𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 ⌖ 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴

The Shootist

"When you have to shoot, shoot. Don't talk."
–Tuco Ramirez
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BANG!

BANG!

The sound of bullets leaving my pistol reverberates through the forest, a staccato rhythm that pierces the eerie silence. Each pellet accurately finds its mark, sending a tingling thrill down my spine while the ringing noise fades, just enough to remain inconspicuous to Hershel's ears.

The two undead creatures collapse with a dull thud and a smirk curls at my lips. Each hole is a perfect cylinder splitting their temples, and I take a moment to savour the scene. The sight of the fallen monsters brings a rush of satisfaction. It may be a minor triumph, but still a significant one. There are now two fewer abominations in this world and two fewer varmints inhabiting the barn. The thought fills me with a quiet pride and purpose amidst the disarray.

Despite what Hershel advises, these biters have invaded my second home, the forest, and killing them feels like I'm reclaiming a sliver of control, one precise shot at a time.

Eyes fluttering, Annette and Shawn's rotted faces flash under my lids, and I shiver, releasing a hefty sigh. With a practiced motion, I twirl the pistol around my digits, the cool metal spinning effortlessly, clanking atop my rings before it slips into the holster hanging off my hips. I glower at how these hips, once strong and full, have grown more angular since the world fell apart, a testament to this hellish reality.

The sweltering heat gleams mercilessly, making the air dense and my body slimy. I reach to readjust my Stetson, touching the once crisp hat, now creased and worn. Pulling the pinched front further down my forehead, I try to shield my eyes from the relentless sun. Each movement is deliberate, like an act of defiance. Every breath and every gesture is now a silent promise to keep going, to survive the odds.

Unfortunately, the growl rumbling throughout my stomach makes me concede, frame wilting in resignation. I shift, turning on the heel of my boots towards the farm. Each step gets harder as my fatigue battles the sun's fever. Sweat seeps from my pores as I speed up, propelling through the boundless trees.

Marching across the expanse of the backyard, the golden wheat gently swaying in the breeze, I spot Otis approaching, rifle in hand. Squinting against the afternoon glare, I tilt my head and meet his gaze, and his bronzed complexion lights up with a grin.

"Where you off to?" I call out as he closes our distance.

"Hunting. We barely have any provisions," he replies matter-of-factly.

"Thanks to your expert marksmanship, of course," I quip, smug. Otis rolls his eyes, emulating annoyance. "Want me to tag along?" I soften my tone, an authentic offer beneath a teasing act. He shakes his head with a grateful smile.

"Nah, don't worry your pretty head. I'll manage just fine," he reassures with his rugged charm.

Scoffing with feigned irritation, "Fine, be my guest," I banter, my words laced with a Southern drawl, coarse from dehydration. Then Otis resumes his venture towards the tree line, rifle slung over his shoulder, and I continue my stride home.

The solid clunk of my boots' rubber soles resonates through the porch as I leisurely trek to the door. The creaking through the floorboards must've announced my arrival, as Maggie emerges past the screen door. She brushes her hands together in a clap, beaming. "Hey! We just finished eating, but I left you some chicken and beans," she remarks, "bout time you got back."

I admire my cousin's pleasant expression, which hasn't faltered, even after everything. "Surprised you managed to leave me anything, with Otis around and all."