grumpyimmortalsnaillove-blog

[grumpyimmortalsnaillove-blog]

Apocalypse, Please

Thump. Another body hit the dust.

Thump. And another.

When did it come down to this? How the hell did she get here? The Italian woman whirled around, her Beretta hot to the touch, and shoved the barrel of the gun into a diseased ridden, frothing mouth. The gun went off with a pop and another body was added to the pile at her feet. How long had she been at this? An hour? Several? Days?

“You are very experienced with killing. No wonder you could take out my guards so easily. I admire your skills…Fiammella.”

The dark-haired woman tossed a pointed glare in the direction of the speaker for a split moment. Fiammella. A pointless name she earned in her years of travel. She only allowed it because it was better than her real name, Zara Aquati, being whispered around the nation. Her attention turned back to the snarling matters at hand. If only she could find a break in this deadly dance, then maybe she could throw an actual dagger instead of a metaphorical one. As it was, the waves of undead was unrelenting and they certainly weren’t letting up despite the growing numbers of dead piling at the edges.

Ever since the former police officer entered The Den, things had gone from sketchy to complete shit storm in less than 24 hours. All because she broke a few of their rules. (Granted, they only had three.) But the one she broke was punishable by death. Don’t. Fuck. With the Denmother.

But Zara couldn’t help herself. Child trafficking. Senseless murder. A practical dictatorship. At first glance The Den seemed like a haven for the weary and the business savvy, but for any amateur sleuth- it was plain to see the darkness behind the false light. A few attempts at a lock, a well-timed guard, blunt trauma to the head and then she woke up to find herself inside a pit. All for trying to free the children held captive here. For that crime, she awoke in the Fighting Pit with the roar of jeers and drumming all around her. And the commanding voice of the head bitch in charge as she gave her guest an official welcome and an introduction for the night’s entertainment.

The rules were very simple. If you lived through the Pit, you were innocent and pardoned. Die…and you were found guilty. Depending on the crime, one could find themselves patrolling the trench…with all the other Zs. Punishments here were extended even after death.

So, what could she do besides fight? Though her muscles ached and her body screamed for relief, she pushed herself to fight harder. Her movements were getting sloppy but were becoming more aggressive. Her gun had run out of bullets and the clips on her hip were all empty. She had resorted to using her hunting knife and a sharpened mandible bone of a bovine that had been chucked at her near the start. An assassination attempt gone wrong. For them, at least.

After years of rigorous police training and clumsy experience in the apocalypse, the officer had become a well-versed dancer on the field. Her movements were always precise, quick and well thought out. The less stamina used, the better. But she was way past that. This dance had gone on for far too long and she was losing strength and focus. She hated close combat. She avoided it at all cost if she could. Putting forth the effort of bludgeoning her opponent was too taxing. Yet here she was. Using every muscle in her body just to pull through this fight alive. With every body added to the count- with every swing she took, she would pay it all back to the Denmother who stood watching in the box in the stands. She wasn’t exactly counting, but she would make damn sure she wasn’t moving after the first hit.

Zara could feel the Denmother’s eyes boring into her as she slashed through the onslaught of Zs. Watching and judging. It was said before that no one had ever survived the Pit. Well, this girl was going to make history for these savage heathens.

Finally, the Zs seemed to thin out. The gates on either side of her slowly lowered shut and it took all of her strength and will power not to collapse ontop of the bodies at her feet. She stood her ground and stared down the woman responsible. The crowd went from a deafening howl to a stunned silence. The Denmother was not much for conversation, but Zara could practically see the woman squirm beneath her dominating exterior for a source of words. Finally, she seemed to find them after an agonizing moment of awkward silence.

“Interesting. I have never seen someone with that much determination to live.  Or with the skills to.” A light brow rose and Zara could faintly see the corners of her mouth lift into a smile. Zara could almost feel the blood in her veins begin to boil. This was all a game to her and her band of Wild Ones. Zara, the kids, life in general. They never looked beyond the span of a day and lived as if they would never see the sun rise again.

“That is because I don’t live for myself. I live to protect.” Zara hissed venomously through her teeth. Would it be murder to slay such a conniving, controlling bitch? She was seriously contemplating throwing her hunting knife at her. She was completely confident she could hit her mark.

“I see. None the less, you have survived The Pit and I am a woman of my word.” The crowd erupted with a slew of hisses and boos. She gracefully rose a sun kissed hand and the crowd fell silent once more. “We are honorable people, my Children. And this woman has paid her crimes and earned her freedom. As well as my respect.”

Zara looked around the stands. The stoic faces stared back at her with hard, unfeeling eyes through their war paint and colored dust. They didn’t want her there anymore than she wanted to be there. They wished for her death in that filthy, blood covered trench. And they were robbed of their ultimate entertainment for the evening. Zara never claimed to be an entertainer. She was a survivor.

The main gate to The Pit opened and two guards stood at the entrance. Zara cautiously walked between them. She clutched the handle of the knife and the bone until her knuckles turned white. The two guards wearing animal skin and covered head to toe in paint, flanked Zara and politely directed her towards the center of the city. They didn’t speak for the entire walk, but they didn’t have to. Zara knew exactly their destination and she preferred silence to idle chit chat anyways.

The three walked for what seemed like an hour until they arrived at some large historical looking building. After the fight and the long walk, Zara felt as if she were ready to collapse. She was walking sluggishly, dragging her feet with every step and the guards had taken notice. They slowed their pace to match hers and one even offered to carry her. She hardened her expression and growled out a refusal, but the offer confused her more so than humbling her. What were they playing at? Welcoming her to the city, bludgeoning her, throwing her in The Pit and then showing her hospitality?! The Den seemed like a fucked up place to her and she wasn’t entirely sure as to why the place gathered so much fame and praise from travelers.

Not wanting to speak, she kept her curiosity bottled within as she shuffled into the building with silence. Inside was lit with barrels of fire and strands upon strands of holiday lights. The Wild Ones did not want for much. They had most of what they wanted and needed right there. Electricity was one lavish luxury of The Den and they made a show of it by lighting the city up with thousands of lights and using every scrap of outdated tech they could scavenge.

The middle of the foyer seemed to be remodeled as a throne room of sorts, with a custom chair made of bone and rich cloth. In the throne sat the Denmother- her smoldering earthy eyes rested solely on Zara as she entered the room. Zara couldn’t read her expression but she didn’t seem happy, as one would say. The two guards that flanked her sides came up and put a hand on her shoulder-and forcibly pushed down.

Zara’s instincts kicked in. No matter how tired and aching her boy was, she took the right one’s hand and flipped him over her side and took the other’s arm and twisted. A crack echoed through the hall along with an ear curdling scream. The guards in the hall began to yell and surround her. Guns, spears, knives, and makeshift weapons were now all on her.

“Leave her.” The Denmother ordered as she rose from her throne and began to approach the assailant. Not one ounce of fear could be found on her poker-faced expression. Either she did not fear death or she was cocky enough to believe she could escape it. The guards at her side gave her a concerned look and she waved them away. They all begrudgingly left the hall, leaving Zara alone with the Denmother.

“Quite a performance. They call you Fiamella around the apocalypse. Little Flame. I see why now. You have a vivid spark that surrounds you. It’s quite fetching.”

“Enough bullshit. I didn’t come her for your praise.”

The Denmother smiled and let out a light chuckle at Zara’s temper. “No, indeed you did not. I came to make peace. Maybe we can help each other.”

“Ha. Maybe you should have thought of that before you threw me in the Pit,” Zara spat. This woman had nothing she wanted and there was no way in Hell that she would ever work for her. “Besides, you won’t agree to my terms. You won’t let the children go free, will you now?” Zara eyed her coldly.

The Denmother’s expression softened, as if Zara’s words wounded her. “Like so many before you, you wish to free the children. I only keep them for their own wellbeing-“

“Are you fucking insane? They are locked in cages!”

“Yes. For their protection.”

This made Zara’s mouth close. Protection? They looked like they were miserable and she had even seen firsthand how they were sold off to travelers. Her dark brows narrowed at the Denmother. The Denmother sighed, as if she had told this spiel a million times over. Though it was not so. She never explained her methods to anyone. But Zara was different. She was a force to be reckoned with and she did not wish to piss off the Italian any more than she already had- for fear of her people and what she stood for.

“I don’t just sell the children. I find them homes. Each person who buys a child from me signs a contract with me. They are to care for the child with decency. Some are sold as slaves, and some as companions. But even if they are sold as slaves, they are to be treated respectfully. I keep a record of all the children that pass these walls and, trust me, I do know if they are being mistreated. If they are, I send out a strike team to return to the child back to the Den.

The children are kept in cages because they are mischievous. Some have it in their heads that they are prisoners here and that they can make it out there on their own. Perhaps they can. But why take a chance when I can keep them safely locked away in here where there is food, shelter, human interaction. At a certain age, they have the choice to strike out on their own…or join as my children. Most stay within the Den. My methods may be harsh, Fiammella, but my reasons are just. If you disagree then fine. But do not get in my way.”

The Denmother slowly went back to her chair and sat down, tossing her long blonde curls over her shoulder as she did. Zara shifted her weight, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. The woman was a snob, but apparently not heartless. Zara looked down at her feet and began to chuckle. The Denmother took on an expression of utter confusion as she cocked her head to the side and eyed her carefully. It wasn’t often that Zara was wrong. She automatically assumed the worst of people in this god-forsaken world. Alive as they may have been, most were more of a monster than the Zs could ever be. She assumed the Denmother was one of them. A dictating cult leader who lead a band of murdering crazies. But perhaps she was wrong.

“Perhaps travelling alone has made you a bit…paranoid.” The Denmother chose her words carefully. “How about an able travelling companion, Fiammella? Or two.” They both looked at each other with guarded smiles.

A travelling companion? Zara had never thought about it. Travelling alone had its benefits, but so did traveling with a group. She looked up and shook her head after a moment of consideration. “No. I don’t need some kid to slow me down. I have-“

“These aren’t just children. Not the ones I am offering you,” The Denmother interrupted with a wry smile. She then stood and made way for a side exit, stopping only to beckon Zara to follow before disappearing behind the iron door. “Come.”

Zara paused, wondering if she should trust this woman. She didn’t seem to be on the offensive now and she was fairly certain she could escape any trap the Denmother may have in store. Zara wasn’t your average survivor after all. After a slight hesitation of deliberation, she shuffled forward and followed the Denmother out of the Hall. Perhaps one day she would learn to stifle her insatiable curiosity. But that would be on another day…