#nervouslybeatboxes

  Duck. Shoot. Run. Duck. Shoot. Roll. Run. Sleep. Duck. Shoot. Run. Eat. Shoot. Run. Reload. Shoot. Duck. Run. Run. Hide. Run. Run. Shoot.

  Clip and empty clip littered the landscape that was once full of beautiful farmland, woods and streams. They still had that. The birds didn't sing too much anymore. The forests full of green-leafed trees were tainted, too dangerous to properly traverse but less so than the urban spaces. 

  Amil checked every grotto she stopped in, every house she was forced to tiptoe through for food, avoiding civilization-once-was as much as possible. That's where they were.

  Her life was reduced to survival, and any group she almost joined up with was soon rotted out, scattered. She grabbed books where she could, old morals had flown since the first wave. She could barely remember life before the heaving breaths, the adrenaline just before the squeeze of the trigger. She was lucky, she had training. Enough not to kill herself, enough not to be recruited by the front line. She knew enough and not. It was perfect.

  She hungered, she found food. She did not waste bullets on animals often, learned quickness, stealth enough.

  Her life was full of enough, enough to eat, to drink, to shoot. She realized the nature trek needed to end, and found some mall, some Walmart. Amazing those still existed, though she didn't know why she thought that everything had stopped the first day, imploded under the crushing shock and terror. She made herself a tiny mouse-hole in that place, they had gone on to livelier towns.

  It was enough. Until she had fallen asleep one night and she felt safe.

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