Dead Rising: The Run Aways

Chapter Eleven

“So where do you think your sister is really?” Mitch asks as he finishes off his beer.

            I set my bottle down, which is still three-quarters full, and a vivid picture of that little girl I had killed earlier comes to mind. Then Grace and how she looked happy the last time I saw her. How when we promised each other I’d be back, she had so much faith in me. But I failed her. Yes, I did come back. But she hasn’t. I don't want to find her and her end up just like that poor, nameless girl. No, I need her alive. She has to be alive.

            “I’d lke to think she’s with a large group of run-aways.” I say, “People like us.” I twist the top of the bottle and make it twirl around and around on the table. “But, I doubt that’s the case.” I say, sighing.

            Mitch just nods his head. “It’s good to keep having some kind of hope. Hope’ll keep you alive the most. Well, that and good weapons.” He says, walking over to where his bag lays on the ground next to the door. He shuffles through it a little, then eventually pulls out a small, compact handgun.

            He stands tall and shows it to me. “Whatdya say I teach you a little something right now? You did say you wanted me to teach you right?”

            That’s true. I did. But right now, I don’t really think I want to. Right now, I just want to get extremely drunk and forget. But, knowing that I can’t, I quickly pick up my beer, close my eyes, and chug the rest of it down, trying to ignore the sting it gives my throat as it makes its way down. I slam the now empty bottle down on the table like I used to see in movies, and say as confidently as possible, “Alright. Let’s do this.”

            * * *

            I’m standing awkwardly outside the gas station, in the cold night air nonetheless, possibly drunk (if I knew how that felt), as Mitch sizes me up.

            “Do you even know how to hold a gun?” he asks, stopping in front of me.

            I roll my eyes, annoyed that he thinks so low of me. “It’s honestly not that hard.”

            He makes a face, cocks it back, and hands it to me. “Now, be careful, it’s loaded.”

            I ignore his comment and hold it in both hands. I wrap my fingers around the handle, place my index finger right in front of the trigger, just barely touching it to make sure I don’t accidentally set it off, and hold it out in front of me. I’m not really aiming for anything, just proving to him that I can do it.

            “Not too bad,” Mitch states coming behind me, “but,” he says, placing his hands over me, “you’re grasp is way too tight. Loosen up a bit.”

            He forces my hands to relax. My palms become sweaty holding onto the cold metal of the gun, and I distinctly feel my face getting hot.

            “Aim for that stop sign over there.” Mitch says, still behind me, and with his hands over my hands holding the gun.

            I try to forget about his hot breath snaking up my neck as I try to aim for the sign. It’s only a couple yards or so away but because it’s dark and a little foggy out here, it’s hard to see. Confident that I have the gun aimed correctly, I gently place my shaking finger on the trigger, and I want to pull it so badly. I imagine the stop sign as one of the CDC workers who came into our house that day. That took my mom. That made me have to leave my sick mom, and who might have my sister at this second. Who has taken over the world, leaving people like me out here. Out here clueless, just constantly worrying.