Reclaiming America #2Mature

Word Count: 588


The figure began to sprint. Not the sort of sprinting a healthy human being would do. It was lopsided, limping.

"Not human!" a cry went up and the sniper pulled the trigger.

"Hostile down," a voice confirmed as the body crumped to the floor and stayed there.

"Nice shot," one of them high fived the sniper, grinning.

"You won't be saying that when there's a horde of them at our doors," a gruff, pessimistic voice spoke up from further down the barricade. "You'll be pissing your knickers, wishing you'd never joined the army."

"Oh shut up. We're trying to keep the moral up, not shit on everyone's day," another voice argued.

Tensions were, needless to say, incredibly high. None of them really knew what to expect when they arrived on American soil that first day. The world they stepped into was a million miles away from what they'd known the day before. It got under your skin. When you weren't surviving, you were half sleeping, half listening out for an alarm, or bickering over who  left a flood light on longer than it took to shoot down the walkers that wandered by in the night. It was hard to cope with. A few of them had been to war already, in Iraq or Afganistan, but even they said they'd never experienced anything quite so tense.

They put it down to the unpredictability of their enemy. Facing the unknown was not something they were comfortable with, nor used to. Most of the men there were really only boys, fresh out of training and straight into combat against... things that weren't even alive. Things that had the potential to wipe out the whole troop if they weren't careful enough. The survivors helped - some of them helped fight, some of them helped the cook, one of them was a doctor so she joined the medical team, and the others passed on as much knowledge of what they were up against as they could.

Even the most optimistic ones were feeling overwhelmed by it all. There was no way of agreeing a truce, or predicting where they would come from or how many there would be. There was nowhere to run to, nowhere they could ever hide and be truly safe. Living out of a makeshift army base didn't do much to put any of them at ease.

The worst part, a few of them agreed, was the way some of the survivors they came across had lost all sense of their humanity. They were stealing from and killing live, innocent people, either simply because they could, or because it was easier than raiding a shop.

"I wonder what it's like over in Texas. Or Kansas. Or Washington. I bet they're not as bad as New York," one of them said wishfully.

"I bet you fifty quid they're worse."

"Whatever, mate. I just want them to send some fucking help over. We've told them what it's like, what's taking them so long to pull us out?"

"Maybe we're supposed to stay and build survivor camps?"

"What if they can't find us?" worry laced this voice. He was eighteen. He'd dreamt of joining the army and fighting for his country ever since he'd learnt what the army was. "What if we're stuck out here on our own like the rest of the survivors?"

"They'll find us, we haven't exactly gone far from where they left us."

"And if we do get stuck out here?"

"Then we find a way to survive, don't we."          

The End

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