and pulled it clean. He jerked his head back as she impacted his arms, the rusty metal pole missing his ear by millimetres.

          It wasn’t even seconds that she was in his arms as her flailing pushed her from him. Like a smack in the face a memory of him picking up a tantruming Evony hit him. She wailed in the centre of the supermarket, her feet stomping on the ground. Her cries never ending. Embarrassment blushed in his cheeks as shoppers stared at him, parents scowled at his poor fathering, and her stomps echoed on the tiles. He’d scooped up the two year old and all four of her limbs had pushed against his chest. He held her. He’d just stood there and bobbed her until her crying had ceased, her breaths had slowed, and her wiggling calmed. It was a time long past but as the mundane memory flooded his mind he felt his heart break all over again.

          Russian words pierced the air and made Otto gasp as his mind was dragged back to the present and the immediate danger that closed in. He couldn’t decipher the hastily spat vowels. Confusion plastered his face. Was she going to attack him? A shadow crossed his sight and she became the least of his concerns.

          Metal pipe still firmly in his grasp he took a step away from the woman and towards the shadow’s source. He swung it into the skull of the closest flesh-eater. Yellow-green puss exploded from the impact as it took a stumble backwards. Otto twirled the pipe in his hand as if to reset it ready to swing at another Walker. He glanced at the woman. “Fight together and we survive.” Russian — it was his least favourite language and his accent made it awkward, but he could make himself understood.

As she watched ravenous rabid mouths quickly lumber closer, Emiliya felt her nails dig into the palms of her hands, her mind thrown back to a worse time. Rabid eyes leering down upon her, saliva spitting from animalistic mouths as she lay helpless to their onslaught as their attentions pounded in on her from every angle. There was never any escape from them back then and this was no different. There was no escape, no chance to escape the sluggish dead determined to take them out.

               For a moment she considered getting up and running, leaving behind the figure who had seemingly come out of nowhere to rescue her. If her parents were still around they would have likened him to an angel – coming out from heaven on God’s will to save wayward struggling souls and lead them back onto the right path, redeeming them and saving them from a forsaken existence in the depths of Hell.

               For a moment she considered forsaking him and rescuing herself whilst the slim chance of escape was still an option. For a brief malicious moment she contemplated returning the kindness his gender had inflicted on her in the past by leaving him to deal with the mutated dead himself.

               Exhaling audibly, Emiliya closed her eyes tightly and clenched her fists, nails digging into the tender flesh of her palms. Shaking her head, she pulled herself to her feet, chain firmly gripped between her fingers, swinging dangerously as she stared down one of the dead who attempted to take the man by surprise whilst he was distracted by another. Narrowing her eyes towards it, she lunged forwards and lashed out with the chain.

               The heavy padlock impacted the decayed flesh of what, once upon a time, would have been a nose, a nauseating spray of rotten almost brown blood and yellow pus erupting from behind the impact, dribbling down Emiliya’s already dirt-covered features. “Watch your back, lainar,” she spat at the man over her shoulder, the Russian coming from her mouth putting the man’s clumsy attempt at the language to shame. “Won’t be any good to me if you’re dead.”

It was becoming increasingly clear that this woman was someone who had experienced real horrors in their past that a simple kind word wasn’t going to do anything to help with. He had come into contact with many people like her before, both after the blast and before, being in the military, being deployed, made certain that he would meet dozens and dozens of people who looked at him with fear in their eyes, memories recalled that he could never dream of calming. More often than not it was women who looked at him that way, and he was smart enough to know the sort of memories that the sight of a seemingly threatening man could bring up.

She looked up at him with wide eyes, the panic as clear in her eyes as it was in the near frantic movements of her hands against the ground that he could just make out through the brush. Part of him was worried that she might attack. He had no desire to hurt her, that had been the truth, but if she was going to make herself a danger, he was going to defend himself, as much as it pained him with someone so obviously in need of even the smallest bit of kindness.

He was surprised when she answered him, speaking in English, then switching to Russian, voice a little ragged and harsh, but a sign that not all was lost. That thought quickly left him, though, as she snorted at his insistence that he wasn’t going to hurt her. The phrasing of it, the venom behind the words told him that he had to be right in some small part about what he had to guess had caused this reaction to his appearance. It was understandable, but he still wished there was something he could do to help her.

As her voice became increasingly desperate, Stonewall stopped in his place, hand still up as if that was actually going to prove that he didn’t want to hurt her. This was fruitless, he could tell; he wasn’t going to get anything from her, and she wasn’t going to let him offer the little help that he might’ve otherwise, just from traveling for so long with the Days.

“I’m sorry. I swear to whatever higher power there might be that I’m not trying to hurt you. I just want to help. Got a few cans of food I could spare, or some cloth for bandages…” he offered, though he made no move to pull his bag from his shoulder and show her want he was offering. He had a strong feeling the best thing to do was to just leave her be, but he couldn’t help but try before he could leave.

It was pathetic, she thought, how little control she had over her own body. Once upon a time she was able to manipulate every limb, every muscle, into behaving exactly how she wanted them to, now she’d lost that as she lay sprawled across the floor staring wide eyed up at the man before her. Once upon a time she would’ve been able to hold a rational discussion with him without feeling pricks of fear stabbing up her spine leaving her paralysed and useless to do anything. Once upon a time she hadn’t been betrayed by two different men that she’d trusted beyond anyone else.

               Sometimes she questioned how she’d managed to survive so long. Sure, she was resilient and had adapted fairly well to the current state of the world, but when she froze in front of the men she’d come across she wondered how she’d not been ripped apart by them. She wondered how she hadn’t been stripped off and robbed, left frozen and starved, as she cowered powerlessly before them. Clenching her free hand into a fist, Emiliya’s eyes closed tightly as nails dug into the calloused palm. She wanted to get better – to get over the irrational fear that gripped her crushed heart whenever she came across men in the wild. Shaking her head for a moment, the brunette attempted to pull her unsteady breathing under control. Reopening her eyes, she found herself once more focussed on the man before her.

               Emiliya snorted before she could stop herself as she heard his words. ‘Nothing out here is free.’ The words came out with a bite that inflected itself without her control, some of the venom from her previous words lacking as she kept wary eyes on the man and continued to focus on steadying her breathing. ‘What do you really want?’ Though her eyes narrowed slightly, the brunette thought it was clear that she was attempting to be accommodating to him, that she was trying to look past the maltreatment of her past and look at him with somewhat untainted eyes.

               Shaking her head again, Emiliya took in a deep breath as she briefly glanced down at her hands, wrecked from the nails that dug into her palms. She winced slightly as she unclenched her fist and saw small drops of blood clinging to the dirt that had embedded itself onto her nail bed. Glancing back up at the man, the brunette attempted to force a smile across herself but managed only a shaky grimace. ‘Sorry- I just-’ The words caught in her throat as she tried to explain herself. Exhaling slowly, she refocused herself. ‘Sorry. I just don’t have anything to give you for your-’ Emiliya cringed as the last word spilled from her lips, ‘help.’ Shrugging, the brunette glanced back down to the floor, her free hand absentmindedly running across the dusty ground before she refocused on him. The smallest hint of a smile curled up one corner of her lips.

Having spent the last several months away from his faction, Ernesto had fallen into the routine of picking through whatever small village he and Loba would stumble onto. With no larger group to fall back on in hard times, both of their survivals depended on their abilities to hunt and loot what ever seemed of value, whether it be game or canned foods. It is for this very reason, that when the crumbling road he was travelling on began to fork off, where left meant he could continue to track the Days, and right led to an old village, he took a detour towards the latter. 

Already knowing what her master had in mind, Loba hurries ahead of him, using her heightened senses to check for hidden dangers, as he began to poke around whatever caught his eye. There is a strange enjoyment he finds in partaking in the morbid task of picking through the items of the long dead. When he steps into a home, it isn’t the piles of rubble and ash he sees, it’s the cracked photographs that still lay propped on the mantle, the rusted toys laying scattered around what would have been a child’s bedroom, and the pots and pans that once served family meals. It was like stepping into the set of a play, the actors were long gone, but the props remained, leaving Ernesto’s imagination to write the rest of the story. 

For instance, the house he’d currently found himself in must have been that of a painter, he concludes after finding a broken easel. And the paintings that were scattered throughout the home were hung there by their spouse, eager to show whoever graced their home the talents of their loved one. The spouse in question was of course depicted in the painting that hung in what looked to be a study, her gray hair falling loosely over the shoulders of her sundress as she smiled wisely at the viewer. It is as Ernesto is admiring this particular piece, and the great love story he fashioned in his head, when he feels a sharp tug at his coattails. 

“Did you find something, my little one?” He asks in Spanish, turning towards who he knew to be tugging on the hem of his coat. Raising an eyebrow, he looks down curiously at the canine as she stares up expectantly at him, clearly wondering why he hadn’t gotten the message yet. It is not until she begins to whine at his inaction when he finally lets out a laugh and nods, “Yes, yes. Show me, show me.” 

Given the go ahead, Loba makes a break back out the door of the home, only checking once to see if her master followed her as she hurried down the lane to the house that lay at the end of it. Unsure of just what she’d come across, Ernesto unsheathes his sword tightening his grip on its hilt, mentally preparing himself for a likely battle. This battle would never come though. When he follows Loba behind the door of the abandoned home it is not a walker he comes face to face with, but that of another human. Not just any human though. 

“Emiliya Labedeva?”, he hears himself ask, clearly stunned as he looks into her familiar eyes. In all his years travelling he’d never come across someone he’d recognized before the bombs. And yet here she was, a ghost from a life that seemed to have been thousands of years ago, rather than a few years short of a simple decade. As Ernesto continues to stare on in clear confusion, Loba begins happily greeting the young woman. When he speaks again he does so in Russian, remembering that it was her first language, even though it was a low fourth for him. “It is you, yes? We met in Bulgaria?”  

Whatever she expected to see entering the surprisingly well-kept home, the ragged coat of a miraculously un-mutated dog was not on the list of possibilities. For years now she’d only ever come across animals with extra unnatural parts – deer with extra, half-formed legs, birds with a second beaks and patchwork feathering – never had she seen a creature so remarkably untouched by the radiation, so pure. For a fleeting moment her mind flashed back to what the world was like before the wars, before radiation poisoned the very air they breathed in and corrupted the environment around them.

               Shaking her head to clear the thoughts, Emiliya loosened the grip she had on her chain and crouched down to the floor, a hand extended towards the dog in greeting. It was no use thinking on a world that she’d never get back, it was a waste of energy, a source of pointless heartache. Everything she knew and loved from the world was dead and gone.

               A small smile curled up the corners of the brunette’s lips as the she watched the dog edge closer to her outstretched hand. The smile was quickly snatched away as she saw a pair of boots appear next to the furry behind of the creature. Staggering backwards – and falling gracelessly to her butt – Emiliya stared wide eyed at the imposing figure that stood in front of her. A ghost she’d once known, come back to haunt her, to torment her over what she’d lost.

               ‘No no no no no no, you’re not real,’ she muttered to herself, wide eyes focussed on the man’s face. It was gruff, ravaged by the world, but undeniably familiar to her. ‘You’re dead- you’re dead, everybody’s dead. You’re not real.’ The words kept spilling out in rapid Russian as Emiliya closed her eyes before reopening them. Unsurprisingly the figure remained in place, standing, seemingly as shocked as she was, in the doorway staring down at her.

               As she heard the words spill from his mouth, she shook her head again. Though she wanted to continue denying his existence, it was getting harder and harder to as the moments passed. Taking in a deep breath, Emiliya tore her gaze from the man’s and focussed back on the easier target; the man’s apparent furry companion. A small smile spread across her face as the dog happily trotted across to her, wholly unconcerned about the situation. Nodding slightly, the brunette glanced back up to the familiar face through long lashes. ‘So it really is you, Ernesto Rosales.’

Seventy-one percent of the Earth was covered in water. Of that a good sixty-five percent of the water must have become contaminated during the wars, polluted, unsafe to drink. Before the world had fallen, Emiliya had taken for granted just how much she appreciated water – how much she appreciated lounging in the bath after a stressful day on photo shoots or stomping down runways. She took for granted just how easy it was to grab a glass of water whenever she wanted without having to worry about where it came from.

               Now though? Now water had become more valuable than gold. It was one of the primary sources of survival; a necessity that had become next to impossible to come across without suffering the wrath of other survivors along the way. That was why Emiliya was rummaging through whatever houses remained standing in the small town, hoping to come across anything that could be of use to her – bottled water, weapons, goods that she could use to trade. She’d take anything at this point to give her a chance to survive another day.

               A sigh fell from dry lips as she left yet another empty house. It, like all the others she’d rummaged through, had been picked clean – the vultures having already descended upon them and ripping apart the decent meat, leaving behind only bare bones that were good for nothing. Rubbing the tiredness from her eyes, Emiliya set her sights on a house towards the end of the road. It looked mostly untouched from what she could tell, the windows remained intact, the door was still on its hinges and the paves were lined in a thin layer of untouched ash.

               Taking in a deep breath, she started towards the house, a hand resting on the end of the chain that was draped across her shoulders. Though it seemed clear she wouldn’t take any chances, for all she knew somebody could have made camp in there and just not left for days – maybe even weeks. As she pushed open the door, Emiliya winced as a loud screech echoed through both the empty house and down the desolate street behind her. Poking her head through the door, Emiliya nodded as the coast looked clear.

               Moving further into the house, the brunette checked each room as she went, muttering to herself as each was revealed to be clear of intruders. Finding herself in the kitchen at the back of the house – fairly recently renovated before the wars, from what she could gather – she allowed herself to relax slightly, her hand dropping from the end of her chain as she once again started her routine of rummaging through cupboards for whatever hidden goods may be left there.

Even after the little fox had come out of hiding, after he had let out his half-curse, half-laugh, the woman crouched down in the brush didn’t respond, and she didn’t stand up either.

The instinct was to just take that as it was and go on his way. There was no need to try to unnecessarily coax someone into an interaction they didn’t want, and if she wasn’t going to hurt him, hell, if she wasn’t even going to speak to him, then leaving her be was probably the best choice survival-wise. But spending his time around Darya and their often fanatical thoughts made it feel impossible to just leave her behind without at least trying to make sure she was as alright as someone out here on their own could be.

It wasn’t the Days fault, really. He had always had that impulsive need to protect, to give safety to anyone who seemed to need it, or who couldn’t look after themselves. But that sort of thing seemed to leave most people as soon as the blast had hit, everyone suddenly out for themselves, and with good reason. Finding Darya that day, saving them, well, that had been enough proof that he still had that in him. And the habit had only been nurtured as time went on, and it was encouraged.

Now he found himself feeling responsible for the entirety of the Days’ well being, as well as the possible well being of just about every peaceful stranger they came across in their travels. It was offer the little help in trade that he could, or offer them a place in the Days. He had a feeling with this woman, it wouldn’t be the latter. But that didn’t mean that there might not be something else he could offer, even if it was just a moment of kindness, a reminder of humanity.

Stonewall was pretty sure that thought was going to get him and all of them killed one day, when they were caught off guard without their weapons ready, but he didn’t think today was that day. Not with her.

“You alright there, ma’am?” he asked, trying to get a better look at her through the brush without coming too close. An impossible task, really. “Russian, maybe. Is it easier if I speak Russian for you? I’m not going to hurt you, I want to make sure you’re alright, see?” he said, switching to the language, making a show of putting putting the safety back on his gun, pointing it at the ground instead of at the place where the fox had been. He wasn’t going to put it away, he wasn’t that stupid. There was always the chance that she was putting on a show, trying to lure him closer so that she could then get a jump on him, take the few things he had in his rucksack. But being in the military for so long, having to constantly be on the lookout for danger, he didn’t get those feeling from her.

What he was getting from the woman was that feeling of being frozen in panic. She probably wished she could get up and leave just as much as he wished he could’ve just left without thinking about if he might have something he could offer her to help. So he held his empty hand up, in something of a surrender, and took a few very tentative steps towards her. “Are you out here alone?” Stonewall asked, because wasn’t that always the question, for a number of reasons. It was as much for his own safety as it was to get a better picture of what she was dealing with, if she would give him anything, that was.

TW: implications of rape in the first paragraph

The corridor opened up and the ceiling doubled in height. Now he was closer the sounds were amplified. Scuffs of shuffling feet on unswept concrete floor; grunts and groans from mouths that no longer moved with the rhythm of language; creaking of metal that strained against itself as bolts turned and bars twisted; all echoed around that vast warehouse room. It didn’t take a genius to guess who else — or rather, what else — occupied the spce. Walkers. A few of them. Enough to create enough noise that would normally spook Otto into hiding.

              A rumble of his empty stomach and he took the step that carried him over the threshold and in amongst the echoes. His ears filled with them; vibrations shaking the almost invisible hairs that lined his ear canals. As the commotion bounced off the surrounding metal walls it distorted his direction sense, making it sound like it came from every direction not one pinpointed location. He glanced around to find his bearings.

              The warehouse room was lined with tall silver shelving. Well, it was probably silver once upon a time. Made of iron or steel they had rusted just like everything in that building that still smelt bitter in his nose, clogging in the bridge between his keen eyes. The shelving was filled with cardboard boxes that had begun to tear and turn to dust. From a quick scan he could see other items of potential interest but from that distance it was difficult to tell exactly what. The concrete floor was littered with fallen goods, animal droppings and various piles of suspicious looking rubble. It would make navigating in silence more of a challenge but Otto was up to it.

              He pushed on: his metal piping clutched tightly in ready fists; his boots treading carefully over debris. He moved in silence, the commotion that the walkers threw into the air the perfect cover for any slips. As he reached the end of a row of shelving he stopped dead. Before him a woman hung from one of the catwalks above. Walkers reached for her ankles. Stubby, broken fingers clawed up for their meal. He could practically hear their lips chomping in anticipation. Shit. His instincts told him to creep on, find supplies and get out of there. His morals had other plans. Shit.

              Wide eyed, heart in his throat, sweat on his brow, Otto lifted his piping and swung it against the sturdy shelving. The bang ricocheted. Dead eyes turned on him. There was no going back now. He slammed his pipe into the corner of the shelf again and their mutated bodies pivoted in his direction. “Come at me, you motherfucking flesh-eaters!” he yelled in his mother tongue, his accent thick as a surge of anger punched the words from his drawn back lips. Otto took a step back as the three walkers stumbled forward, one leg clumsily swinging around the other in the attempt at mimicking a walk.

              Then Otto ran. He sprinted back the way he had come, his metal piping bouncing off the shelving leaving a trail of sound for them to follow. He rounded the corner, skidding as he took it at speed, and shifted his weight towards the dangling woman. The walkers were behind, following his breadcrumbs of metal on metal. Suddenly the woman’s feet were above him and with a glance the walkers were emerging around the corner thirty feet away. “Drop,” he said in German, too filled with adrenaline to consider she might not understand his single word. He lifted his arms, hoping she was as light as she looked skinny.

The metal creaked and groaned under her weight. The fence lining the catwalk threatened to snap in her grip and send her into the hungry greedy hands of the Walkers lurking just below her. Burns stung their way up and down her too-thin arms, starting at her shoulders and straining down to the tips of her fingers. Emiliya wasn’t stupid. She knew what her fate was, knew that sooner or later she’d lose her fight against gravity and fall to her inevitable demise. It was something she couldn’t change but refused to give in to.

               Still kicking out at the Walkers desperately reaching up towards her, she allowed a macabre smirk to stretch her lips as she felt her foot impact the dead flesh of its face. At least nobody could claim that she’d gone out without a fight – the clunky boot print imprinted in the decaying skin of the Walkers below, and the concoction of blood at pus that sprayed across her shabby boots, told that much. If only she was able to dislodge the chain draped across her shoulders she may have a shot at pulling herself back up to temporary safety whilst she reconsidered her options and thought out a new plan.

               Though she were still hanging from the catwalk, Emiliya struggled, her weighted down shoulders shrugged and her neck twisted and bent in uncomfortable angles as she attempted to dislodge the rusted metal links from around her neck. It was useless and, if anything, only forced her arms to burn harder.

               A bang echoed through the warehouse. Emiliya froze. Her fingers slipped slightly on the bumpy rusted metal she was clinging to, tearing at the skin and leaving small trails of blood across the palm of her hand before she retightened her hold on the groaning metal fence. Somebody else was in the warehouse – somebody who was either suicidal or stupid for making so much noise and drawing the Walkers towards them. Though she wanted to glance over at her unknown saviour, the brunette refocused on trying to pull herself up, wincing as the fresh scrapes dug into the filth-covered fence.

               Deep angry words were the next thing that punctured her ears, causing her to freeze yet again. Once again her hands slipped from their tentative grip on the rotting metal as a fresh surge of fear stabbed through her. Her eyes widened and breath came quicker as one of her hands slipped fully from the fleeting illusion of safety that was slipping through her fingers. Glancing around the warehouse, Emiliya’s wide eyes landed on the bulky figure of a man attempting to lead the Walkers away from her. They – and she – were a moth to his flame, hopelessly lured in to him only to burn up in disappointment as their hopes were proven useless around them.

               Watching him come barrelling back towards her, Emiliya’s dangling hand reached up for the chain around her neck, struggling to release it. She refused to become yet another number for him – yet another person whose life was snuffed out by the savagery of the modern world. Another angry-sounding foreign word spilled from his lips as he stopped beneath her, his arms extended above him. He was yet another man eater – his hands stretched out trying to grab her ankles similar to the Walkers and, like them, when she fell she’d fall victim to his personal brand of savagery, ripped apart and left broken by a world that just didn’t care anymore.

               Resuming her attempts to pull herself back up, the brunette began lashing out again. Feet kicked out at the air around her, the chain that hung limply from her hand wafted dangerously from her hand as small flecks of rust and filth drifted over the man and added to the grime that made up the floor. Though she desperately tried to pull herself up away from him, her fight was in vain as a sharp crack echoed through the vastness of the warehouse and she went tumbling into the man’s arms, a small pole of rusted metal clenched in one of her hands.

As the woman came closer, she could get a better look at her. She might have been pretty once, her features were sharp in a pleasing way, full lips that hunger hadn’t stolen away yet. There was a wildness to all their faces now, the survivor’s ugliness that clouded what little beauty was left, like bulging eyes or teeth ground down to the gum. The delicate didn’t survive, or were calcified. Zoya wondered what kind of woman she might’ve been before.

She twisted the clothes tightly, knuckles punching white through the thin skin of her hands. All the clothes they had now were all worn thin, transparent cottons or fisherman’s sweaters with gaping holes, yarn trailing like torn guts. Draping them over the line one by one the blonde made a noise in the back of her throat, something between humour and incredulity. “This isn’t a place to bury away like a rabbit at the first sign of frost. You’ve gone too long without seeing a real camp. Knock on the militia compound’s door, maybe they’ll give you a tour. They have working toilets too, I hear.” The camp was just a point of rendezvous, just a tarp draped over a low-hanging branch and pegged down. A fire bordered by round river stones, a length of cord as laundry line. Her bag was packed, she was always ready to run.

This time Zoya laughed, stepping away from the line, the last item hung and slapping as a cool wind picked at the corner of it. Her laugh was an almost horrible sound, so rough and throaty, like it had rusted through. “My husband? Baba Yaga has no husband, krushka. Witches don’t need anyone to defend their honour, that’s why they have teeth.” She bared hers like a child trying to frighten the dog, snapping them twice to punctuate her words.

“If you need water, you can take some. Anything else, that’s stealing. It’s colder and harder than Stalin’s time, every punishment now turns to blood. What’s your name?” She didn’t trust her, but she didn’t trust anyone anymore. To keep her at the edge of a threat was the best way, kindness was too often taken for weakness.

A showdown between two predators often ended with one of them lying bloody and torn apart on the floor. In this situation one was on their home territory, comfortable – the other an intruder. Emiliya kept her eyes focussed on the other woman as she tentatively moved through the camp, not trusting her to not attack if her back was turned. The brunette knew as well as the other survivors what the war-torn world could do to people. Nobody survived the world without scars, without heartache. Nobody survived this long without committing horrors that they’d rather forget and Emiliya had no doubt that this woman, as innocent and unthreatening as she came across, was no different.

               As she heard the words spill from the woman’s lips, Emiliya snorted as a wry smirk curled up the corner of her lips, her free hand coming up to twirl a strand of hair around one of her fingers. ‘I don’t survive by making camp,’ she said, shrugging as if that much should be obvious which, based on the filth decorating her skin and the dark, sunken in eyes, it probably was. The few belongings she kept close to her were tucked away safely inside her clothes. It kept travelling light, easier, quieter. ‘And, what? Get shot on site for not being militia? I may not particularly enjoy this life but I certainly don’t want to die – working toilets aren’t worth that much.’

               Emiliya winced slightly as she heard the hoarse laugh, like metal grinding against metal. Taking a step back, the brunette quirked an eyebrow. ‘Baba Yaga? Those are some big boots to fill.’ The words almost came out tauntingly, challengingly, as she glanced the woman up and down. Though it were unnerving, the calculating yet child-like quality of the woman before her, she refused to give into the woman, refused to let her win. She took a step forward, closer to the woman. She wouldn’t be weak, wouldn’t let the woman see anything fickle that she could pick at and tear apart. The weak didn’t survive. Weakness was like a drop of blood in a pond of piranha – a death trap.

It was a woman, face shadowed with traveller’s dirt, eyes wild and a length of dull chain in her hands. Lowering the clothes, Zoya frowned, pushing damp white hair behind her ears. Her own face was scrubbed clean in the pond with a shard of harsh soap, her flesh pale pink again. It made her look younger, without the haze of dust and grime from the road, maybe like less of a threat. She couldn’t quite decide what to make of her, her eyebrows drawn together as she raised her hands, palms up. The Russian was a comfort, it seemed everyone she ran into lately spoke a language she could barely trickle out, but the question was too simple, she couldn’t help but answer with a sneer.

“Are you soft in the head?” Gesturing at the washing with a tilt of her head, the upward twist of her lip was something she didn’t bother to hide. “I’m making blini, krushka. You want to taste?” She moved slowly from her sitting position, so as to not spook the woman. “What are you doing here?” Zoya fired back, tucking her long coat around her, not ready to turn her back on her unexpected guest. “I have to hang it now, will you hit me with that if I move?” She asked it almost impatiently, waving vaguely at the padlock and chain, exasperation echoing that of a mother spread too thin.

She didn’t wait for a response, her long knives hidden against her hips, her insurance if things went awry. “Put a log on the fire, if you like to help.” Wringing out the clothing, Zoya prepared to hang it, a rope slung between two trees serving as a makeshift line, close enough to the fire that they’d hopefully dry out before the night fell. She looked to the shrubbery at the edge of the camp, looking for signs of her twin brother lurking in the darkness. She could use the thin wire of his weapon of choice if things went south.

It was bizarre to come across somebody so clean, so fresh, so pink. For too long now Emiliya had only seen people at a distance, covered in dirt and grime much like she was. Seeing somebody looking so abnormally normal was almost ghoulishly refreshing. It briefly took her back to a time before the world had fallen to pieces, back to a time where she was clean and posing in front of the flashing lights of cameras.  Generally Emiliya tried to distance herself from her life before – she was weak back then, easily manipulated, taken advantage of by those closest to her – but small things like the clean woman in front of her forced her into remembering.

               As the blonde started speaking again, Emiliya refocused on the situation at hand, her eyes narrowed at the not-so-subtle barb laced into the woman’s words before her lips curled up into an obviously false smile. Lowering the chain that was still clenched firmly in her hand, she continued watching the woman move around for a moment before speaking up, ‘So, what? You tried to run away from the world to start a new life by the river?’ Glancing around at the camp before her, she had to admit it was a fairly impressive, albeit foolish, goal. Briefly looking over her shoulder back into the trees, she shook her head before refocusing on the woman. ‘Let me guess, your husband is somewhere out there,’ she gestured vaguely to the space around them, ‘and is going to come running back to defend your honour?’