You'd Better Run

Chapter 3: A special guest

Photo on the right is Ella's Uncle Jack - he is the same actor as Ella's dad because they are twins, but he has shorter hair and is clean shaven, whereas her dad typically has a beard and longer hair. Also her uncle always calls her 'Smella', while her dad will just use any endearing term such as 'sweetie', or 'honey'. Hope this prevents confusion between the two :)

It has been 7 years since I slept in a proper bed. I mulled on that thought. It's strange how the small things that you used to take for granted soon turn into your deepest desires. Well okay, maybe not deepest desires, but I do miss my bed. There was quite a few things that I missed. My bed being one. My mother being another. I could still picture her smiling face and how she would forever be brushing a brown lock of hair away from her face. Ever since that fateful day, I have found myself wondering what my life would be like if I had gone to the supermarket with her. What life would be like if she had waited an hour longer, to see the news, perhaps she would have changed her mind. What if, what if, what if? These kinds of questions always circle my mind, chasing each other like dogs chasing their own tails. It's fruitless, it really is, but I can't stop myself from thinking them. All I can do is try to distract myself by keeping busy. The activity I had chosen to do just today turned out to be target practice.

Looking down the spine of the arrow, I drew the string back until my hand rested by my cheek. I exhaled a breath and let the calm, peacefulness within me wash over my muscles. I allowed my subconciousness to guide my arms to the correct position. The fingers on my string hand relaxed and the arrow was released. Whoosh! It sailed through the air like a bird of prey hunting its next meal. It lodged into a small knot on a tree 20m away. Right on target.

The sound of applause echoed behind me. I turned and saw my uncle leaning against a tree, a smile dancing on his lips. His arms were crossed against his chest and his short sleeves revealed the tattoos that decorated his upper right arm.

"You've gotten good." He stated. I inclined my head in acknowledgement and went to retrieve the arrow. Weapons training was essential for survival. Back before all this had happened I had been scared of my own shadow, and there was no way that I'd have been able to defend myself. Now, I was trained in hand-to-hand combat, I knew how to fire a gun and use a bow and arrow. I even knew how to set traps using minimal materials. It was all a matter of survival.

Apocalypses are strange events. They have a habit of changing your entire perspective on things, shattering your world and throwing challenges at you until all you can do is try to hold youself together and survive one day at a time. The whole end of the world thing, people dying out or turning into raving beasts, having to move every few days for fear of being discovered and eaten. It is, as you'd expect, very stressful. I know that my uncle tries to protect me as much as he can from the daily horrors of our lives but he can't keep me protected forever. I am no longer the innocent 10 year old girl that plays with her teddy bear.

Before the apocalypse I would never have been able to kill someone. Now, it is completely different. It is a matter of their brains, or mine.

That's not to say I don't have a conscience. I feel guilty for taking away someone's life, though they are technically already dead. They deserve a second chance. What if there is a cure out there for them? My dad's philosophy echoed in my mind. He was the one who taught me to be who I am today. And I can't forget that which he believed in so strongly. I am a 17 year old girl, living in a zombie apocalypse, that felt bad for killing a brainless monster that wanted to chew on me like I was a piece of meat. Huh, where's the philosophy in that?

I wasn't exactly your average 17 year old girl. For one thing, normal teen age girls don't spend their days training in martial arts, doing target practice with a whole array of weapons, and taking lessons in zombie psychology. They would have perhaps been partying and going out with boys or worrying about getting the grades they need for university. Of course, much to my dismay, my uncle has insisted that I continue following my father's wish for me to carry on with education. He had always hoped for a return to normality I think. So among my slightly specialised Zombie 101 lessons, I also have to be taught lessons in maths, the sciences and others deemed appropriate by my uncle.