Here’s another story for all you nonexistant readers! This one is a bit depressing, not tissue depressing. Enjoy!
I stopped respecting myself long ago. Caring about that lack went soon after. I did what I had to survive.
I barley remember pre-apocalypse, I’m calling it that although I know at the time it was classified as something else. And sometimes after a particularly bad-ending raid I think about when it all changed.
I had been nine or so. It started out with little things, small enough that my parents could keep my sister or me from reading them in the paper. When more started happening they couldn’t keep it from us any longer, one of the eastern hemisphere countries was bio engineering some kind of weapon.
There started to be government issued drills, and training for fighting. The problem was, when the time came, no one had been expecting anything so…awful.
Then one day it happened, it was first the news, a reporter got attacked by one of them. I didn’t know what it was, it had been some overlarge wolf, a bit larger than a bull, and after she was dead it had walked towards the camera with intelligence in its eyes.
My dad took me across, got me situated, and made sure I remembered how to open and close the bunker’s door. He then left of help my mom and sister. I never saw any of them again.
I grieved, of course, but I had to keep living. And I did, I lived in there for eight years by my estimate, and probably would have stayed longer if the raiding group hadn’t found the shelter. They took the weapons, food, and anything that could be helpful fighting the howlers, as I heard them called. In an odd act of mercy when they found me one of them shrugged, tossed me two MREs and a gun. They then left.
As time passed I learned how to use the gun, and then how to use a bow and sword. Weapon shops could still sometimes be found un-looted.
Food was getting harder to grow, and I started doing what I had to survive. I would always take my gun to be safe. The protocol was, find camp, request that those in it do not try to attack me, try to knock out any that did, and kill if necessary.
At first it made me sick, but years have passed, and I simply got used to it, although I had always promised myself I never would.
The Howlers were awful to fight, barley noticing if you shot them, like walls of pure muscle and death. I eventually figured out how to hunt them, a mixture of shooting them with an arrow or two and finishing them off with my sword. Sadly they were inedible, probably the fact that their genes were spliced eight ways till Sunday and almost certainly contained some human genes. Although I have had to eat worse.
Sometimes after a really bloody raid on a place I would wonder what would have happened if something, anything, different had happened.
And right now I can really only hope that God is understanding to the necessities of survival, because this Howler has me bit pretty tightly. Damn thing, I can’t even reach it with my sword, it has me twisted in such a way that any weaponry is useless.
I can really only think that God has a sick sense of humor, because this is simply the blasted wolf-thing trying to survive. I’d laugh if I found it funny.
Well I really hope that if He’s up there I won’t get cast down into Hell, although I can conceivably see where, well, never mind, don’t want to think about it.
The damn thing is biting tighter, oh I feel dizzy. Have to think this, don’t know why, I’m sorry to everyone who I killed, or indirectly harmed, so sorry. Really dizzy now, and my vision is getting blurry. Well damn.