Bailey Miller: SurvivorsMature

Bailey threw a glance at the guy who'd just thrown the knife. "Yeah I got ammo. What about you?"

 She grabbed some more shells and loaded her shot gun, aiming carefully to take out about three zombies. From out of the corner of her eye, she saw another survivor running after the guy with the pistols. They were hauling serious ass and she wasn't going to be left behind.

Bailey flat out ran, taking good shots with her shotgun here and there, her black woolen trenchcoat flapping out behind her.

There were too many buildings in the town. The windows were thicker than the ones in the post office. Bailey thought about her incredibly good and bad luck of that day. Two survivors. With guns. And they seemed pretty capable. It doesn't get much better than that. And even if they might have criminal pasts, she was pretty sure the thought of survival would keep them in their places and trying to find allies and keep them.

They were closer to the edge of town, but she was getting really, really tired. Her boots suddenly felt like blocks of cement, and her damp coat and pack felt confining, like bands of lead. Her shot gun was getting heavier too, but one thought from the back of her mind reignited her fury at the unfairness of the world, giving her another burst of energy to follow the two guys to a safer part of the town.

Dad... Don't worry 'bout me. I'll be fine.

And she reloaded again.

The End

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