Reaper

The Beginning

The world passes outside the muggy window in a faded blur. No color. No brightness. A single consistency of death and decay. The bullet hole poking into the glass of the pane gives me some reassurance. Something familiar in this world where familiarity is a long-forgotten memory. A place where comfort once was a luxury, but now is a myth.

My finger dances on the edge of my trigger. I look down again at the safety, ensuring it is still locked. can't be the one to shoot up the truck again. My gun shines against the rust and dust that coats the car. A few modifications to your standard old MP5K has allowed my arms to feel light and my body swift when turning on the battleground. The wooden detailing glistens in the fluorescent lighting overhead. The black barrel arches in accusation at the floor. It is my pride and joy, this little piece of history here.

Shifting a little, I bump into Derek. Of all the people crowded into this sorry excuse of a transportation truck, he is the only one I truly trust. He smiles down at me, bumping me back with his shoulder. He is the one who modified my relic of a gun. Sitting in his holster is two silenced pistols and a sawed-off shotgun. Both of which had many grueling hours spent on them and their efficiency and power. I remember sitting next to him, dozing in and out of sleep as his calloused fingers tested each trigger methodically and welded new part inside of the barrels and bodies. His hairline then was its usual fuzzy free self, standing in spiraling mat for the world to see. Today, however, something weighs that hair down. I wonder if he can feel it too? Something just isn't right.

The truck rocks on the shattered road. I hear the gravel denting the toe of the truck bed. I look up and around the bed of the truck. Somber faces stare at the ground. The whispers are defining. The terror is palpable. Women covered in ragged old white cloth, shielding their noses from the dust that inevitably will dry out their lungs and throats. Men baring the weight of the food boxes doubled over in their seats in the last ditch effort to relieve some of the strain coating their bodies. A woman across from me hums under her breath with her eyes closed. The man next to me swears. A man in the corner grips an old tarnished rosary between both his palms. Sweat knits his eyebrows. Too much protective armor sits on his back. Too heavy. He is going to slow us down.

"Hey!" I call out. The truck silences, wide eyes turning to me. Derek throws an elbow into my side. He never liked my forwardness. I think it is the only thing we don't agree on. I shake him off. " Rosary! You over there! Look up man, Jesus I am talking to you."

As the people around the truck bed turn, the man shutters and cowers in on himself, the knuckles of his hands turning white around the little religious artifact. I stand, planting my feet into the metal of the truck bed, and grab onto one of the ropes overhead. My steps beat the rhythm of the decaying road, the thrumming engine, the gossip around me.

"Zverskiy."

"Muerte. "

"Reaper."

"Salvatore."

The stories around me grow louder as people begin to notice the R carved into the wooden outside of my gun, and the scars encircling my neck. I guess even in this new world, gossip travels fast.

I reach the man in the corner, who has now become a ball shaking in fear. His blonde hair mats at the front of the military grade helmet he wears. The stubble on his chin is coated in sweat... and possibly tears. I lay my hand on his shoulder and he jerks away, a sharp hiss escaping from his mouth.

"Dude. Seriously, I'm not going to hurt you. Relax." His shoulders grow ever more rigid under my touch. "You're just wearing too much armor man, sacrifice some for the people around you at least. With you coated in gear like this, you're only going to slow us down."