Dylan's One Shots

Pєтяα

Pєтяα

       The girl sashayed through the aisles on her muddy yet very bright purple roller-blades, quietly humming under her breath. The cheery tune echoed off the ransacked shelves, making her feel less lonely in the abandoned DandyMart. But it did nothing to help the chills running down her spine, which wasn't from the icy air of November in western Oregon. It had everything to do with the smears of blood on the linoleum, and the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Both of these things, however, weren't out of the ordinary anymore.

The girl, who calls herself Petra, pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans. Squinting, she attempted to make out Mina's messy scrawl in the silver moonlight streaming in through the boards over the windows at the front of the store.

Her steely grey eyes scanned the shelves as she passed by, and her raven colored hair was twisted into two lazy buns atop her head, a few stubborn strands falling astray on either side of her face. Her chipped blue finger nails trailed along the shelf to her left, while the calloused fingers of her right hand gripped a shopping crate which swung idly beside her.

She'd have to leave soon. Gangs liked to do their hunting at night, and this dilapidated store stood out like a beacon in this little town, just waiting for looters to sniff around.

Her friends were across the street looting the gas station and what was left of a restaurant, scrounging for whatever scraps they could find, before they continued their trek north. She was assigned with grabbing what she could and meeting up with them at a library down the road they were crashing in for the night.

Petra had not only promised, but pinky promised Lin that she would bring her back at least one tootsie pop. Petra's love for the candy had passed on to the young girl, who had cleaned out Petra's stash she had plundered right before the world went to shit, and they were so rare these days that she wasn't sure when she'd find the next one. Unfortunately her sweets addiction wasn't the only one she had to satisfy anymore.

This is so bogus.

The small DandyMart was located in a tiny coastal town, roughly 50 miles from what remained of Portland. It's layout was similar to any convenience store, the entrance at the front, near the lone cash register. There was a few aisles, the shelves long been ransacked by looters, but some hidden gems could still be discovered if you knew where to look. The place was dark, as electricity was long gone, but the waxing moon gave just enough light that she could make out where she was going.

Near the back of the store lay an overturned shelf with several bullet holes decorating it, and judging from the smears of blood, a deadly gunfight had played out there not so long ago. There were empty bullet casings from the end of the aisle all the way to the cash register, as if someone had hid behind the register and fired back towards the overturned shelf. Judging from the size of the pool of blood, whoever was injured didn't get very far, and she tried not to think about the odds of her stumbling upon a dead body in this cramped little building.

Giving the dried blood a wide berth, the girl expertly maneuvered around the empty cans and boxes that littered the dirty floor, her vibrant roller skates moving her along quickly and silently.

Her mouth slowly turned downward and transformed into a small pout, while her eyes were growing more and more impatient as she scavenged through each aisle. She quickened her pace, frustration now contorting her features into an angry scowl. Being seventeen didn't grant her the greatest patience in the world, and it had been a week since her last delicious red lollipop.

She was now skating through each aisle much faster than she should have been. Her eyes darted from shelf to shelf, and at this point she had given up on finding lollipops - she just wanted to get what she could and get out of there. Turning a corner too quickly, she swore as she slipped and collided into one of the shelves, nearly toppling it over. The collision was hard enough to send the dusty china displayed on top spilling down onto her as she fell back on her tailbone. A cascade of ceramic plates and crystal wine glasses fell to the floor, smashing on the dirty linoleum. Shards of glass and items from her basket scattered across the aisle, and a cloud of dust surrounded her on the floor.

She huffed in anger, her cheeks tinged red in embarrassment as she stood back up on her wobbly skates. Wincing, she noted that some of the glass shards had sliced her palm, the crimson starkly contrasting with her pale skin.

After wiping the dust from her sore bottom, she began picking up the items and placing them back in the basket. She reached down to grab the last item, a box of tampons that Mina had requested she get, and heard the bell chime at the front of the store.

She froze.

"Don't worry, that was just... uh, it was just nothing," she spoke aloud. "An old shelf collapsed... or something," she added, chuckling dryly.

Her voice echoed off the empty aisles. She would kill Jackson if he told Max about this.

"Hello?" she called out again.

No response.

"Jackson? Max? Guys?"

Only her voice echoed back to her.

Her stomach turned, and goosebumps rose on her skin.

Trying one last time, she whistled her group's emergency tune, consisting of only four quick notes.

Silence. No one returned the whistle.

The girl quietly unsheathed the knife on her hip, and slowly made her way past the end of the aisle, carefully avoiding the debris on the ground. Adrenaline filtered into her veins.

Crouching behind the overturned shelf a few aisles down, she had a decent vantage point of the front end of the store. She calmed her breathing and slowly peeked over the edge. She could see the entrance, and near it stood a lone figure. He was peering down the aisle with the shattered glass. His shirt had a long rip down the back, revealing a nasty wound with dark liquid oozing out of it, but she couldn't be certain that it wasn't just dried human blood. She couldn't make out any weapons, or any signs of a gang behind him out in the parking lot.

Perhaps he is a survivor looking for help? But why didn't he-

The man's face whipped around towards her. His glistening obsidian eyes were vacantly scanning the back of the store, and as he began sniffing the air, she quickly ducked back behind cover. Holding her hand over her mouth, silencing her sob of terror, she squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten, but it had heard her. It could smell the blood trickling down her palm. And she was alone.

Her knuckles turned white from the painfully tight grip she had on the knife, and her blood added to the dried smears on the ground as she scrambled across the tiles on her hands and knees. She heard the crunch of glass underneath his boots as he tracked the scent of her blood to the back of the store. Petra scrambled into an aisle, three lanes down from the overturned shelf she had crashed into, and froze. She strained her ears, listening as hard as she could, for any noises that could alert her as to where he was. If her breathing wouldn't give her away, then her pounding heart would.

And that's when the smell of the plague hit her.

Petra was well acquainted with that scent.

The Plague smelled of death, of decay. The reek of an Infected's rotting insides was exhaled with their dying breaths, and it remained long after they died.

That very reek was clogging her nose, now. And a drop of cold, black liquid dripped down onto her leather jacket.

She looked up into death.