Every Wrong Reason

Just kidding! Quarterback-Chris had apparently been less than faithful to me during our two year relationship and after things with the government, army and general world went to hell, Quarterback-Chris tried to eat me!

So I did what any loving, devoted girlfriend that just found out she had been serially cheated on by her now zombie boyfriend would do. I plunged a butcher knife into his eye socket and when that didn’t effectively do the job, I drove over him with my mom’s Escalade until his head detached from his body.

God, I was glad I held onto my v-card.

Could you imagine me as a zombie?

Ugh, it made me shudder just thinking about it.

A rustling to my left had my gun up, pointed and steady at whatever was stupid enough to make noise in a regular Feeder playground. I only had three bullets left, so this kill would have to be spot on.

That was the thing about living in a world in which it was a very likely possibility that you could end up as someone else’s meal before lunchtime, you’ve got to be very good at shooting. Very quickly.

So even though the most I knew about my gun was that it was a Beretta from the label on the handle, and the exact kind of bullets it took, .40 S&W- because those were an absolute necessity and I was always on the lookout- I knew exactly how to use it. I knew exactly how to get my bullet from my gun to the perfect dead zone right between the eyes.

In fact, it was kind of freaky how good I was at killing things.

Well, killing already dead things.

It was like I was born for the Apocalypse. No, I couldn’t find a hot shower, figure out how to make food last longer than twenty-four hours and effectively loot a Walgreens that still had hair products available. But I could stay alive.

I had an i

And in this day and age, ninety-two weeks after the first recovering STD victim bit his doctor and the world fell apart, staying alive was very important.

Back to the rustling….

I slowed my breathing, stopped moving completely and waited for the sound to come to me.

One of the first things I learned about survival was that there was absolutely no need to go hunting down trouble. In the world I lived in, trouble would find you soon enough. It was better to cover your back, stay calm and have a loaded weapon ready and waiting.

“Reagan, check this out!” Haley squealed in a loud whisper.

“Holy hell, Hales!” I whisper-shouted back, “I almost shot you in the f-ing head!”

She made a resigned grunting noise and I heard her mumble, “Too bad, I bet they have showers in heaven.”

“We are so not convinced you’re going to heaven,” I whispered back while stepping over a particularly decayed body.

Did I say the smell was the worst? I meant maggots.

The maggots were definitely the worst.

“It wouldn’t matter,” she countered with that distraught, depressed tone even the best of us were known to fall into. “This might as well be hell.”

We were still whispering, there was no other option, since Feeders were drawn by sound. And sight, and smell, and light and movement…. But since we were rummaging around a dilapidated department store somewhere in what used to be southern Missouri, we had a little bit of cover.

The floor was covered with dirt and grime; metal racks that had been looted a long time ago were scattered and broken across the floor and we’ve already discussed the body count problem. We were using what was left of the evening light streaming through the broken window fronts to see and from the sounds of things we were alone, at least on the first floor.

One of the best things about Feeders was their incapability for stealth. They were heavy mouth breathers and tended to stumble over anything in their way. It was like they had their own warning bells.

Well, if you stayed alert, kept yourself surrounded by noisy debris and never fell asleep, you could sense their presence.

“What is it?” I asked; at the exact same moment my stomach growled.

Haley shot me a sympathetic look and shook her head, sending her dark blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Not that.”

I sighed, but continued to follow her down a dark hallway. Track lighting hung at awkward angles, the glass long shattered, the bulbs broken since the begi

“I hit the jackpot,” Haley said excitedly in almost a full-volume voice. We rarely spoke above a whisper so I was taken aback at first. I had almost forgotten what her real voice sounded like.

“In?”

“Jeans!” She turned back to look at me over her shoulder, giving me a goofy smile and waggling her eyebrows.

Now this was a jackpot.

We exited the hallway straight into the Junior’s section. The racks were less knocked-over in this part of the store and still stocked with clothes. Racks and racks of fall fashions from almost two years ago filled the floor.  A discount shoe rack with boxes of clearance items sat in one corner and in the middle of the department was a makeup counter.

An f-ing makeup counter.

Eyeliner!!! 

At this point, you might be wondering who I could possibly want to look good for. And that is a valid question. But it wasn’t like that.

In the last two years, I had been forced to live as a homeless, basically-starving person, with shredded, usually-covered-in-blood clothes, no shampoo, let alone conditioner and perpetually covered in dirt. I was tired of looking ugly.

Tired of it!

I just wanted a little bit of makeup, just something to make me feel like the world hadn’t completely blown apart in the prime of my life and left me a wandering vagabond.

I had given up on finishing my education. I had given up on feeling guilty for killing what used to be human beings. I had given up on being happy again, living in a house, having a hot shower and whatever dream I had imagined myself living out. I had even given up on finding love.

Hell, I had given up on finding sex.

I just wanted to look anything but tired, weary and worn out.

Was that so much to ask?

“Welcome to the promised land, my friend,” Haley whispered proudly before turning to a rack of longs-sleeve tee’s.

I had a theory about why this section of the department store was untouched and it went something like this. In the begi

How Haley and I survived living on the street and dodging not only the Feeders, but the crazed militia, and all the old man creepers that thought we would make fantastic sister wives was a straight up miracle. We got lucky in the begi

Well, except for the whole Quarterback-Chris thing.

But it wasn’t like we didn’t get Feeders in Atlantic, Iowa. Of course we did. Herpes was a worldwide disease. Everybody got Feeders, even remote islands in the middle of Oceans. If there were people there, then there were people having sex. And that meant STDs. Why? Because men would always be sluts. Always.

Was I a little bitter about Quarterback-Chris? Hell, yes.

      Did I not mention he tried to eat me?