Airborne

03. Annihilation

Chloe

Sector three, Greenfield,
Three weeks before present

"At least we have each other," Sammy reminds.

"Aw, Sammy's all grown up," Macey coos as she pinches the swells of the boy in topic's cheeks.

Thirteen years have passed, and it shows. He's no longer the timid child who passed out at the mere mention of the infected. In fact, he's shaped his body into a lean athletic structure that has aided us in many raids beyond the skirts protecting our community. His 'nice' amount of dirty blonde hair and blue eyes are a winner for the girls with a softer side.

Brandon, on the other hand has bulked up to be a mini-Logan. Apart from his dark woodsy hair and green eyes that depict mischief like a fart in a cupboard. If he isn't training, he's in a woman's bed . . . or wherever they can find a comfortable spot. Logan caught him fooling around with Marline a couple of weeks back, and boy did Brandon get an earful about public decency.

What a sight I'd pay to see again.

And Macey, the 'trouble making beauty from Zimbabwe' she labels herself. She isn't wrong with her high cheekbones, narrow hips and perky assets. If that isn't what attracts the men, then I'd bet my rations that it's the way her skin glows in the sun, and how silky her black curls remain through a hard day's work.

Thirteen years has changed us all, whether it be our looks, personalities, or what we strive to achieve, but the one thing it hasn't changed is the bond we formed in the back of that truck.

"Alright, settle down," Brandon chimes in, settling us with ease. "Logan expects us to meet him by the border in thirty minutes, and you know what will happen if we're tardy."

We all cringe, remembering the foulness of the toilet after Bobby had found the ingredients to make his special curry. Even Brandon's nose crinkles at the mere hint of it.

"Aye, Sir."

The four of us gather our equipment—Brandon the shotgun, Sammy the sniper riffle, Macey and her pistol, while my hands make fast work to sling my homemade bow over my shoulder with the satchel and snatch up my aluminium baseball bat.

As we walk through the base, the change in it strikes me. On day one, there was the three grown-ups known as Lisa, Sadie, and Clyde, us, Logan, and his pals: Chuck, Bobby, Stanley, and the one who caught me that day—Rome. Now there's a little over eighty of us with the kids running around the yard. Logan set base here because of the grass, as little as there was, he knew it would come in handy for when we found seeds on a trip beyond our boarder. Fruit and vegetables grown in the corner where the sun hits the most, and water comes with the rain, so in between growing crops, what we find outside tides us over.

The buildings are small and scatter across the street, the taller buildings are no bigger than houses. The brickwork has a few chips taken out of them, and the shutters of shops creak in the wind, but with the resources we gather, it became manageable. The concrete is cracked, so any tasks are hard for the kids, and the accident rate spiked over a year ago until we made a ten-minute patch job with soil a couple of minutes away. Families have a small section of a building to themselves depending the size, some share if it's larger, and couples take the shops, singles take shelters, and the four of us huddle in a garage; enough room, space to train, and we can hear everything since we are on the floor.

"What do you reckon he's caught?" Macey questions over her shoulder from beside Brandon? "Another Rabid?"

Brandon shakes his head. "By the sound of his message, it's urgent."