The petite woman remembered a gala gracefully walking through lustful stares wearing a bright dress, tied with a golden sash folded over roses, dragging against the heartbeat of a dance floor while her long diamond earrings tickled her slim shoulders. Men trampled like cubs starving for a mother’s milk holding a hand to swirl in circles, a drink to press against her slim lips savoring the sweet taste and, for the most introverted guys, a courteous bow. In turn she returned a smile that breathed like a breeze flowing from open windows beside colorful gardens. Mother’s demands seemed trivial to her now, demanding that she accepts courtship from the strongest gentleman with a chiseled jaw and unbelievable riches to bear heirs that a grandmother could spoil with candy and riches. Mother always wanted the best, the petite woman remembered. Little did mother know was that a dreamer’s future crumbled away like burnt pizza crust.
The petite woman smiled at ten-year old memories, still feeling the pressure and pain watching her mother leave disappointed with promises unfulfilled. She ran both hands through her dark autumn hair stopping to wipe moist flecks shaping at the corning of her mouth. Before the virus outbreak, her days were simple; exchanging phone calls with her contemporaries, filing papers into manila folders and enjoying a puff of smoke during a moment’s peace. After a stressful day at work, though she’d never show it, the petite woman enjoyed mead with her friends to unwind and settle for a night debating gourmets and, if she felt up to it, playing her instruments. Those days are long gone, she reflected sadly. Her beautiful steel grey eyes closed disassociating this warm, yet painful, memory from the dangerous streets she walks during dusk.
Prestige and riches often summoned welcomed self-commemorations, a break to the harsh realities that the petite woman lived daily. Wearing military pants holstering her prized Desert Eagle, walking with her mud-caked boots hiding a foot-long blade, a utility belt with two ammunition clips and an armored vest she removed from a corpse just last week, her mind flashed between memories and realities. I once wore beautiful dresses that made men beg for me. Now, I wear the streets, share a bed with roaches and spiders and bathe in cold rivers alone; often too tired to worry about her own security.
Full of promising riches, social engagements with feasts, the petite woman walked like a nomad through an old Ohio town searching for supplies to extend a life she was convinced would end at any moment; even her god became a memory that faded like a dream song sniffing the morning dew in the rainbow gardens. Searching a life promised with wedding bells, diaper changes, business outfits and, eventually, retirement with her love all faded to the realities of seeking scraps of food, a bottle of aspirin or water not infected; anything to live the next day. For ten years she begged this nightmare to end. Perhaps she could wake during a full moon after a late evening nap welcomed by the purring of her obedient cats flipping through channels for something worth watching.
As night shadowed the world, the petite woman escaped the Forbidden City’s streets finding refuge in the forests, miles away from the Hill Peak Mountain. Trees firmly planted into the ground with bare imbrication lying torpid after radiation swept like a murderous breeze. Leaves fallen and disintegrated over time, the snap of fallen sticks would be her only sentry if Wildings show. There would be no fires tonight to keep her smooth skin warm or cooked food to warm her stomach. Tonight, like every night, she would feast on uncooked beans with blotches of pork. Not ideal, but neither is living in a world that suffers itself so much. I would kill for a pizza without delay, she miserably thought to herself.
A small clearing surrounded by twisted roots that weaved throughout the surface with decent enough cover for the petite woman to rest, the petite woman set aside her bag and sat cross legged. Her stomach protested a rumbling for attention. Pulling a small can from her brown backpack, the petite woman jammed her blade through the metal surface and quaffed the bean’s juices. After suckling for a moment, she carefully pried the can’s top and burrowed her spoon into the dry beans that will grieve her stomach tonight. Food, water, medicine was an uncertain luxury and nearly impossible treasure that she kept rations for. Too bad there are no more jars of jelly to spread over the Peanut butter or the once plentiful bags of Roman noodles. She craved a taste, just a sniff, of pizza with any topping.
Her body shivered after tasting the cold foul air, absent of the natural background sounds; like crickets or beasts howling. Silence became integrated under the dark sky that her awareness in sleep blossom, dreading Wildlings converging on her. Once normal people walking to work over busy sidewalks, or driving a sky blue car through endless traffic jams, genetically transformed into savage beasts honing their primal instincts with an endless appetite.
The war changed everything, she reflected. A myth grew that Wildlings never spoke the common tongue, nor ate cooked meat. Some ran hysterically through the cities naked following the fragrance of fresh blood with their oversized noses. Even the Bloodstripe tribe feared them. The petite woman enjoyed a small comfort that Wildlings natively remained within the cities, rarely wandering into the dead forests. With her eyelids feeling like a thousand cans paint cans, sleep would not come to her tonight. Her eyes surveyed the Hills Peak Mountain reflecting the moon’s pasty-white illumination beyond the reach of the tallest tree.
Just before the fourth full moon, she met another traveler who claimed the Hills Peak Mountain housed a civilization ably defending against dangerous men. A small river, called the Intersect, dissected duel Mountains standing side-by-side, providing fresh drink for the people and the endless vegetation fields. Within a day’s walk, she could reach the Mountain’s edge hoping patrols, or sentries, would pick her up.
Roaming clans in nearby villages patrolling the length of the forest’s edge, the petite woman couldn’t take a path that extended within the arms of the bright pastel moon. Drunken twisted trees, taller than any skyscraper she had ever seen, blocked the moon’s fierce strength hiding her relatively well in the shadows. Her rested head felt the rough surface of her pack prone under the blinking stars; one shooting across the distant night sky. Patches of tall grass camouflaged her flat body, reminded what he once told her; out of sight, out of mind and upwind from those sniffing meat eating dogs. Ghosts aren’t seen unless they wish to be seen.
She grew sad when a slight breeze brushed against the naked trees, making no sounds unlike her memories playing through her mother’s gardens, a handful of steps from the habitat of a million birds. She remembered a hair style at her prom the year before college, curled up with the right side brushed around the back of her head. When she ran her slender fingers through her dark autumn hair, she felt twisted follicles and matted patches craving a warm bath. How things change.
The suddenness of a snapping branch jolted her nerves; her eyes widened increasing her peripheral vision while her ears scouted the disturbance. A second branch snapped, confirming another disturbance, much smaller in weight, her ears concluded. She regulated her breathing to a sedating silence forcing her stomach into a motionless stone. The third snap, much closer than the other two, followed with a beastly breathing from her left. With the slightest movement, the petite woman rolled her head for a visual inspection. The Wildling’s hunchback rose over their bald head, eyes of crimson gemstones made them appear nightmarishly fiendish. With slightly bent knees and arms wide, though not straight, the Wildlings nose repeatedly flared in short powerful sniffs seeking a scent driven by monstrous appetites.
She could unleash an entire clip of her Desert Eagle into their irrelevant brains and be done with this; that’s what he would do. She abandoned the thought knowing that a single shot, would invite an unwelcome party. Ghosts make no noise. A ghost isn’t seen unless they wish to be seen. With her back pressed against jagged rocks, eyes closed, she silently prayed to whatever god remains that the beasts disappear.
Two Wildlings, one tall, the other short and fat, sniffed in rapid succession. Fighting a gag reflex from their waste stained clothes with bits of flesh and meat, she slowly covered her mouth hoping the movement didn’t betray her. Howls of frustration fiercely blew like a deadly wind at the blue moon, frightening her like a little girl. Far in the East, howls from an entire pack responded, like werewolves knowingly reporting; there’s more, many, many more.
The tall one jumped towards her then stopped sniffing again east, then south, then west. Her rapid heartbeat pounded against her chest like a steel drum. When she shifted her gaze to the small one that stood over her starring at her with wicked grin, crooked teeth and red gemstone eyes, she let out a scream that echoed for miles.
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