There’s a gun in his hand that
he’s not entirely sure he can
use; he hated them, was scared
of them, once.
But he can’t afford to be that
way now. Not if he wants to
stay a l i v e.
(He’s still not entirely sure
that he does.)
He trips over the hand, the
zombie, the child, and recoils.
“Shit. Fuck. It’s a—”
It’s a kid. And that terrifies
him.
❛she’s not… . . she’s so
weak, you know, we could
just leave her, yeah?❜
call her a sissy, but she’s not too
keen on shooting a third grader in
the face. the hand that holds her
gun, no longer shakes as it would
such a short time ago, but is firm.
unyielding. ready to shoot if a threat
arises, which, she doesn’t see from
the writhing body below them.
❛ … she’s so weak…
she’s not going to hurt us, so
let’s… not hurt her.❜