Disorder of the Damned

Part 1: An expected greeting

It all started with an explosion, no I'm not talking about the beginning of the world. Well maybe I am, kind of in a way. The beginning of my world. There was a disease, the government had no idea how to handle such issues, doctors had never seen anything like it. It caused zombie-like attributes but either way, you'd later die a horrible death, you'd slowly burn from the inside, liquifying into something of a nightmare. So what else should the government do in such a situation? Bomb the diseased and kill half the population. It didn't matter whether you were a mother, father, or child. If you had the disease...you were gone. At least that's how the council tells it to us. How do I come into play? I'm not that important to be honest, at least for this beginning. I wasn't even really around when that happened. I was born way later. You'd see in movies how we're supposed to be all futuristic and civilized, nope. It's quite the opposite. There's no school, not really any official hospitals. Or a set form of government. We have a leader, we follow him because...well, I don't know. He just seems to have a lot of manpower, and by that I mean he has plenty of men that will do as he says and will hurt us.
Technology is not something of entitlement as it is a privilege. If you have an actual phone that works, then be thankful. Food is pretty alright, we have what we need. Not everything we want. The council tells us we just need to appreciate what we have and deal with it. Children stay with the council but once you're the age of 15 you're allowed to be free and live off on your own. Most people go off with their friends and they live together. But if you're like me, without any real friends and quite enjoy your independence then you'll run away at 13 and figure out life on your own. It sounds weird but this is how it's always been, it's normal. The council teaches you basic necessities. Such as how to take care of a wound, search for safe food, which people not to go to, and how to stay away from some of the animals who've been genetically modified after the bombing and are ten times more dangerous. The normal.
Oh, who am I?

The name's Elle, just Elle.

No last name, no parents.

I was just left with the council, with no attachments. Just how I like it. I walk through our busted neighborhood, waving at some fellow people who seem to be confused as to why I'm as chipper as I am. Jeez, tough crowd, I shrug off the nerves I'm getting, and continue to walk down the broken road to this path that leads to the woods. There- you'll meet one of my favorite hunters to buy food from and a friend. As I start getting close to this busted but somehow sturdy cottage, I hear arrows being shot around back. Falyn...I smirk and head around the back of the house. There's a clothing line connected to two skinny trees, simple clothes such as socks, guys' boxers, and jeans hang from it. Falyn's curly brown locks fall against his coffee-colored skin perfectly. Noticing a small smile formed on his face, I moved up behind him and tap his shoulder. He turns around and bears hugs me. Now I'm small in size, everyone around here knows that. Everything about me is small, not that it stops me from doing what I want to do but it does add some encouragement to my sneakiness. While Falyn differed so much, he was about 5'11 going on 6ft. It's intimidating. It would be so easy for him to pick me up and throw me. He wasn't very bulky but don't let that fool you, he was amazing with a bow and his aim was impeccable. Don't get me wrong he's quite handsome but I just can't see him as anything more than a friend, I think. Falyn pulls away but I can tell he's taking me in as his hand lingers around my waist, why'd it make my heart beat a little faster? I shake my head in response to my nerves. Falyn moves long black stray hair from my face and cups my cheeks. I hate the fact that it makes me blush in embarrassment, darn you unknown birth parents who gave me such pale skin. "How's my favorite customer?" Falyn asks, his slight accent comes out when he says favorite. It's almost like a ringing in my ear when he says it. I'm his favorite? No Elle, he said you're his favorite customer, not his favorite in general. "Doing well ol' chap. How are you?" I say in a fake British accent, slapping his arm. He gives a small chuckle in response.