Reaper

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." A guttural laugh courses through his body. His arms shallow their shaking and start to twitch. He weighs in on himself, his back bending in an angle unknown to the capabilities of the human spine. The road jerks me, and I push a bit onto his body for stability. His shoulder jerks back for a bit. His head whips up as if on a string. The road goes silent. The people's voices are long dead. They see it too. They see the blood on his face, and the green growing in his veins. No one sees what I see. Demonic. A terror. The eyes of a monster stare back at me, pure red and inflamed. "The eyes of the walking resemble that of a shark at times. Some have a little bit of white. Some look like a cat's, but most have the dark solidified consistency of tar. Those are the killers. Those are the ones that will go out of their way to eat your every muscle, organ, and bone, regardless if they need all of those things to survive themselves or not, regardless if you are still alive. Now the worst state is the Turned. These are smart, cunning, hungry, and most importantly, going insane. You see when the walking decides to start their feast on a major artery or vein, and then the person gets away, the bacteria from the walking's teeth makes its way into the bloodstream of that person, infecting them with every heartbeat. The brain starts to shut down, piece by piece, deflating and rotting at an exponential rate until the person is fully turned into one of the walkings. As their brain deflates, blood starts circulated throughout the wrong parts of the body, causing blood vessels throughout the body to pop. That's why the eyes of the turned are bright red, filled with oxygenated blood that permeates the body. " "These are the most dangerous of walkers because it isn't the hunger that drives them, but instead the extreme pain they are experiencing. If they think maiming you will help, then they'll do it." My master's words on my very first day of training ring through my head as I step back from the man. Blood red, inside and out. Pools collect around his iris, as the streaks of dried red tears finally become apparent. It coats his face, his hair, his armor. A wicked smile turns his face, curling the skin around his mouth in an unnatural way, stretching his lips till they crack and bleed. Blood pools in his mouth. I watched a crazed look take over the final look of terror in his eyes. Out of his wicked smile comes a struggled breath. "help me." The E on the end is cut short by a ragged breath that takes a tint of color away from his face. "Turned!" I yell towards the front of the bus as the man takes stands and barrels his hands at me. He catches me at my throat. The screams around me stir into a mix of pain and breathlessness. My hands feel barren, empty. my gun sits back with Derek. I can hear him now, guarding people against me and the rosary man. I close my eyes and choke out a single breath. "R!" Derek yells over the chaos. "Freehand?" A stitch of a smile pulls itself onto my face. Ah, Derek, I love you.  I jerk my arm upward, delivering a heavy elbow right into the spot underneath his chin. His head snaps back, a loud crack resonating through the van. A light stumble from him and his hands loosen. I grab the palms and tear them away from my neck, twisting them as I do. I lock him with his arms outwards. One move, a single twitch and I dislocate his arms. He chokes a growl, blood spewing into my face. I twist one of the arms, and it falls limp at his side with a screech.  I hear it coming through the air. I look up for a split second to spot the gun Derek has thrown my way. Too long of a second. The turned leans forward and bites hard onto the scarred skin around my neck. I gasp and shuffle back, pushing the man away from me and missing the gun. It slams into the metal doors next to us, clattering to the floor. I watch it tumble, then dive, grabbing it between by bloody hands. I aim up and shoot. The bullet lands in his shoulder. Another screech echoes from the man. He dives for me, both arms dead, hoping to land a fatal blow. I drop the gun and pull the belt off of my pants. I tear it forward, and his teeth land onto the hard leather. He thrashes and chews, chipping teeth and ripping his tongue, but my belt doesn't give. I wrap it around his head and Buckle it through a small loop on the back of his helmet. Secured and defenseless, the body ambles around for a few seconds before collapsing onto the floor, a look of hatred trained onto me.  I stand and pinch the body by the shoulder. A gasp muffles its way out of the belt. He stands as I pull him too. He moves with my hand I guide him towards the group of onlookers further in the bus. The body shifts and growls as the people fan for him to pass. They stare, mouths agasp at his red eyes, and the blood dripping from his mouth. I reach the front of the truck bed and bang onto the dusty window separating us from the men up front.  "How much longer?" I yell through the glass. "30 minutes." The gruff voice barks back.  "Step on it. No more than 15. We have a Turned back here. If he gets to anyone, it's on you." A quick f**k you makes its way through the glass and I feel the truck speed up. I grab again at the ropes overhead.  "Why didn't you kill that thing." I turn to see the face of the crowd, angered and shocked.  "He is still a person," I say back, my face falling into a look of annoyance. The crowd murmurs. I move the body forwards towards the crowd. A gun barrel makes its way through the cluster of bodies. The wooden detailing shining in the fluorescent overhead lights. The R carved into the side stands out surrounded by the dusty white cloth bodies.  "If you won't kill it, I will." I look at my own gun in shock, but that shock slowly turns to anger. My gun.  "Step forward," I growl out. I feel my eyes narrow, my skin grow bright. The crowd's murmurs grow. My blonde hair starts to stand, shaking in the wind that my body churns around the cabin.  A body comes forward, a young man. He keeps my gun trained on the body beside me, but his eyes are glued to me. A light stubble coats his chin up to his ears and meets his hairline just slightly.  "Did you really think it was a good idea to take MY gun?"  "If you are going to put all of us in danger, then I am going to stop you." He turns the gun barrel towards me. The body beside me cackles through the thick leather of the belt. "This is still a man, and he hasn't completely turned yet. It is my duty to save him, but if you want to kill this person then, by all means, shoot the gun." I see Derek in the crowd, a small smirk on his face. The man shivers and cowers slightly behind my gun. His arms start to shake. He knows of me, but not who I am. He knows nothing. "Shoot the gun," my growl resonates around the truck bed. My long blonde hair falls back onto my shoulders, its color shifting into a dark black. I feel my teeth sharpen and the air goes stale. my temper is growing. I don't care. This man took MY gun, and now is threatening me with it.  "Shoot the f*****g GUN!" I hear the bullet leave the chamber. I watch it fly towards me. I watch it stop in the air and fall to the floor. I hear it clatter lonely against the metal boards. Another one flies through the air, aimed at the head of the body next to me. That one to stops and falls to the floor. The body next to me giggles underneath the belt. "fool," it gurgles. "Do you know who I am boy?" my voice is low and raw, filled with rage. I see his body shaking, his eyes quivering as his arms slack around my gun and it falls to the ground. I watch my gun hit the metal and wince at the dent that appears on the barrel's side.  "R-r-r-reaper." The boy looks smaller and smaller with every passing minute.  "That's right." I sing as the bullets pick themselves up off the floor and dance in the air around me. "This.." I point at the bullets ..."Is no way to treat your savior." I let the bullets fly towards him, poking him onto slightly with each one. They clatter once again to the floor. he whimpers with each strike. I ragged breath pulls itself from his lips. "Pick up my gun." My voice is hard. He crouches and holds my gun daintily in his arms. "Clean it." He uses the soft part of his shirt to shine my gun. "Bring it here." He shuffles forward, eyes on the ground.  "Give it to me." He hands me my gun. "Now kiss my feet you swine." My voice echoes around the truck bed. People shuffle in terror, their eyes cast to the floor. I look at Derek, who still smirks at me in the crowd. He mouths 'wrap it up,' his fingers circling. I send a single nod back I feel the boy kiss my foot. I grab his shift and hoist him into the air. He is taller than me by far, but I still hold him by the scruff of his neck and glower into his wide eyes.  "If you ever think about going against me again, just remember this moment. Remember the look on my face, and remember that your puny little bullets cannot harm me. I saved you. Be grateful you little piece of shit." "yes ma'am," he murmurs. "What was that?" "Yes, Ms. Reaper ma'am. Never again." "Good, now get out of my sight." I throw the boy back into the crowd and push the body into it. People shrink away as the Turned wanders forward, giggling a little with every step.  "silly silly grim reaper. Keeping me alive. silly silly little girl. however much she strives. We will all die. die. die. die." The body in front me sings all the way to the truck doors. His words are muffled by the belt, but only a little. I can still make out every syllable. I grunt and shove him onto the bench. He cackles and leans back, his eyes trained on mine. The people quiet, placing themselves back into their seats. It is almost exactly like it was before, except for the blood staining the truck bed, and my pitch black hair.  Minutes tick by. The truck slows, stalls, stops. The gravel cheers, no longer spit into the metal bedding. No longer thrown from its home. The doors open to Gabe and River. The somber look on their faces gives me comfort. Their eyes narrow at the site of my black hair. Something went down. They know I hate people. One of those damned walkings would never have made me mad. A person on the other hand. That is another story. Gabe puts out a hand, and I take it, hoping down off the truck and onto the dusty road. I look around at the cement walls that encase us. A long sniff and I can make out the cooking chicken and pork just on the other side of these walls. I turn to see Gabe pulling the Turned off of the truck. The body jerks and sways, wandering back over to me where it stares at the bite on my neck that is clotting itself with blood. It giggles, and I roll my eyes.  More people make their way off the truck and stare at the walls in anticipation. Derek makes his way over to me, the smirk still a topcoat on his lips. I look at him, feeling my hair lighten a touch.  "What? Too much?" my voice is light, but both of us can hear the strain behind it of me trying to calm myself down. "For you? Never." The people begin to cluster behind us. I hear Gabe drive the truck back over to the garage. River has a tight grasp on the body, who still giggles and sings the word "die" with every step. I walk over to the gates and press against the wall. A short hum comes from it at my touch. "Dana! Door!" The gate lifts itself slowly, and I duck inside, invited by the fresh smell of the marketplace. "Welcome to the Sanctuary," I call behind me as the rest of the group makes its way in.  "Welcome home."