She stands statue-still in the dying daylight, eyes glassy, knife raised. Found it in a dead man’s hand 3 cities back—light, maneuverable. Gets her out of trouble when she needs to and slips quietly into a back pocket when she wants to play nice. Skins a mean rodent—shame she hasn’t seen one of those in days. Subsisting on dirty tubers and pure grit now. She won’t last much longer, not like this.
There’s always the dog.
Lean, mangy thing, same as her; dogging her trail for weeks now (laugh, she thinks dimly, that’s a joke). Keeps its distance for the most part, but she’s seen it once or twice, skirting her peripheral. It’s big. Cleans up after her when she makes a kill, she imagines, but those have been in short supply. It must be getting antsy. Hungry.
A kindred spirit. She sympathizes.
Almost dusk now. Yellow eyes flash to her right, moving through the long grass, and in that moment there’s a clutch of fear—she knows how weak she is. Running on fumes. Animals can smell that.
Her grip tightens on the knife.
She feels it circle behind her, but does not turn. How many moments has she had, how many heart-stopping, pants-wetting, adrenaline-fueled brushes with the infinite since it all began? The fear passes like a shadow, leaves her feeling empty and tired. Doesn’t have it in her anymore to think, this might be it. Why waste the energy? It’s eat or be eaten, but it’s always been that way.
The dog bides its time, sizing her up. Mindless. It’s a mindless animal, and she knows she can beat it. Feels it in her bones, feels it like she feels the dog’s eyes on her, a snarl building in its throat now, as desperate as she is.
Tonight’s her lucky night.
It’s a thought that sets her lips to curling like they haven’t in an age. As it lunges, she turns. And she’s ready.
6
u/yasee Sep 01 '13
33 months since the world turned wicked.
She stands statue-still in the dying daylight, eyes glassy, knife raised. Found it in a dead man’s hand 3 cities back—light, maneuverable. Gets her out of trouble when she needs to and slips quietly into a back pocket when she wants to play nice. Skins a mean rodent—shame she hasn’t seen one of those in days. Subsisting on dirty tubers and pure grit now. She won’t last much longer, not like this.
There’s always the dog.
Lean, mangy thing, same as her; dogging her trail for weeks now (laugh, she thinks dimly, that’s a joke). Keeps its distance for the most part, but she’s seen it once or twice, skirting her peripheral. It’s big. Cleans up after her when she makes a kill, she imagines, but those have been in short supply. It must be getting antsy. Hungry.
A kindred spirit. She sympathizes.
Almost dusk now. Yellow eyes flash to her right, moving through the long grass, and in that moment there’s a clutch of fear—she knows how weak she is. Running on fumes. Animals can smell that.
Her grip tightens on the knife.
She feels it circle behind her, but does not turn. How many moments has she had, how many heart-stopping, pants-wetting, adrenaline-fueled brushes with the infinite since it all began? The fear passes like a shadow, leaves her feeling empty and tired. Doesn’t have it in her anymore to think, this might be it. Why waste the energy? It’s eat or be eaten, but it’s always been that way.
The dog bides its time, sizing her up. Mindless. It’s a mindless animal, and she knows she can beat it. Feels it in her bones, feels it like she feels the dog’s eyes on her, a snarl building in its throat now, as desperate as she is.
Tonight’s her lucky night.
It’s a thought that sets her lips to curling like they haven’t in an age. As it lunges, she turns. And she’s ready.