DESTRUCTION, BEN PARISH ( 1 )

ONE

I killed myself.

Not in the literal sense, of course, but in every other way. The little things that used to make me me are long gone, replaced with everything I need to survive in a world gone to shit. I can no longer be that girl scared of the dark or the water that threatened to consume me. I must be the one able to fight those much larger than myself. I must be the one to the survive this world. For all of those who couldn't.

I must be someone else entirely. And now I am.

Killing people became much easier to do after coming to terms with the fact that it was me or them. If they had any weapon other than a gun, don't ask questions. Attack. If they managed to have a gun, try and talk your way out of it or take a chance on running. Take only the things you know you need from their bodies. After all, they won't need it anymore. Then get out of there as fast as physically possible.

I say that it became easier, because that is the truth. But I still hate the thought of it. Every death weighs down on me for a couple days. I snap out of it eventually, because I know that I must. But still, I hate it. I hate the killer I became to survive. Or, well, the old me hates the killer. But she's dead. Irrelevant. Useless. Unable to survive in a world like this. The new me is accustomed to the kills. We know what must happen, what we must do to survive.

This is why I had to kill myself. To survive.

__

The mud covering my shoes makes it almost impossible to run away fast enough. I don't know how long I've been running. It feels like hours. Every muscle in my body burns with exhaustion and I want to stop because there is no way the dead can chase you but I can't. The terror has clamped down on every limb, forcing me forward. I can't stop.

And then I have to.

My knees give out. I fall to the ground in a giant heap, heart pounding and lungs aching. My fingers move to press against the wound on the inside of my thigh. My eyes widen at the excruciating pain it creates and I grunt. I collapse backwards. I force shaky breathes through my nose. I cry out when more blood pours from the wound.

Footsteps. I hear them before I see the person they belong to. My heart leaps in my chest. Is it possible the men followed me here? No. I made sure they were dead. Or, at least, they looked dead enough for me. All I know is that I had to get away before they got what they wanted. I may not have stayed long enough to check pulses.

Laced, leather boots are what I see first. I force myself into a sitting position and propel myself backwards until I'm trapped against a tree. I move to retrieve the knife from my boot until he calls for me to stop. I freeze when my eyes land on the black metal hanging from a slip around his neck. A rifle. Military brand. M16.

Shit.

It's only then that I notice he's wearing various colors of green, all morphed together to create camouflage. Almost the entire bottom half of his face is covered by a dark mask. He grips tight to his rifle, never loosening. They stay trained on my crimson covered hands, showing he would not shoot me unless I made a move for my weapon.

My first instinct is to get him talking. But I don't have to. His lips are already moving.

"You're wounded." It's not a question. He glances down my body in search of what could be the reason for the blood. He seems to wonder if the blood is not my own, but realizes it is when he sees my red covered thigh. The stab wound is bleeding profusely from where the slick metal sliced through the fabric of my skinny jeans. "If you toss over your weapon, I'll bring you somewhere to patch you up."

No, is the immediate response that almost slips from my chapped and bloodied lips. But I glance down at the gaping slice in my side and I know I need medical attention I won't be able to receive if I even try to run away. Which, you know, would also be impossible because of his military training.

After the 4th Wave happened, you had to learn quickly that you could not trust anyone besides yourself. Sometimes, not even yourself. But he is a part of the military and I fool myself into having hope he is from the very place I want to be.

I hold one hand against my thigh and use the other to throw the knife to the soldier. He picks it up and shoves it into a pocket along his thigh whilst simultaneously moving his gun away from me. He nods in acknowledgement to my fear. "What happened?"

He is wondering how I got hurt. But the old me, the one who would have already told him how it happened, is long gone. So I find myself spitting, "I got stabbed."

Big bushy brows lift up and he stares at me with no emotion on his face. Chuckling at the answer, he takes a step towards me while allowing his gun to rest against his leg. "How old are you?"

I lick my chapped lips and ignore his second question. It's my turn to speak. "Are you from Wright-Patterson? The Air Force Base?"

"Can't tell you until you answer my questions," He replies quickly. "Are you alone?"

The intensity of his gaze has me realizing he is not just asking if I have any survivors with me, but if anyone I knew before the waves happened is still alive. I shake my head firmly. No one left to care about. No one left at all. Not even myself.

"You can call me Parker." The soldier takes a step towards me and I involuntarily flinch. He either doesn't see or doesn't care. He positions the gun behind him, but when he tries to pick me up I let out an almost animalistic growl. Don't touch me, I silently beg. For the love of God, don't touch me. I don't let myself have a reaction. I feel fine. I can't let him know just how much it fucking hurts. He seems to want to roll his eyes. "You going to tell me your name?"

"Not until I know where you're taking me."

Parker forces a smile. "There's a compound right outside of the trees, full of survivors. We came to get the children today."

He starts forward and into the cluster of trees and it's just then that I hear them. A vehicle. No, there's more than one. Three or four at least. I stumble after him, hand pressed against my leg. "Just the children?" I pant. "Why not the adults?"

"The children go first." Parker glances back at her. "We need to hurry up and get back before you bleed out and die."

This time, when he offers me the option of helping, I let him. I wouldn't normally and every inch of my being burns from just the way he wraps my arm around his torso to pull some weight off of my leg. I still don't trust him. Every inch of me screams at me to push him away, to get his grimy hands off of me in case he wants the same thing from me every other guy does.

But when we break through the trees I see them and I freeze. Big yellow buses filled to the brim with children. Adults linger around, some wearing normal clothes and others wearing the exact same thing that Parker does.

Parker does not waste any time. He shoves me towards one of the other soldiers, who escorts me on to the nearest bus. I hear the giggles of excited children. I hear the screams of those fortunate enough to have family in the camp and are now being cruelly ripped from their older siblings and those who are fortunate to still have them, their parents. I can't register any of it.

I don't realize how exhausted I am until I fool myself until thinking I am safe. My eyes droop closed. I fall limp. I hate myself. I hate my body for reacting this way to the false idea of safety when in reality nothing would ever be safe again. But I hate that I have to let the world drift into darkness the most.

Because I don't know if I am going to wake up and also because I'm not sure I want to.