Red - the final chapter

Red. Part A

The cold wind blows against their loose clothing, slightly, yet eerily like the way it did back then. Hell, with the way they shuffle absent mindedly is enough to make you think you are back in Old World. I weave in and out of the slow walkers, irritated by them. In front of me are four, very slow walkers, I stay behind them, at their pace. I hear them murmuring.

Moaning...

Clenching my fists, I suck in a sharp breath. Stop it. Everything is fine. I remain at their slow pace for another minute before frustration envelopes my mind and I rudely push past them. Goddamn youths. I hear my feet softly hitting the pavement with each step. The pavement, I see, is a mix of the originally laid cement, and the rubble, from the once proud, tall buildings that lined the streets. Everything has changed. The streets are clear of burnt out cars and old corpses. Some of the buildings I once saw blown up have been rebuilt, made new. Some of those buildings I blew up myself...

I stare intently ahead of me, already dawdled enough. I pick up my pace, hoping to get to the museum before the crowds. God, why am I doing this? I was in the fucking war I don't need to see all the ridiculous displays.

My jaw clenches. I tug at my cap, pulling it down to cover my face as the Cadet squadron jogs past. God, if any of those little buggers see me I will never hear the end of it. That's the last thing I need today.

The crisp white paint work on the museum is a nice sight, yet it looks very out of place. The new windows, probably plastic. The new doors, probably an old table. A nice man welcomes me at the gate to the museum, his voice is high pitched and squeaky. He asks for my ticket. As I dig around in my pocket, a strong gush of wind blows my hat off. My head feels cold now. My face is exposed now. I quickly turn and run to get my hat. It's in a fucking puddle. Angrily, I snatch it up and harshly wipe it clean. Turning back to the nice man, a look of horror on his face as he is exposed to my face. Yeah, I get it. It scares me too. I hand him my ticket but he makes no effort to take it, still staring in horror at my face. Irritated, I throw the ticket at him and open the gate myself. I tug the damn hat back on my head and walk up the stone stairs.

The air inside the entrance way is cold, mixed with the cleaning spray the janitor is using to clean a display. It is quiet.

"Hello there, would you like a map?" a voice squeaks behind me.

I turn to see who owns the voice, It's a youth. Hesitantly, I tread carefully over to her. The youth is behind a small stand, with a crisp bit of paper in her hand.

"Yeah, thanks" I take the map from her. The youth smiles at me. I walk off.

The map is quite helpful after I stop cussing over the cut it gave me. I head to the first exhibition, the one about the origins of the war virus. This should be interesting. The wooden floor boards creak under my heavy boots, providing noise other than the small television at the end of the room. I gaze over the first station of information, It's common knowledge. The second, however, is slightly more interesting. This station tells the story of the needles, the three common ones. I raise my eyebrow as they neglect to tell much about the fourth needle. Interesting. The third station is all statistics. Boring. The information on the television is just about pre-war efforts. More boring. Looking at the map in my hands, I follow the directions to the next part.

It's about them, all of them. My breathing starts to speed up as i read the first display. It's about the soldiers who died. I see Jones, his stupid face. I laugh at the exaggeration of his death. How he valiantly died whilst trying to save his comrades. I notice they put his dog tags out. The ones he gave to me. I trace them with my fingers, over the glass, nostalgic. I slowly move to the next one, my heart skips a beat. It's about my friends. I see Elivia, Anna, Phil...Everyone. They are called "The Squad" . There is a nice little piece about them. My eyes start to sting a little. Seeing the old photos of them, I remember them so clearly, even after all these years....

They remember you, too...

Re-adjusting my cap. I leave this room. I can't do this.

Walking down a corridor full of artifacts, my heavy steps slightly rattle the photos on the wall and the display cases. I get stern looks from the occasional guard. One asks me to take my cap off. I take it off. He asks me to put it back on. I smirk.

The next display, is about me.

This whole room is about me.

I cowardly start on the display furthest from the display directly on myself. It's one on my sister. She was 12 when she died. God. The four, deep and jagged scars on my face start to throb. I start rubbing them. There are old photos of her. Before the war. Tears start forming in my eyes. My eyes soak up her appearance, scared to be drained of her. I choke out a laugh, we were drained of her a long time ago. No photo could suffice. I move to the next display.

My blood starts to boil. I feel my face heating, my fists clenching. Everything inside of me is feeling enraged. The only part I see about him, is how he killed her. How he killed her in front of my eyes. I blink back the pools of tears. Time to go. That is something I cannot relive again.

I skip the next few displays, They speak about my friends. I don't need a wannabe historian to tell me about how they died. The one before mine. I feel full. Full enough to burst. Full enough to burst with all the fucking emotions pent up from this exhibition. This display, is about my husband. My lungs stop working. My heart stops pumping. Everything stops around me. My eyes scan over the information about him. God. They make him sound like a hero. He was a hero. The photos were taken back in Old World. Fat tears drop from my eyes and roll down my face. I press my forehead to the glass, putting my arms on either side of the display and hugging it, tightly. I can remember the way he would hug me, when we reunited after I came back to Old Town. He wrapped his arms round my midsection, his strong arms suffocating me. His warm embrace comforting me. God. I miss my Jack so much.

"Get off the display." the stern voice of a guard calls out to me. Letting go of the breath I didn't know I was holding, I slowly step back and harshly wipe my eyes. I don't like crying. Shoving my hands in my pockets. I move to the climax. The big wall of me.

This. This, portrayal of me is....ridiculous!

I am not selfless

I did not kill six thousand infected

I am not the mastermind

I did not save everyone

I am not who they think I am

I am not the hero.

Anger, frustration and fear bubble in my chest. Who told them this? These statements on me do not reflect how I truly was in the war. Nothing here does. Breathing deeply. My feet take me to the corridor. People are coming my way, casual strollers.

The Horde.....

Stressing. I very quickly pull the map out. The back entrance is not far. I close my eyes. Small power forms behind my eyes, stinging and tingling. I feel my pupils change. The Sight is here. Slowly opening my eyes, I am alerted to my surroundings. The exit is down and to the left. The Horde is loud. Gawking and squabbling over the artifacts. The Sight remains, even after I know where my target it. I get to the exit. The doors are locked. Barred and chained. Pfft. Pulling my pant leg up, I take out Jenny and aim her at the lock. Firing twice. The lock breaks. Sheathing Jenny, I kick the doors open. Chilly air rushes in, It blows away the Sight. I walk out, and begin the harrowing journey home.