Airborne

04. Brody

Brody

Sector six, Treeland,
Present time

"Over here, you overgrown corpse!"

Three . . . two . . . one . . .

Stepping on the wire, my lips curl up at the corners as the pin in my nail grenade pings free. Using the reflection in the window, the nails go exactly where they're mean to—the head. Miscalculation, I'm closer than expected and a stray pointed piece of metal flies pass and embeds into the pane of glass. The spider web allows me surround vision of infected.

Hopping to my feet with my shotgun in hand, pistol tucked into the waistband of my jeans as I take slow calculated steps toward the writhing creature in the dirt, scrutinising it from arm's length, and tutting.

"I think we need more power and less spray . . . what do you say?" I grin, cocking the pump. "We'll figure it out next time."

With that, I pull the trigger. Brains splash across the ground, blood sprays upward like a volcano before seeping into the earth, and the spasms instantly cease.

Nasty business, but the traps need testing for faults for future use.

Sitting on one of the dumpsters with my backpack on, a lengthy huff passes my lips. Rummaging through for the pencil and notebook, I flick to a fresh page and start jotting plans.

Another journal entry of many,

Planning to head to sector seven to see if there are any survivors, home—sector six is sparce of anything dead or living, so new starts. If I can figure out decent traps that won't kill me or malfunction, I can make base in an uninhabitable house. Note to self, use this batch of nail grenades for throwing, and scrap the idea since more power will make more mess, and balancing it will be time consuming. I have yet to run into some Rabids and Raiders, but that bridge can be crossed when the time comes. Next step for traps are wire related ones, and something to trip them up.

Closing the book with a slap and hopping to my feet, storing the contents inside the bag and slinging it over my shoulder, my eyes swing to the buildings. The smartest option is to take the back allies to remain out of sight until nightfall.

Creeping around the buildings for extra ammunition, food, and spare parts too bind together to concoct something useful for the future, my fingers scrap up rocks of all shapes and sizes, storing them in my pocket for the time being—

A croaky groan sounds in the distance, my lips quirk up.

Playtime.

Chloe

District six is like a bone with scraps; slithers of infected, but practically bare.

According to Macey's book, the lates lead is district seven—Barren Bennet, an old worker at the Clinium clinic. He moved to Treeland just before the outbreak to escape the crossfire between the company and protesters, and there have only been two sightings since the move: Macey's father, and a witness that happened to catch the infection.

The interest of her father's work never faded over the years . . .

Shaking the memory of her sweet face both from the age of when we first met, to when I last saw her three weeks ago, my feet trek on. Everything here's crumbled to half its original size, and like everywhere else it has green growth. The air is stale, but thankfully not clogged with smoke or rot. No Rabids, no Bestials, and certainly no Rotters, so for now the path's going to be a simple one—