The barrel of her massive sniper rifle stares me in the face while the iron sights of my lever action fixate on her forehead.
Between us is a knocked over vending machine, which she clearly already has dibs on. I was just walking home, passed through the wrong alleyway, and stumbled across this by total accident. Now we're both locked on, wondering who's going to shoot first.
Rather me than her. My finger itches the trigger.
Rather we both walk away from this than kill her though.
Why? Because she's goddamn stunning. Even in this miserable sweltering shithole of a ruined city, she's wearing a yellow fucking sundress. Her long brown hair looks like she just walked out of a salon, ten years after they stopped existing. Her cheeks, rosy from the heat, are splashed with cute freckles. Bare legs stand wide apart, and she's at least wearing sturdy boots, so that's something.
Despite looking so damn pretty, her green eyes are deadly.
She's just as willing to pull the trigger as I am.
So why hasn''t she? Why haven't I?
I croak the first words between us. "Big gun for such a pretty girl. You sure you know how to use that thing? Safety off?"
She doesn't make any move to check. "Thought we'd be done with misogyny by now, especially from other women."
"Seriously, what caliber is that? Thing looks bigger than you are. How practical is it, really?"
"You're one to talk. You're using a fucking lever action."
"It was my Dad's, okay? Goddamn it." I risk a shuffle of my feet, a little to my right. Her barrel follows me as I caution, "Let's take this easy now. No need to paint these gas station bricks with either of our brains."
She says nothing, watching me go but otherwise motionless. Only her hair is stirring in the fetid humid air of midday. The baking concrete wavers mirages, cicadas shriek in horror at humanity's plight, the vague scent of diesel hovers in the air, and the buzz of flies accompanies the sour scent from old garbage in the dumpster nearby, long since left to rot.
I step into the open space of the gas station's lot, and only then do I take my sights off her and lower my rifle, lifting one hand up. "Look. See? Not an enemy."
"Not yet."
"Sure, sure. Okay. Like I'd really be antagonizing you over some ten year old boiling hot canned soda. Hell, I'm sure somebody already stripped the wiring out of the machine too. Why the sundress, by the way?"
"It's way too fucking hot for lame ass cargo pants."
"Wh–Hey, fuck you! They're functional!"
"Keep backing up. Now."
"Yeah, yeah." Just as I'm about to sling my rifle over my shoulder and get on with it, I spot the all matte black motorcycle at the pump. Lifting a brow, I point it out. "That yours?"
She climbs atop the face down vending machine, sights still dead set on me. "So what if it is?"
"Consider me impressed."
"Consider me about to blow your fucking brains out if you don't get moving." She tightens her grip, sticks the stock further into her shoulder, puts one foot in front of the other, and leans forward a bit. "Go. I won't say it again."
"Hope you enjoy your soda, bitch. Bye."
I let my gun hang and move along. Doesn't matter. She was pretty, and I haven't seen anyone so dolled up like that since before the accident, but that's it. No more need to waste another thought on her.
Every single day scraping by in these hellish ruins of the broken city is life or death. There's nothing left for anyone to attain, achieve, or accomplish in a life as shattered as this one, in a world so thoroughly annihilated. I don't particularly care to live like this, but there's one thing and one thing only that keeps me going.
My only aim is to survive. No, not for my sake.
I have three idiot brothers to take care of.
And I will make damn sure they survive too.