The Snipers of the Apocalypse

Misadventures Part 6- "Fairgrounds"

"Shut up, Murphy." I mumbled for the fifth time today. He was going on, and on, and on about how he was the "Savior of Humanity", and how he was going to "save the human race".

Basically, being his classic, cocky, self-absorbed self.

"You're only mad because you know it's true." He retorted, smoothing out his jacket. I glared at him, opening my mouth to prepare the longest insult I could possibly think of, before I felt a hand cover my mouth.

"Watch it, Murphy. If you're not careful she'll knock you out before the next mile." Doc warned.

We were currently at a standstill in an old Target parking lot, walking around and stretching our legs while Warren consulted her map. We have no idea where we are, and frankly none of us care too much at this point in time.

"So, tell me again why we're not searching the store?" Murphy questioned, dropping our previous 'conversation'.

"You're kidding me, right?" I scoffed in disbelief as I threw my arm up, motioning to the unknown number of Z's wandering the inside of the complex, a few of which had taken notice of us pulling in and were banging and scratching on the glass doors.

"Oh come on, we can take them!" Murphy seemed enthusiastic as he started making his way towards the building, a slight skip in his step- only to stop and turn around when he noticed none of us had moved from our spots. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously." Warren rolled her eyes as she put the map away. "It's too dangerous, and I'm not making Cassandra walk any more than she has to."

Right, Cassandra. Let me fill you in;

She's not doing great. Like, at all. Over the past 24 hours the infection had tripled in severity, at least according to Doc who was doing his best to keep a close eye on her. She's tired out easily, and can only walk a few steps without her leg giving out on her.

The five of us had a conversation early this morning while she was still asleep. It went something like this;

10k: Cassandra isn't doing too well.

Warren, with a sigh: I know, she's getting worse.

Doc: I'm doing what I can, but we're practically out of everything. We have no antibiotics, nothing even resembling a suture kit, and the closest thing I have to gauze is a few old T-Shirts.

Murphy: How long do you think she's got?

Myself: Days.

10k: Where did your optimism go?

Myself: Out the door, along with her health. Besides, it's not easy being optimistic when you know where this is going. Like Doc said, we have nothing to help her. I'd rather not convince myself that my friend is going to make it, just to have my hopes crushed when she dies. It hurts less that way.

Doc: And if she does make it?

Myself: Then I'll obviously be ecstatic. But, right now? Right now my gut is telling me she has less than 72 hours for a miracle.

Warren: Come on, she's strong. She'll pull through.

Murphy: The kid's right, Warren. We should just mercy her now, get it over with.

Literally everybody but Murphy: We're not killing her.

And that was the end of that. Cassandra woke up, and nobody spoke another word about it.

Until now, while Cassandra lay in the back of the van for a nap, the rest of us standing a dozen feet away.

"My previous suggestion still stands." Murphy held his hands in front of his chest before any of us could punch him. "I'm just saying."