"How many walkers have you killed?"
"Must be a couple hundred at this point"
"How many people have you killed?"
"Just...two"
"Why?"
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These are the three questions Salem, a 15 year old girl surviving on her own in the a...
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*crunch...crunch...crunch*
Salem concentrated on the crunch the gravel under her shoes made as she walked along the rail track. With her fingers looped through the backpack straps on her shoulders, she kept observant of her surroundings, listening and watching for walkers or worse, humans.
Salems walking halted and her head whipped to the left after hearing a crunch, sounding like a twig snapping in the forest beside her.
With her hand hovering over her lower hip, where her pistol in its holster was located strapped around her thigh, she watched. Watched and listened, that's what she was good at. She had always watched and listened, if she didn't, she'd be dead.
After a few seconds her hand fell back to her side and she continued on the track, still listening.
Salem never had a plan for where she was going, surviving for her was roughing it from place to place. She didn't like to stay in one place for too long, in fear of getting comfortable. Last time she got comfortable, bad things happened. She sensed grief always following just behind her, so she kept moving forward, hoping it wouldn't catch up with her.
She wasn't alone at first. The first few years of the apocalypse, she had her parents. She was eight when the apocalypse hit Quantico, Virginia, her hometown. Her parents kept her safe, they rarely moved places, only doing so when necessary. She was ten, they had migrated to the east coast of North Carolina when it happened. The...accident.
"Mom, no! I can't."
"Yes you can baby, I know, this is hard. But we can't turn sweetheart, please, we will not be one of those things. Now, just like I showed you. Wrap both hands around the handle, just like that, and don't pull the trigger, squeeze it." Her mom instructed her, then kissing her forehead.
"I love you. I'm so sorry you have to do this. Find a group, stay away from the big cities and keep that hair short sweet pea" her dad coughed out weakly.
"I love you"
Two bangs rang out in quick succession of each other, then the sound of bullet casings dropping.
Little Salem sank to the floor, scooting away from her parents sunken, lifeless bodies. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" she repeated as she curled up into her knees, gun in hand.
Salem shudders recalling the memory, but shrugs it away. After that day, she didn't feel things very much anymore. She wouldn't let herself get attached to anything or anyone, she was cold. She was just kinda there, surviving for the hell of it.
She left the coast of North Carolina, in five years she had migrated to west Georgia, just wanting to get as far away from her memory as possible.
Salem watched her shoes move on the gravel, until the gravel faded and she saw asphalt. She looked up to see herself on a road, the signs reading, "8 miles to Weston's Pharmacy" "20 Miles to West Georgia Correctional Facility"
