La résurrection
Bat prowled the roof of the building. It was his experience that survivors didn’t look up, for various reasons. Mostly, the clickers never came from above. They were always around the next corner, behind, to the sides, but on the same level. The man below was definitely a survivor, and something about his movements struck Bat as eerily familiar.
He lowered himself flat on the roof, his head and hands curled over the lip of the edge, and he squinted as the man came closer.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Bat exclaimed as he fully recognized the young man below. He hoisted himself upright, and darted to the door that lead down the stairs. It was a wonder in his hasty descent that he didn’t fall and break his neck, although perhaps he shouldn’t have burst out the door so suddenly and nearly directly in the man’s path.
A million questions blazed through Bat’s mind as he stared at the young man, conflicted. “What the hell?” He succinctly demanded, planting his hands on his hips and staring Corvo down.
Although his limp made him more susceptible to lack of use compared to those with an even gait, Corvo never reveled in the prospect of being a sitting duck; opting to scour on the outskirts with a scavenged shotgun in possession. It allowed the solitude he required and the target practice he would simply desire to earn. After all, the greatest reward of the apocalypse could only be the perforating of mutated flesh; the adrenaline rush a bonus only a criminal could yearn.
Had it not been for the break in silence, the various tones of nature merely a background noise, a sigh of disinterest would have eagerly departed from thin lips. Not only had familiarity forced him to step backwards in the expectancy of discovering further deceased, but his expression only grew increasingly bewildered with the recognition of who stood before him. “Apparently that’s the very place you crawled out of,” he spoke nonchalantly, weapon comfortably raised at eye level. “Let me guess, your new friends also got tired of you.”
