Don't Be Scared

S.1 E.12 ~ Murphy's Law (Ch. 82)

I love y'alls comments.

----

Once I stepped out of the enclosed washed room, I also moved away from behind 10K's back. Ignoring the stare he gave off when he saw I was at his side. I assessed the two people in front of the twin glass doors.

There was one more male standing by the window, keeping watch through the blinds. The two at the door was a very tall male and an average height female. The male had brown curly hair with a poof at the top.

A chocolate, short beard gave the whole face a compliment beneath his white, sun-kissed face. His shoulders were broad and well-built under the black shirt that he sported. He didn't get that from genes.

Army? Navy? Air Force? Prison? All of these well-built features, and yet, he didn't have an ounce of a protective vibe around him. So, he doesn't care for his people? At all? Unlike him the woman was short, but not petite.

You could tell she could hold her own, but against how many Zs? Not many. Her face was pale, but it brought out the color in her dark brown hair that was pulled back into a low ponytail, out of her face.

A scar was etched onto her face, a darker shade than her natural skin color. She wore a black tank top, or shirt, beneath the dark blue long sleeve button up shirt that seemed a size too big. Was that someone's shirt?

Or could not they not find a shirt to fit her size, yet? It's getting cold; maybe I should talk to Warren about finding some more clothes. Just like him, though, nothing screamed or said she'd protect the men that surrounded her.

They're all just afraid of dying. Pitiful.

"We got another guy outside." Warren informed them of the last remaining member, nodding her head over towards the semi-covered window.

The old man's skin was wrinkled, but no scars were like the woman's. He wore clothes that resembled an old gangster look; black slacks past his hips with tan overalls, a white, dirty shirt under a dark coat.

The black fedora hat on top of his head made the whole look scream 'I-once-was-a-gangster-in-my-better-days'. What really caught my attention was the shining black shoes that adorned his feet.

Not that they were the shiniest thing in the room, but they were in better shape than anything I've worn since the Zs. I guess shoes have always been his main priority during this whole ordeal.

The wise man's black fedora hate tilted backwards as his forehead pressed on the glass window, like he couldn't believe his eyes. What's caught his attention so?

"I don't believe it." He gasped out loud, truly not believing his fading sight.

We all moved to look out the window with him, only to find our package outside. Playing golf. In one hell of an ugly yellow, club jacket. He acted like it was one mighty fine Sunday evening to play fucking golf in the apocalypse.

Ya damn idiot, Murphy. After swinging the golf club--the circular object that was hit reached the top of a Z's head and it didn't bounce back up--, he turned around and spotted us in the windows.

He made one good wave at us before making his way inside the building we occupied. The used golf club was settled on top of his shoulder.

"Little risky, don't you think?" The furry faced man asked, staring at Murphy like he was truly a Messiah in this world.

Unbelievable. This man is the exact opposite of something amazing. Mack would be scoffing at his words right about now. I'd be scoffing in Mack's face if he was right here. Jerk-face.