#thewalkingdeadgame

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"Christa, talk to me."

I plead, begging her to just say something. She hasn't said much since 'it' happened and as each week passes my worry grows.

Standing, Christa sighs and tends to the fire, low flames eat at the damp wood as it's poked and prodded by a thin stick. The soft amber glow reflecting onto her skin, she stares, blankly at the dancing blaze. 

"This'll never work."

Christa grumbles.

"Look at this, it's pathetic. The wood's too wet to burn. There's more smoke than flame. At this rate, we'll be eating this for breakfast"

She complains, referring to the mangled rodent cooking atop of the fire.

The rain patters on the soggy ground bouncing up as it hits the dirt, slowly the water begins to suffocate the fire and as the flames fade so does our hope, our hope of surviving the night, our hope of making it to Wellington.

"Let me take over for you, sit down I'll sort it"

I suggest rolling up the sleeves of my fitted, purple jumper, crouching before the fire.

Christa steps back taking a seat on the log, smoothing her hair -coffee coloured and dull- out from her eyes, she exhales. 

"We cant stay in one place too long. It's too dangerous. We need to keep moving."

I state, jabbing at the kindling.

"All we do, all we have ever done is move. But we never seem to get anywhere"

Christa retorts. Her eyes - empty, free from any emotion and resembling that of a corpse - were halfway closed. As each day passes I begin to notice Christa's face contorting, becoming more lifeless, more gaunt, more dead. After Omid's death Christa stopped caring about almost everything, she ate less, spoke less. It was as if the day Omid died so did Christa, leaving behind her shell of a body. 

Inhaling a long, slow breath, I speak up.

"We need to find a group. People we can trust. We've been on our own for too long."

"Trust? You think we can trust someone out here?"

Christa questions as if it was an obvious fact. 

"No. Not now. Not anymore."

The quiet whistle of the wind fills the air accompanied by the faint roar of flames. The silence was comforting, a nice change from the heating discussion previously brewing. A chance to reflect. A chance to breathe. A chance to recover from the hardships that have become apart of daily living.

Christa sighs,

"I'm gonna go look for more wood you just keep the fire lit." 

I hear the faint crunches of footsteps as Christa strolls off. Once again the silence returns, nothing but the irregular rustling of leaves to fill the empty. 

Shuffling about our little 'camp' I search for anything to burn, something that wasn't drenched. I find sticks, twigs, leaves, nothing enough to create a proper fire though. Combing through my backpack I push past the spare clothes - darkened blue jeans, a blackish-grey laced vest, a knitted black cardigan and a dark-brown almost black fur-hooded coat, along with various other necessities. Reaching in I pull out a small notebook, ripping out a few pages, chucking them, along with the small branches and dead leaves into the fire, I watched flames jump up, embers leap, spreading out in the air before falling. 

"This'll have to do"

I mumble to myself in a low, hushed voice. 

Reaching into the side pocket of my bag I shuffle my fingers around and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Sliding one from the packaging, the cigarette fits between my thin fingers with ease. Holding the end of the leaf filled cylinder over the fire i watch embers form jumping, popping and crackling as they dance on their tiny circular stage, and as the heat threatens to burn my fingertips. The smoke trailing upwards towards the stars creates a comforting sight. 

I bring my fingers up to my cracked, blood stained lips, before inhaling a long, deep, drag. The breaths grow relaxing, with every inhale follows a soft exhale of wondrous patterns. I close my eyes, breathing in the silence, drinking in the tranquility. The smoke found its way with the wind, following the path out into the melody of the rain, dancing, twirling, swaying with the breeze.

Examining the chipped red polish on my bitten nails I take another drag. 

"Jesus, are you fuckin' kidding me?"

A loud, unfamiliar voice spat.

I cough, the burning sensation of incorrectly inhaled smoke stabbing my throat. Throwing the cigarette onto the floor, crushing it with the heel of my tattered steel toed boot, I sling my backpack over my shoulder along with my bow - multiple arrows already shoved into my backpack peaking out for easy access - before following the males voice with haste. My legs carry me briskly, towards the call as i pat my person feeling my knife in the back pocket of my jeans; excluding my bow and my knife i have no other weapons, that sort of stuff - especially guns - are becoming almost impossible to aquire.

"Out here? Alone? In the middle of nowhere?”

“But we haven't met anyone yet. How many people are you with?"

Another and another unrecognisable voices hissed.

"Hate to see someone get hurt"

The seedy male threatens.

"Now, hold on, she's setting you up."

One man cautions.

Christa stutters,

"I'm by myself."

It was then, i see Christa surrounded by a group of hostile, shady looking men, one who held a lead connecting to a large, hairy mutt, spits another threat Christa's way. The canine barking, all shouting over one another, a storm of threatening remarks drown out all other noise, no longer can i hear the deafening pound of raindrops attacking anything and everything in it's path. My heart drops to my gut. Eyes wide, my gaze darts around looking for something, anything to help Christa.

"Don't fucking lie to us!"

A man demands

Muffled voices filled my ears, dancing around my head, spitting at me. I couldn't move, my feet frozen to the ground, my words stuck at the back of my throat. The rain pours down on me, hard and fast, causing my dark locs to curl around to my face.

"You fuckin' with me?"

He demands, shoving Christa's slim frame causing her to stumble back.  

It was as if a switch had flipped, allowing me autonomy again.

I pull a shaft from the improvised 'quiver' inside my backpack, slowly, quietly and smoothly as I had been taught all those years ago. Without taking my eyes from my target, practiced fingers led the nock to the string, while my arm raised the bow to my cheek, the ice cold sting of half-frozen fingers pressing against my face. Slow, deep, even breaths as I pull the bow taut, feeling the fletching tickle my jaw as I sight the arrow.

Then nothing. No sound, no motion. No breath. My fingers simply went limp as the string slipped past them. In an instant, the engine of death twanged and went silent as the faintly whistling point found its target - the man, now stood in front of Christa, his gun raised, pointing between her eyes. 

The crack of the arrowhead penetrating the males skull sent chills, rushing like water down my spine. And as he falls limp i can't help but feel a sense of relief. 

The impact of the arrow forced the man snapping sideways, following the path lead by the foreshaft embedded deep into his brain. His body trailing a second behind, collapses with a thump into the muddy sludge.

"Run Christa!"

I scream, sprinting off hoping, preying that Christa ran in time. 

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chapter 2: