Write To Rank 2022 -- Contest Collection

Round 7 - Brown Belt: Sharp Shooter

'Do you think this is enough to hold us over until next week?'

'It has to be. We can't keep going out there like this, they're starting to wander.'

Three hundred and seventy-two days. That's how long the U.S government have been our rival, armed forces – Traitors, as we've taken to calling them now – have been our nightmare, and their loyal subjects have been missing. We, the Patriots, their mortal enemy growing fewer in number the more soldiers go out to hunt, have spent this year running, hiding, and killing with one goal: to survive. Some of us, like me, found partners, found friends, while some of us suffered alone. And failed.

Just over two months ago, my companion and I stumbled across a college campus, one seventy-six Patriots called home, sanctuary, and, swearing loyalty to the battered minority, we were welcomed with open arms. But they're closing in – the Traitors, I mean. Searching for food and vital resources outside of the base has become dangerous, a task offering more consequences than rewards.

Simon and I trudge up the stone stairs side by side, our packs heavy with much-needed supplies from this newest, desperate search. He's panting beside me, dirt-filmed glasses sure to be skewing his vision as his booted footsteps pound into the floor. 

'I don't think someone like you has to be worried about Traitors,' he says, gripping the silver railing and pulling himself up the next step. 'They can't touch you when you have a gun in your hand.'

My grip on the arm of my pack tightens, teeth gritted so hard I'm afraid they'll break. I shouldn't have to be good at killing, nor do I want to be. The Traitors made me this way, so did the-

'How did you learn to do that anyway?'

I turn quickly to Simon, starting up the second set of stairs. 'Learn to do what?'

'Shoot,' Simon answers, throwing me a quick glance before turning back to the steps. 'Not to mention lead a group of people like a war general. What were you before all this? A sheriff?'

I swallow harshly, the lump in my throat too stubborn to leave its perch. A sheriff. That'd be a simpler answer, especially now, but it's not the truth. No, the truth is poison to the ears and bitter to the tastebuds. It's lightening striking the heart and the force that ignites the flames of fear and pain and anger...

So he can't know. No one can know.

'I used to shoot at a range with my brother,' I answer quickly, eyes on the last few stairs left to climb, 'and no, I worked on cars.'

By now, we've reached the second floor of the building, the university's dining hall we turned into an armory and infirmary. It doesn't take long for my eyes to catch on a woman standing behind a table full of pistols and scribbling feverishly in a small notepad, my steps slowing to a stop and Simon's words – if he was saying anything – growing mute. Brown hair tied in a loose bun, scar on the left cheek, and a blush-tinted bottom lip snagged between even, white teeth. This can't be anyone other than-

'Scarlet.'

She looks up at me quickly, her lips curving upwards as she straightens, the pen in her hand clattering to the table.

'You're back!'

Even blindfolded and deaf, my mind would still hear the smile hidden in those words and see the giddy glint in her eyes as she crosses the room energetically. Trusted traveling companion, best friend, my very heart and soul – it doesn't matter what I call her because, either way, the grin on my face and the tranquility I feel can't be extinguished when this woman looks at me like she is now.

With a loud "thud!" that seems to echo throughout the entire building, my pack hits the floor, my arms now empty and outstretched in preparation of her warm embrace. And it is warm, more so than the fires we built in winter-bitten woods or the whiskey sliding down my throat when we'd drink together. Slender arms slip around my neck and she sighs shakily when I clutch her closely in return, my arms greedy to feel her and entirely too selfish to let her go.