Myla Montgomery

Myla Montgomery 18 | Female | Rogue Survivor

[trickstcrs-blog]

The first thing he did when he left the bedroom was put a lid on the liquid substance she consumed and stash it in his backpack. Although Theo had no history of forcing himself on anyone ever – he’d never had much trouble getting laid with sober people –, the toxic drink could be used for other instances. Other tricks. Other victims. Hoarder, he was, and like a good one he took just about anything that could be remotely utilized for his benefit. He didn’t plan on using it for the same reasons the previous owner had, but Theo could think of many other scenarios where such a thing would be needed. Of course he took it. Staying around for an unconscious stranger didn’t automatically right all his other wrongs, nor did it solidify that he’d never make mistakes again. Catalysts were everywhere he went and Theo was damn good at bumping into them. Leaving messes was a part-time job.

He waited for hours. Knowing there was a stranger in the next room wasn’t entirely comforting. One, she could very well be faking it and betray him later on. Or, two, she could be completely smashed leaving them both vulnerable should trouble venture in. Either way, sleeping was not smart. So he just didn’t. A little darkness added to the bags under his eyes felt like a light price to pay for security. For living. 

Her voice alerted him, although her footsteps dragging into the living room had sold her out long before. “You asked me to,” he simply stated. Because it was the truth. Because it was the only explanation he could give. Because, honestly, trying to reason out the hows and whys of the things he did ended up giving him headaches, which Theo was not in the mood for.

The small weight of her lithe body pressing against the sofa made the furniture sink slightly. He felt as much beside him; how the brown, dusty fabric wrinkled where their bodies touched it. He wondered when he’d last sat like this, this peacefully beside another and shared the same oxygen without feeling the need to strange his companion. Or fight, for that matter. Theo deduced that it’d been a long, long time. “Theo,” he simply responded. The man listened to her, and he supposed she wanted his empathy. He supposed she’d expect a ‘I’m sorry to hear that’ or some other brand of bullshit words. Some promise of hope. He had none to spare. “Almost no one knows what they want or what to do. They just do it. It’s what gets them killed. I suggest you make up your mind before you follow your friend into the other side.” He could’ve gone easy on her, could’ve sold her lies and gained her pretty little trust only to fuck her over later. That’s what he did to everyone. But he was tired and Myla seemed to have nothing on her, let alone something of his interest. And, as she’d said, she’d been travelling for months – there was only so much someone could carry. What was on her was likely all she had, and what she had was of no use to him. Fuck the charm. Fuck the lies. Why use such things on someone who they’d be wasted on? There was no point.

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Looking over at him, she wondered how he had made up his mind. He was clearly alone, he seemed like an independent spirit, someone who didn’t mind being by himself- Myla was usually the same. But after Isaac’s death she had wondered why she fought death, why she was so fearful of something so peaceful in the wake of so much terror. Perhaps it was because it was the easy way out, a quick fix. She didn’t know if killing one’s self in the world they were in now was cowardly or something to be proud of. She leaned back in the couch, not saying a word, she knew she had to make up her mind but it wouldn’t be now. 

After a long pause of quick looks at her companion, she motioned toward the bedroom. “You can sleep you know, you should know by now I’m not exactly going to pull one over on you” she surmised. She wondered how things were going to go in the morning, she imagined they’d just part their separate ways and Myla would continue to look for something that would keep her afloat until she figured out her place in this new world. For an absentminded moment she thought about her mother and how she had fared in all of this. Had she continued to do drugs and now lay in some grave, far before this mess? Or was she infected like everyone else, off somewhere in Denver, roaming the streets hungry for human?

She thought about Theo’s words, about his actions and mannerisms in the wake of the day they;d found themselves in. He was troubled and that was easy to see by the way he seemed so defensive towards emotion, she’d seen it in so many of the foster children that had come in and out of the home she was in. It oddly made her comfortable, the tension familiar. 

“So why are you choosing to live exactly? What’s your reason?”

[trickstcrs-blog]

Being alone was the norm for him. He’d flown solo since the day he was born, almost. His father walked out before he was born, his mother was always working, and Theo was left in the care of his neighbor: an old woman too old and weak to even stand. He’d cared for himself for as long as he could remember. When the bullies came, no one defended him. Just him. When he wanted something, no one gave it. He took it. Selfishness wasn’t born in him, it was conditioned into his existence due to necessity. He’d been shaped to be the way he was, and the few moments he’d allowed another in, the few moments he’d stopped being alone, it’d gone badly.

His mother, perhaps his first reference to the word love, kicked him out of the house at seventeen, after she found out about his conning. His dropping out of high school clearly didn’t help, either. Emily came next, with her confidence and older girl knowledge. She’d betrayed his trust time and time again, even going as far as getting pregnant with another man’s child. And even though Theo promised to care for them both – for how could he, an abandoned son, leave another son in the dust, blood relation or not? –, she left. She walked out and gave him nothing but heartache. Now there was Ingrid; sunshine girl, as he believed her to be. But she was hardly sunshine with him, wasn’t she? She enjoyed the fight, the arguing, the throwing all his dirty laundry in his face. He loved the way she smiled, and yet her lips hadn’t curled in his presence for the longest time. Love and company had proven to be, time and time again, nothing but foul experiences with far too much hurt.

Her hand on his was warm and firm. It was an anchor securing the ship. Don’t leave. How many times had he promised Ingrid that he’d stay, only to be gone by first light? Attachment scared him, certainly. Weakness scared him. And this right here, this small woman pleading for his presence – this was weakness at its finest. Like the fool he was he hesitated, gaze drifting to the bedroom door only to return to her frightened face. Stay or leave? It was dark outside now, anyways, and he’d planned to spend the night there. Theo convinced himself he did it for him, not her. “Okay,” he finally responded, slipping his hand away from hers, “I’ll be in the living room.”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Darkness. When she finally slipped into sleep she was startled by how dark it really was. Part of her knew that she was dreaming but another part thought that maybe she was dead. The black night rose in front of her and stirred up disturbing images of the past few months, of the things she’d seen on the road and tried hard to forget. She could hear sounds all around her, cries of terror and voices saying desperate things that she knew she wasn’t supposed to hear. She replayed the image of Isaac deformed and malnourished, his body ravaged by the disease that took everyone else, her knife slipping into his forehead like butter. She had remembered the snap of it, the tip of the dagger hitting bone, the sound haunted her.

When she woke she was alone, looking about the room it took a moment for her to remember where she was and why she was there. She looked down at herself, she was still dressed- she was still okay. She cursed under her breath, a hand rising to her forehead from an intense pain throbbing behind her eyes. It felt like someone had smacked her in the head and she wondered if it was from the alcohol. She was never drinking again. She couldn’t believe her luck, of course she’d stumble into the house of some low life who had a pastime for date rape. 

She got out of bed, it was freezing and the middle of the night from the looks of the darkness evading the outdoors. She found a sweater left behind on a rocking chair across from the bed and swung it over her shoulders, pulling it close as she walked out into the living room to find the stranger. 

“You stayed,” she commented, a small smile on her lips though she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t know this person and she didn’t understand why he was helping her. 

“I’m Myla.” She added, sitting down on the couch and pulling her feet underneath herself to warm them. “I’ve been traveling for months to Cheyenne thinking something would be here... my friend died along the way.” It was the first time she had said it out loud and she was surprised how steady the words came out. “I’m not sure what to do now.”

[trickstcrs-blog]

“It wasn’t,” he told her, eyes on the door as he finished locking up, “but it could’ve been.” Theo didn’t take chances, not big ones. It was getting dark out and as confident as he was in his own abilities, he wasn’t stupid enough – or in the mood, for that matter – to venture out into the cold night of Cheyenne, where danger lurked at every corner. Too many things could go wrong, too much would be at stake – his life, namely. And Theo quite enjoyed living, despite the horrible state of the world. That was why he even bothered. His cool calculation when it came to aiming and shooting – when it came to killing, really – must have frightened her, this tiny bird without a nest who barely reached his shoulders, because as she spoke she started stepping back. 

If Theo were a bad person, or rather if he’d intended to hurt her, she was already screwed. The door was locked and it was their only exit. She was intoxicated and quickly falling into the hazy unknown. He was much, much bigger than her. And, lastly, as already proven, he had not hesitation when it came down to hurting. “Just a sip?” He questioned, eyebrow arched in disbelief. Just a sip wouldn’t have her wobbling from foot to foot. Just a sip wouldn’t make her lose herself. It didn’t matter how inexperienced she was with alcohol – the effects of just a sip didn’t amount to so much uncertainty.

The bottle was in her hands as she stumbled into the kitchen, and Theo didn’t need to hold the damn thing to see what she saw. No label. No notion of what was truly there. And, according to her, she hadn’t even taken a lot. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. He ripped the bottle from her hands and set it down on the counter. “Fucking hell, kid,” he muttered as she began to slide down. Theo took her arm, held her up and watched as consciousness slipped away from her eyes. 

Babysitting had not been in his plans that day. Then again, he hadn’t really made any plans at all. Selfishness told him to just let her pass out on the kitchen; whatever she’d taken it’d wear off and she’d be back to her old self when she woke back up. It wasn’t like he particularly cared for her comfort, and by the looks of this place – tiny, barely-worth-shit house – there’d only be one bed. A bed he’d planned to sleep on. Yet as the thought crossed his mind, his hands were still on her arm, and one of them had slipped to her other side to keep her up. He didn’t let her fall; that alone told him what he would do, no matter how much a great part of him preferred to just leave her there. With a huff and a clench of his teeth, he moved his arms to lift her, bridal style, and go in search of the bed. Upon finding it, he set her down. 

Theo sat on the edge of the bed for an instance, looking down at her as she lay on the dusty mattress. “This is a one time deal, okay?” He held his index finger up for emphasis. “Next time, try not to be so fucking stupid, or you’ll be all out of next times.” There were things far worse out there than Theodore Langley. “Sleep tight, kid. If you’re lucky I might still be here in the morning.”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla was at first startled when he began to hold her up, bad thoughts had so quickly invaded her head and she hadn’t been certain if this was his doing. She’d taken the drink on her own accord however, even before he’d made an appearance and yet her natural distrust of everyone made her cautious. He had, after all, locked the only exit- an indicator that should have made her fearful though it could have been to avoid those that would take advantage of a situation exactly like this. How could she have been so stupid? Drinking from an unmarked bottle, acting like her mother in times of trouble- seeking out something to get her out of her head. Now she only felt trapped in it.

She was shaking slightly in his arms, when he lifted her she swung her arms around his neck- a response she would have never done if it hadn’t been for whatever was in her system now. Her vision blurred and she was suddenly very tired, her eyes peering at him through the thick tufts of her curly hair. For a moment she was no longer here, in this world that was invaded by the living dead, in a world without the only person she’d ever dared to trust. This wasn’t a stranger carrying her, this was Isaac. 

“You smell like the forest” she mumbled, drowsy from the toxins she’d consumed. She rested her head on his shoulder before she felt herself being put down on a mattress, reaching for his hand and pulling him down to her, an ease that was only present with Isaac- that she hid from everyone else. She was in and out of what felt like a blur, one minute it was the man she’d just met and the other it was Isaac. 

“I can’t bare it” she spoke finally, “I’ve always been alone, since birth- I was alone... I don’t know if I can bare it anymore.” She shook her head slowly, “Don’t leave.” She closed her eyes, tears escaping her eyelids as they were. “Please don’t leave” she said quietly, drifting off to sleep as she held his hand in her own. 

[nari-jones-blog]

“For someone that doesn’t care whether they’re dead or alive, you’ve lasted a fairly long time. Kudos to you.” Nari replied, head cocked to the side in confusion. That attitude was useless in her books, for she was certain that if she herself did not care, she would have been dead a long time ago. Listening to the girl as she spoke, she remained silent, arms crossed. “Cheyenne?” She echoed as the girl mentioned the city. She’d heard of it previously, a long time ago - there were survivors there, and in her books they had a system, albeit somewhat loose. Definitely established, in comparison to what remained everywhere else. As long as she could gather some supplies and possibly rest for a night or two, that was enough. It wouldn’t be long before she were on her way again.

“Twenty three. And no.” Nari responded to her questions. There was never any time for drinking in her world - not socially, anyway. It had always been study this, study that - and any of the free time she found herself with meant hiking through the hills, or biking around the forest trails. If she were being truthful, there had been a time or two where she’d probably subjected herself to too much soju with her samgyeopsal, but it was never for the sole purpose of being drunk. Alcohol didn’t excite her in the same way it did others - she saw it as nothing but a pointlessly physically and mentally impairing substance. “And I’ve no desire to. Especially not in these circumstances.”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla shrugged at the girl, it was clear that they were from very different backgrounds and even more so, very different head spaces. She looked her over once more, this was the type of girl that would survive- not her, she’d just been lucky, this girl was probably clever. She pointed to the cupboards where she’d found the can of peaches prior and held up her bag, a protruding bundle that was heavy enough to make her tired but full enough to keep her fed for awhile. “I already grabbed as much as I could carry- you can have the rest,” she bit the inside of her cheek and stayed where she was, this girl as it stood was literally a buzz kill. She almost laughed to herself, she assumed that was the alcohol kicking in.

She hopped back up on the counter top, not wanting to disturb the girl for any longer and wanting to get back to her current downward spiral. She took another drink and wondered why it smelled and tasted like the bottom of a bottle of aspirin. Was this really what her friends had all been raving about last year? She didn’t necessarily get the thrill but she wanted to find out. It wasn’t this woman’s responsibility to take care of her, if Myla got into trouble it would be on her own terms and she was fine with that. She was reckless about it. 

“Where are you from?” she asked, making conversation out of a pure sense of loneliness.

[jasonhwang-blog1]

Who emerged wasn’t what he expected. He didn’t expect the sound to be made by a female, and he certainly didn’t expect her to actually show herself. Jason’s been around skilled survivors and seen enough action on TV to know that the girl wasn’t holding her knife quite right. Being unskilled with knives as well, Jason thought he wouldn’t have made the stance better himself.

“I have a…” he tightened his grip around the handle of his metal bat and let a few moments of silence pass before lowering it. To show his submissive side. To show that he won’t do no harm if she doesn’t. “We make quite the deadliest threats, don’t we?” Relaxing, he leaned against the doorway. The girl got here first, so in this apocalyptic world, she’s basically its temporary owner. It’s her shelter. So Jason stood there, not even trying to step inside unless she invited him in.

“Alright, I am not alone. My buddy will come in a bit and he will be very suspicious of you. I need to know I won’t be making the mistake of stopping him from interrogating you or anything. You’re just here to take shelter, right? Find food? Hide from the undead?” Jason had to ask these questions. After all, he’s always had the initiative to help people, especially those who had it hard. Looking at her, it surprised him that she would even get this far.

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla stared at the metal bat in his hands with a look of wonder, it was a much better weapon than the measly kitchen knife she was holding and there was no question who would win in such a fight. She lowered hers too, mirroring his action with a small sigh of relief though she still held her ground. “I’m not sure about that” she looked down at the knife in her hand again, “I’m pretty sure you could of knocked this knife from my hand pretty easily,” she bit her lip and once again questioned how the hell she was surviving so far. Years of trying to be invisible and silent had prepared her she supposed. The only weapon she’d been carrying around was a tube of pepper spray that another survivor had handed her on the walk to Cheyenne. As though pepper spray was going to do her any good facing the undead. 

She nodded in response to his questions, “I don’t want any trouble- I was just looking for food” she swallowed, she was giving away so much to this absolute stranger who for all she knew wasn’t a saint. So he wasn’t hurting her now? Who was to say he wouldn’t when his partner came around? Her natural distrust for people made her uneasy and the alcohol she had consumed prior had made it worse. 

“I have someone coming too” she lied, stumbling over her words a little as the swigs of cheap vodka caught up to her. “They’ll also be suspicious. Are you here for the same?” She looked back at the kitchen, thought of the cans of food she’d found and her relief when she had and wondered how much she should give him or how much he might take. 

[trickstcrs-blog]

The transition from common con man to survivor hadn’t exactly been too difficult for Theo. The rules of his old world still vastly applied: be selfish, take what you can, move on. The only thing added to the mix was the killing; obligatory, of course. And then there was the matter of electricity and waterworks, but the loss – or rather, rarity – of those, was paled in comparison to the fresh blood on his hands. The first few times he could feel the dry, red substance under his fingernails like dirt. As if he’d dug his fingers deep into the earth, only the soil turned sour, turned to blood, and there it stayed. He’d never been able to scrub it off. He’d learned to deal with it, though. Learned to get over it and continue putting one foot in front of the other. 

The thing about Theo was this: as much as he liked to think himself as one, he was not a monster. He felt too much, too vibrantly, for that to be true. He was merely an ordinary man thrust into extraordinary circumstances and shaped into being the person he was. Fear of rejection led him to isolation. Fear of abandonment led him to run. Every brick to every wall he built had been placed carefully and deliberately, just to keep that organ in his chest beating in a functional way. Just to keep himself safe. Monsters didn’t do that. Scared boys did.

Theo blatantly ignored her question, at least, for the moment. He had bigger things in mind. The man was fully focused on figuring out how many undead were at the front door. The glass on the door told him that his assumptions had been correct. One. Just one. But if it didn’t quiet down, what with its groaning and moaning and scratching, there’d be more. There was nothing worse than a group of undead, loitering nearby and blocking exits. What they couldn’t do independently they more then made up for in numbers. Theo was quick to tear the door open, and once the corpse lunged at him a single shot, silenced, went through the undead’s forehead. A single instant and it was dead. 

“Do you usually try to start conversation with danger nearby,” he began as he shut the door, secured it and turned to her, “or is that tiny sip of vodka getting to your head already?”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla watched with wide eyes as the man took a quick shot, the only sound she could hear in the silence being the zombie’s body hitting the floor. The shot in the head resulted in a spray of blood soaking the concrete, an image that she’d seen time and time again these past few months. She bit her lip, staring at the undead thing, wondering who it must have been before all of this. His precision and quickness urged her to believe that this was definitely not his first. “It doesn’t seem like it was very dangerous for you” she spoke, watching him shut the door. She looked at his hands, they weren’t shaking- he wasn’t out of breath and there certainly wasn’t any sort of fear in his eyes. She stood back a bit, contemplating just who she’d chosen to spark a conversation with. 

“I’m not drunk.” She said quickly, not wanting him to know that any sort of guard was down. The type of people who were surviving in this world now usually weren’t like her. She’d concluded that the only reason she was still alive was her strong ability to be invisible to others, she’d grown up making as little noise as possible, never wanting to wake the drunk foster father on the couch or let her foster mother hear her when she exited through the kitchen door to avoid it all. She was good at being invisible, observing what others were doing and keeping away from everyone. It was her only strength. How had she been so careless as to drink a swig of vodka in an unlocked house in a city that used to be filled with people?

“I only had like a sip” she lied, moving towards the kitchen to get her bag, now filled to the brim with cans of food she’d rifled from the cupboard, her walking was a little unsteady and it felt as though she was wading through water- her legs heavy. What had she drank? Should she have avoided a mysterious glass of what looked like cheap vodka in the back of someone’s cupboard? “I should get going” she hoped she was saying, her tongue heavy in her mouth, her paranoia of this stranger raging. She felt a cold sweat hit her hard, the room starting to jet forward and back like she was on a merry go round, she grabbed the bottle she’d been drinking earlier- looked for a label and found that it had been scraped off by someone. What had she drank? This didn’t feel like what she thought being drunk would be like- she felt like she was fading quickly.

She paled, holding on to the counter top for support. She felt really sick, so spinney so quickly. She’d heard stories from girls in her high school, stories of getting smashed and also stories that were whispered, stories of girls taking sips of mysterious drinks and waking up later to find their underwear on the ground. She bit her lip. How had she been so naive? What if this had all been a trick?

“I don’t feel well” she said, sliding down the side of the cupboard- her eyes feeling heavy. 

[cosancstraarchive]

“Alone? That makes the two of us, I guess.” But Rory sensed that they weren’t just talking about right now. That somehow reassured her that maybe after all she was just meeting another rogue - like her, but not quite. They weren’t hostile, as far as she knew, but she didn’t put away her weapon and instead dropped her hands to her side. “I’m not going to cause you any trouble either - just don’t give me a reason to use my gun.” It was a lousy attempt at breaking the tension, a joke that’s missing a punchline. 

As she moved further towards the voice, Rory could fully make out who she was talking to. A new face - someone she hasn’t met as of yet and right off the bat, she was already willing to give half of what she’d already found. Suspicion was a feeling that lasted for less than three seconds, but she could hear the truth in her last phrase. Offering food like she thought it would drive trouble away - and Rory was glad that she found her, because she knew that tactic didn’t exactly work with other people. As kind as she was, Rory was running low on food herself and she wasn’t going to decline it. But that didn’t mean she had to completely forget her manners. “Are you sure?” 

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla looked her over once again, she looked similar to herself, though Myla assumed she could handle herself much better than she ever could. She nodded, handing over some cans and saving another can of peaches in her bag without reveal. She could hear a soft murmuring outside, almost like a steady buzz to warn them that soon they wouldn’t be alone at all. Myla’s nose twitched and she went back into the kitchen, slowly opening the curtain to see where it was coming from- in a short distance was a crowd of walkers, a group that was probably never lonely. She bent down as if zombies could scope the windows- her heart suddenly quickening its pace. 

“The undead-” she whispered urgently, her eyes shooting to the still open front door as she darted for it. “There’s a crowd of them! They’re coming this way!” She locked the door to the house, as though zombies were polite enough to knock or something. Her eyes darted around her surroundings, wondering if just staying inside this locked up house would keep them safe. She thought back again to that bottle of alcohol.

“We should hide.”

[nari-jones-blog]

“Advice.” Nari replied swiftly, a nonchalant tone to her voice. “That I’d follow, if I were you. Of course, it is merely a suggestion,” with a shrug of her shoulders, she scanned the woman over, “I mean, if you want to die a horrible death due to nothing but the fact you would have impaired your motor skills then be my guest. Could you imagine?”

The creak of a floorboard caused Nari to step back, head whipping around to investigate - it was nothing, though you could never be too sure. Turning back to the stranger, her arms folded defensively across her chest - at least she wasn’t dealing with someone newly infected. Those were always the hardest to kill - there was still something so real about them. Besides, she had her hands wrapped around a glass bottle. People were so on edge these days that it didn’t really take her by surprise that the stranger was preparing to protect herself. “More of me? No, no. I do this alone… By choice. I have noticed there are plenty of people around, however. Is there an established city near by?”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

She shrugged, looking again at the bottle of alcohol. “I’m not sure I care anymore about whether or not I live or die... at this point I’d almost rather leave it up to chance. I guess I’m still figuring things out.” She put the bottle down when the girl glanced at it- there was a good chance that this girl could hurt her but honestly Myla didn’t really care anymore. 

“I haven’t even turned twenty one yet- I’m eighteen. In high school I always thought drinking was stupid. I rolled my eyes at parties when people did regretful things because they weren’t sober. Now I might die and I’ll of never even known what it was like to be drunk.” She shook her head, she was rambling- maybe the alcohol was working after all. 

“This is Cheyenne. Or what used to be Cheyenne. It’s not exactly established anymore.” She sighed, she’d thought there’d be something here, some kind of safe haven but there’d been nothing at all. Just other people like her, alone and trying to survive. “How old are you?” She asked, holding the bottle of alcohol in her hand once more. “Have you ever been drunk before?”

[cosancstraarchive]

As the stranger spoke, Rory slowly lowered her gun as she took a few cautious steps forward. At least it was human, alive and well, though she could only hope so. In this day and age, it was more about surviving. There was so much you can do when your primary goal was to get to a safe shelter, eat proper food and keep hydrated. If she were honest, it was a miracle that she even made it this far. Waiting for a response to a stupid question made her heart race, so much so that instead of answering them, Rory blew air out of her mouth in relief - only to hold her breath again. Whoever was in this house could be dangerous, and Rory didn’t want to get into any trouble today. 

“Yeah. I’m alone.” She paused, stopped in her tracks as she looked around her for various things. Rory knew how people acted, that they’d do anything for what they needed and wanted - nowadays, it was more extreme. She wasn’t sure if ambushes were common on lonely survivors, but she knew it happened. If this was one of those, she better find out a faster way to escape. Running for the door was instinct and so, Rory thought, it’d be guarded to some point. It was a risk, to ask if the stranger was alone. But she did it anyways. “Are you alone?” 

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla thought about her question for a moment, the question itself was something she’d asked herself everyday for her entire life. She could still remember glimpses of her mother, high off her mind, letting her crawl around on her knees on a dusty floor of glass and hypodermic needles. She’d been alone then. Flash forward to nights of terror in a bedroom full of children who hadn’t yet reached their growth milestones, stunted by their own nightmares as they all listened to their foster parents arguing in the hallway. She’d stare into each one of their tiny eyes in hopes that one could understand her own fear but the image staring back had been blank and unresponsive- she’d been alone. 

And now, without Isaac, the only person she’d ever known to be a counter- to be something other than just a stranger was gone. Taken by this disease, turning him into what they’d run from for months and ending him by her own knife. 

“I’m alone.”

She pulled off a strap to her backpack and started unzipping the top flap, she took out a few cans and shrugged. “I found food- you’re welcome to half. I don’t want trouble.”

[trickstcrs-blog]

Such a tiny thing she was, all skin and bones and angel face. As if she’d been placed in this world to bring big, tough men to their knees. It was girls like her, with sweetness thrust upon them that could ruin – would ruin – any man. Theo was a firsthand victim of this, and like a fool without any lessons learned, he fell for it time and time again. It occurred to him that this was his weakness. These tiny moments of seeing something beautiful, likely because beauty had been a thing that was never meant to be held by filthy hands like his. And yet, idiots still tried. He still tried.

And this tiny girl was innocent – very much so. She was likely still just a teenager. Just. So was Ingrid, wasn’t she? But that just teenager had gotten the best of him. This one was likely no different, and perhaps, like Ingrid, she held venom under her honey tongue. “If you’re already thinking you’ll die, then you will.” It wasn’t about optimism, per say. It was about motivation. If he would’ve thought that way, he’d be long dead by now.

If it wasn’t for the distinct sound of movement, he might’ve actually volunteered to look after her while she got that curiosity for alcohol out of her system. Theo Langley would’ve done that, out of the kindness of his heart. What a laugh! Perhaps innocence was his weakness. Perhaps he was not as mean as he’d convinced himself, and most of the world, to be. Perhaps when it came right down to it, his soft spots were likely to persuade him. And perhaps he was growing tired of being the Big Bad Wolf. Perhaps. 

“It’s just me,” he told her, voice low and careful as he drew his gun out. It was a nice little thing, silencer attached to it. He snatched it off some sorry sucker who’d been much to slow on the draw. Said man was long dead now, no thanks to Theo. The sounds continued and it became evident that they were dealing with the undead rather than another human. Sloppy movements and far too much noise made that fact crystal clear. “I’ll get it,” he told her, moving towards the sound.

Myla looked at the gun in his hand, she’d seen a gun before but not one that was used with any purpose. She’d watched her foster father with a BB gun shoot cans in their backyard when he was drunk, he’d almost hit one of the little ones, she’d actually scolded him the next day. He’d threatened to shoot her in the leg with it but when she started to avoid him he’d insisted that it had only been a joke. His comment earlier seemed foreboding now, like at any moment she’d be just like the rest of them. She wondered if it was better that way, if being dead was much greater than being alive but something inside her still wanted to exist, still had some fight.

She hesitated, watching him move toward the sound. She hadn’t killed many zombies, Isaac had done the deed when the little ones turned. She’d begged him to do it because she couldn’t bare the thought of them walking around like that. It had been a selfish thing to ask then, she knew it had hurt him- it had to of, it had broke her when she had had to kill him. She’d stabbed him in the head, a brutal and passionate killing that had left her rattled for days. She hadn’t eaten because she hadn’t found food but it was more than that, she hadn’t eaten because she wasn’t hungry. She was barely living and honestly it didn’t feel that different than how life had been before Isaac. 

She could feel the alcohol rumbling around in her empty stomach, it had taken its toll because she was thinking about a lot more than she wanted to. She felt a bit sick, a bit looser and a bit spinney but she held it together. It was one thing for this stranger to have to protect her but she wouldn’t make him take care of her too. 

“Who are you?” she called after him quietly, though she knew the moment was wrong- a dangerous situation didn’t call for simple conversation. She wanted to know.

[mylamontgomery-blog]

[jessicasulafans]

[trickstcrs-blog]

Theodore Langley’s life could be summed up in a series of unfortunate events turned on their heads. Bad luck was like a trademark in his hands and much to the man’s liking, he’d been blessed with the ability to make the most of horrid situations. Like some kind of coin, maybe, he had the best of both sides. It’d been his quick mind that saved him, time and time again. His adaptation skills that let him morph in and out of scenarios and weave tapestries of deception to keep him going. It wasn’t chance that kept his house stocked to the brim or his backpack full. It was his own brilliance. Even if, later, his own stupidity would get him into different stages of trouble. Not that it mattered. He’d make it out. He always did. 

It was not without precaution and perception that he survived, however. He was meticulous and careful. One of his rules was, then, not to shrink himself into a poor, pathetic being by consuming toxic substances. Drugs, alcohol – he had them all in stock, he just didn’t use them. Theo left those for other suckers, other idiots willing to risk their life for a small instance of peace. But he would not stoop so low. He wouldn’t risk it.

As he saw her, small and lithe and oh so delicate – a tiny butterfly barely out of her cocoon – his grey morality told him to just let it be. Let her drink herself to an early grave. Weakness for others, empathy for others, was something he’d done an almost fantastic job of discarding. There were rare moments, though, so minuscule and nonexistent that one would have to abstain from blinking to catch a glimpse, when Theo Langley did bother with others. Moments when the man allowed some form of kindness to slip past his miserable, selfish hands. This was one of thomse moments. “I’d stay away from the cheap alcohol if I were you, kid, it won’t be doing your liver or your head any good.”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla jumped at the sound of a man’s voice, looking up to find a living breathing person in front of her. She was naturally distrustful of people, a characteristic contrived from years of people letting her down. She didn’t really believe that others could be kind, not without selfish reasons. She supposed she was sort of destined for the world she was in now, a world where everyone was only looking out for themselves. She looked down at the bottle in her hand, the taste in her mouth was like rubbing alcohol, the smell itself made her want to gag but there was something about drinking it. Not to numb herself, though she didn’t exactly despise that outcome but in seeing what it felt like. 

“I’ve never drank before” she spoke, almost just to herself. She looked up at the man, rugged but healthy- he didn’t look as starved or desperate as the others she’d seen but that sadness, the one that was in everyone now, that had been inside her forever, showed through his eyes like a dark pool to drown in. “I probably won’t survive to see twenty one” she let out a small laugh, a sound that seemed unfamiliar. “Not that that really seems to matter-” she looked off before setting the bottle down and jumping off the counter top.

She wondered momentarily if she should be afraid of this man, she had after all heard terrible stories of the groups of survivors out there. There was people who had turned even more cruel in this madness, who cared little of others and intended to make matters even worse. Stories of rape, theft and careless murder. She knew to keep her guard up but she also knew very little about protecting herself. It was a miracle and pure resourcefulness that had kept her alive till now. 

A clatter and movement interrupted the moment, her eyes darting to where she assumed it must be coming from- just outside the apartment. “Are you alone?”

[nari-jones-blog]

The noise of a tin clanging against the tiles immediately sent Nari into fight mode. She was certain that she’d cleared the bottom floor - though the door was off it’s hinges - and within a few seconds her knife was in her hand, and she was creeping swiftly towards the source of the noise. Was it in the kitchen? Surely it was nothing, but you could never be too certain.

Peering around the corner, what met her gaze was not one of the undead, no - the woman seemed human enough, polishing off a can of tinned peaches before reaching towards what Nari believed was something alcoholic.

“Probably a bad choice.” Nari stated boldly as she stepped around the corner, making herself known, knife at the ready - you could never be too careful, and besides, god knows whether this woman had been bitten. She never really understood those that chose to impair their skills in that way, and though she’d never really been much of a drinker, she knew now wasn’t the time to start. After all, you were as good as dead if caught off-guard. “It’s not exactly safe, this building.” Keeping her distance as she looked the woman over, Nari decided that she didn’t look like the type to put up a fight - but needed to assess whether she was entirely human before stabbing her in the chest. Conversation was good for that kind of thing - after being infected, people didn’t exactly have their head straight. “And I’m not going to be here much longer to save your intoxicated ass.”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla jumped at the sound of another person in the room, sh’d expected zombies in this place, sure, but not another leaving breathing person. She wondered if she should be afraid- she’d heard stories. Myla looked at the bottle in her hands and then stared back at the woman curiously, the knife in her hand clearly being made present. She clutched the bottle, it was really her only weapon now. A quick hit on the head and maybe she could run for it- what if this was a survivor driven crazy by all the madness? What if she wanted whatever this kitchen contained. Her stomach growled but she could live without more food if it meant escaping this situation. 

“”Is that advice or a threat?” She hopped off the counter top. Myla wasn’t exactly the type to get into fights- she’d never shown much aggression, anger sure but nothing physical. She was pretty positive she couldn’t handle herself in most situations and yet here she was while Isaac was dead, alive.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.” She bit the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit. “Is there more of you?” She assumed most people had found groups, she’d seen groups of survivors together on their way to Cheyenne but they’d avoided them out of a distrust for people in general. Even before zombies took over the world. 

[cosancstraarchive]

She’d gotten used to it - at least, that’s what she wants to believe. She’d gotten used to the whole new world thing, and so much so that sometimes she’d be out on a scavenging hunt and when she sees a lone walker by itself, waves a hello like they were a person. Like this rotting corpse was a friend. It would’ve been acceptable, in a way, if she did this act during her first few days in Cheyenne considering that she didn’t know anyone at all. But now, it just seemed unusual. So when her eyes caught a glimpse of a limping corpse, a groan emitting from what was left of its mouth a few ways away, Rory waved at it before turning all her attention to the house she’d stopped at. As if the zombie would say hi back - and maybe, just maybe, Rory was starting to see people from home in the faces of the undead. Was that sad? 

The door is open and Rory, cautious as ever, lightly kicked it open with her boot. She took out her gun, head turning here and there as her ears attempted to pick up any noise. It reminded her too much of when she was a kid, when she’d visit her dad and he had the door to his office closed - six year old Rory knew he had people in there, that he had a meeting and yet she pressed her ear against the closed door. And when a crashing sound rang in her ears, obviously Rory was afraid. Something was in here, but she wasn’t quite sure. She waited, until she heard the scuffling - and, was someone opening a can? 

“Hello?” She called out, thankful that her voice didn’t crack at all. “Is anyone there?” 

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla’s head snapped up to the sound of a voice at the door, she paused and took a giant swig of vodka, gagging at the taste before quickly hopping off the counter top. She was aware that there was other survivors but she hadn’t expected to run into one so quickly and it sort of frightened her. She didn’t really like people, she didn’t trust them, for whatever reason she always expected the worst rather than the best. Zombies taking over the world definitely wasn’t going to change that. She’d heard stories, terrible things as they’d gotten closer and closer to Cheyenne and more and more people were seen on the long roads to and from it. People who were no better off than her, some who were somehow even worse. It was everyone for themselves now- Myla supposed she should be used to that feeling. 

She quickly grabbed some cans from the shelf she’d been rifling through and started packing up her backpack. If this person had any sort of ill intent she’d simply run, her earnings stuck to her back. She didn’t want to starve another three days straight. That had been rough. She’d barely had the energy to break into this place. 

She turned the corner to the kitchen and faced the doorway, it was a young girl- maybe even her age. 

“Are you alone?” She thought but said out loud. 

[jasonhwang-blog1]

Something suspicious was inside, Jason was sure of it. Zombies would’ve made more than that single sound of metal hitting kitchen tile if there were more than one of them inside. Even if it was only one zombie, it still would’ve made a series of sound. Someone was in there. A rogue? A bitten survivor? A bitten survivor contemplating which way out was better and quick? Whatever it was that made the sound, they’re either someone who’s alone for a purpose or someone who has been waiting for a rescue since forever.

He was supposed to be in the group’s meeting place in about 30 minutes, agreeing that this trip should be a quick one given the dangers they’ve encountered around this part of the town last week. They wouldn’t have gone back if it weren’t for the abundant car parts they could scavenge out of the huge parking lot. Jason wouldn’t have come along if it weren’t for his knowledge of what goods the other campsites were willing to trade resources for. But here he was, about to search a building with his buddy. 10 minutes hasn’t even passed since his buddy went to the back, making sure that there won’t be bad surprises when they exit the building, when Jason heard that sound.

With his fist around the handle of his metal bat, he was ready to swing as he stood by the doorway. “Hello?” He called, rather loudly. His voice echoed through the walls, half of his body hiding behind the frame of the entrance. “I know you’re a person. If you have a gun, don’t shoot at me. I’d shoot back at you and we don’t want any zombie attention.”

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Myla froze when she heard a voice, the sound of the simple greeting made her both frightened and excited all at the same time. She’d met people here and there as they’d traveled to Cheyenne but people had mostly kept to themselves, it was every man or woman for themselves- this didn’t seem to be a world for camaraderie anymore. At least not out there. She’d even heard rumors of packs of people living like savages, stealing food from other groups, killing people who weren’t even infected for selfish reasons and raping women. The stories had made her cringe, though she found that she’d never really trusted people before, her fear of others had only grown. 

She lifted herself off the counter gently, not making a peep as she slowly pulled open a few of the kitchen doors, clenching her teeth at any sound of a creak. She found a kitchen knife, the blade dull but the look of it aggressive enough to hopefully scare someone off. 

“I don’t have a gun.” She called back, slowly making her way out of the kitchen, prepared to face this person, this stranger, on her own. She held out her knife awkwardly, unsure of how to show aggression. “But I have a knife.”

[jessicasulafans]

[mylamontgomery-blog]

Since birth Myla had wondered if she was lucky or unlucky, she supposed anyone could argue either for them self and it was a debate she ticked off side by side. She was alive, lucky. She was alive, unlucky. She could counter each occurrence in her life just like that. She had foster parents, lucky. She had foster parents, unlucky. She wished that for once, not everything was a sharp double edged sword- she’d thought that Isaac was that. But when she’d ended his infected ravaged body, she realized very suddenly that he’d only been disguised as something good in her life, something she’d be unlucky to lose. 

Myla’s stomach growled in reply to a cabinet creaking open, letting out stale air and a can too close to a shelves edge. She dodged it narrowly, hearing it smack down on the kitchen tile. The sound was deafening in contrast with the quiet, a silence that only belonged to the dead. Or what used to be the dead. She cringed at the sound, her fingernails poking nervously into the palms over her hands and her lips tightly smashed together in fear that something would make a sound back. She was relieved to hear nothing at all, this had to be lucky.

She found a can opener and ripped off the lid, drinking the sweet juice of peaches and devouring them with her finger. The nectar ran down her arms and she lifted herself onto the counter to see the back of the cabinet more clearly. A thin glass bottle was tucked neatly away in the far end, hiding from anyone irresponsible enough to find. She opened the cap and took a swig, cheap vodka, lucky or unlucky?