The Elim Conspiracy

Chapter One

The dry concrete sidewalk burns it's gravel into the soles of my feet. I can't remember the last time I wore actual shoes- at this point, my feet had adapted to the rough terrain and I could walk with little to no discomfort. That was, at least, until the beaming midday sun would rise, heating the ground to an unnatural degree. I shield my eyes with my arm, giving my face some relief from the blinding light. My sunburnt skin acts as a race track for beads of sweat to run down, drenching what's left of my clothes. I've been searching for a new shelter for a few days now, but have found nothing worthwhile. I drop my arm to my side, dragging my legs towards the supermarket across the road.

I push the glass doors open, surprised that they weren't already smashed to pieces. The lights don't turn on when I enter- not that I expect them to; the power in the city had run out years ago. The rows of shelves are picked bare, and the shop floor is littered with items that no longer served their purpose. My eyes wander through the empty isles. Most of the things that had been left were already finished or ruined. I was in increasingly desperate need of something to drink and something to wear.

I stroll down the isle labelled 'womens' in hope of clean underwear and socks. I'm not disappointed when I notice that this isle had too been picked bare. I slump my shoulders back, letting out a lengthy sigh. There had to be something left for me to use somewhere. I reach forward, grasping a dark blue pair of maternity pants. I pull them between my hands, checking them for stains or tears, expecting blood to be smeared across the fabric.

A deafening 'clang' comes from an isle a few rows over. I feel my muscles tense up in defence, preparing my body for a rapid exit. I drop the pants back onto the shelf. I lower my body towards the ground, making my way slowly around the corner of the isle, and then around another, until I'm certain that I'm one isle over from where I had heard the sound. My heart thuds against my chest in anxious anticipation. I don't want any conflict, but I know I have to see what had made that noise- or more likely, who.

My hand slides steadily across my frayed leather belt, gripping on to the familiar cold metal handle of my handgun. I pull it out of my pocket, steadily, aiming it directly in front of my face. Without another second of hesitation, I spin my body around the corner, pushing my index finger onto the trigger of my gun.

"Stop! Please!"

I freeze in place. A couple metres in front of me sits a man clutching his thigh. Blood pours from a fresh wound, soaking the floor around him. He looks a lot older by the wrinkles carved across his freckled skin and his dull, sunken eyes; maybe in his mid fifties or sixties. Although, it could be years of apocalyptic stress making him look much older than he actually is.

"What happened?"

I ask him hesitantly, reluctantly stepping closer. He holds his leg in his hands in a picture of pure agony, breathing shakily through his gritted teeth.

"It's... it's a long story"

He grunts. I nod, deciding it was probably safe enough to lower my weapon. He sees this, and relaxes a little, but not for long. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting tears stream down his scrunched face. I can't help but feel sorry for the pain he was in, knowing I was incapable of helping him.

"Please,"

He whispers to me, barely even able to get a word out.

"Help me"

I kneel beside him, taking a closer look at the wound on his leg. A large gash is spread across most of his thigh, seemingly quite deep. I glance over at the mans pain stricken face, feeling a pang of guilt in my chest. I had gone three years without any interactions with other people, and now here one is, on the verge of death, begging for a teenage girl in a deserted world to save his life.