The bullets flew like a stream of words written on a page. A hazy outline was hidden behind the cascades of gunpowder. Breath was released and a cigarette lit. Slowly, and with calculated steps, a large man walked and hovered over his victims. Both were lying on the ground in heaped form. They were both just on the inside of the small cabin that the man inhabited. The one closer reeked of human flesh.
"Fuckin' dirty cannibals." He threw his foot forward toward the side of the corpse with extreme force, and felt his foot sink. It released a horrid smell that wrapped itself around the man. He instantly backed away before lowering himself to get a better look. His foot went in a good six inches into the side of the cannibal, nearly reaching his stomach. He dared not touch it. Cannibals were everywhere now, since human is the only real source of continual meat. And with popular, scary things, comes rumors. Many people talked about how Lookers were actually cannibals that had eaten zombie, not human, and they mutated. Others talked about how their teeth got almost invincibly strong, thanks to the thick texture of human skin. Even more so, everyone spoke about their skin. It was always a pasty white, almost clear. They say that one day, after eating too much human, your skin just dissipates and the insides all just fall out. That's what this reminded the man of. The cannibals were both no older than 30, must of just gotten into it early, maybe from their parents. The one he kicked was a young boy, the other a woman. She didn't look in very good shape either. Bloated from malnutrition and all her teeth brown, let alone she was dead. The only light in the room was that of the burning ember on the end of his cigarette. The bodies were heavier than he expected, but he soon got them piled on the other two corpses that leaned up against a nearby tree. The man had his hands on his hips, bent over. He was breathing heavily and he stood for a moment, staring. He was probably in his mid-30s, and his body looked burnt from something, but it was covered by a long carhartt jacket. The Killer's eyes moved with a direct pace as he scanned his surroundings.
Then a scene broke in, one he had not recalled since it had happened, nearly fifteen years ago.
He had to of still been in early high school. The man was a boy then, fat and face hairless. Driving past a usual street, he saw a group of people playing hackysack under a streetlight at the nearby church. He recognized a girl he had been hanging out with for the last few weeks. He had the hots for her, so he stopped. There was probably about five people huddle around, kicking. The air had a hot impact to it, even though he was high up in the mountains. He remembered having an uneasy feeling stepping out of his car and into that night.
"Hi." he said in his overly childish way.
The boy knew some people there, but they were all older, and he rarely hung around them. The girl had hair as red as fire, and she stood directly under the lamp, gazing off listlessly. She was around the same age as the boy. He had long since joined the game and was doing poorly, as usual. One man would laugh any time anyone missed the sack but himself. He was around 24, ginger, really short, and really cocky. Obviously he was going to survive in this world. Another nearby guy, who was decent, kicked it way too high and it flew far behind us all. The boy got it, and tossed it straight ahead in the circle to the girl. The sack let out a dull thud as it touched ground. Then a kick came, obviously late. That's when he noticed it. Pills. He'd been around drugs before, but it was around kids his age, and it was really pretty new to all of them. All the man remembered at this moment was an intense hate building to something.
"I think I should go home." The voice was distraught, almost a whisper. It reminded the boy of a mouse, far away. She was still staring at the ground.
"Do you want a ride?" The boy asked simply.
"No, man. I got this, thanks though, I'll do it." The ginger smirked and grabbed ahold of the girl by her shoulder. She was gone, and the boy didn't even think she'd remember any of this. He led her to his car and set her in the passenger seat.
The rest of the group kept playing, and a circle of black enveloped the boy's vision as the Lincoln town car pulled away.
He shuddered. Staring into the four dead bodies he wondered where that came from. Why the hell did he think about that? Why did these bodies bring that out of him? Than he caught the female's eyes, glazed, but still amber. He recalled why he'd fallen for the girl in the first place, amber eyes. He stared down at his feet for a moment. Everything got melancholy. But now everything was always melancholy.
He went back inside, lit a candle, and cleaned his .22. pistol. It wasn't a strong gun, but when you live as far out in the woods as the Killer, it's more important to have a lot of ammo and a small caliber gun than a gun with no ammo. He finished polishing it, and set it gently under his pillow. Then out of nowhere, he buried his calloused, rugged hands in his face. And that is when it was heard amongst the birds of dusk. A deep sob. Then a scream. Instantly, he had forgotten his woes. His pain was gone and replaced with a desire for survival. He looked out the one window of his shack, and stared into the incoming darkness over the pond outside. Nothing moved. He sat back down, sighed and waited, and thought.
Life has an odd way of defining itself. To be in motion doesn't mean life, so why should life lead to motion? The man wondered if plants were content with their sitting. Or if he too was okay with his sitting. He'd been here far too long already, now each day seemed like hours of work, especially now that more and more people were finding their way into his sanctuary. The cannibals are just as bloodthirsty as the dead, if not more. Other than those at every moment, it's the people who come, looking for food and an overnight place. Then they slit your throat while you sleep and do terrible things to your corpse. The real fucked up people. Better to kill them all and worry about the corpses, at least corpses don't talk.
The Killer sprawled out on his small spring mattress and stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of night. He heard a slight rustling among the underbrush near his cabin, and extended himself upright. His gun was under his pillow, but it was not the sound of something that required his pistol. The dead are less noisy. The sound moved its way around and now was near the bodies. All the springs of his bed creaked as he got off it. A recurve bow sat in one corner of the cabin. He grabbed it effortlessly and inched his way closer to the window. His breath held, he waited. Amongst the black trees and the shadow of the moon on the water, one of the four bodies were moved. A lean face pricked up, showing itself against the backdrop of lit water. His breath released with the arrow and a sharp yelp echoed through the forest. The man ran outside in a whirlwind of adrenaline to see what he'd slain. A runner? It was too slow. A Looker? No, too quiet. A dog. It was skinny, and resembled a rottweiler of some sort.
"Oh well, least it's meat." The man spoke to himself almost all the time. He yanked the arrow out of the side of the animal and set it down before going to work. Skinning the animal was easy, he hung it on the same tree as the bodies, and after he got the skin down over the hind legs, he ripped and the rest of the pelt came.
"Hey look! Rug and a ribeye!" He laughed again to himself, cut off a flank of hind quarter. Before he went inside, though, he took a long, slow gaze around his home. Then the sound of a door shutting and a night well spent.