played by CaseyOffline
Those eyes in the mirror were not her own.
A stampede of the former dominant species frantically frolicked and jostled across the asphalt river. They stopped for nothing; trampling everything in their paths: siblings, elders, even their own young. Bones were gnashed and innocents were left dead, dying, or hapless to the slaughter they would soon face. The same could be said for the innocence of all mankind.
"Save me," cried a pot-bellied old man. His face was stained by the mud and muck that stuck to the syrupy amalgamation of his blood and tears. The down turned crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes glistened, as did the reflective bald streak within his horse-shoe shaped crown of hair. He crawled, hand outstretched for mercy with his legs battered and twisted at their joints.
"I can’t…" A discombobulated voice rang out high from the heavens; high from the seas of perfectly blue, cloudless skies above. It sounded muffled, as if it was being received through a pool of water. The man was baffled. Around him stirred the low, begging symphony of the deceased as they found new damnation in their rebirths. It urged him to double his efforts to stand, but that futile effort only ended in pain he had never experienced before, and as he flailed, rolled over and collapsed onto his back the breath was knocked from in an exasperated gasp.
Looking up into the darkening skies, the man ran his coarse, callused hand over his sweat-stung eyes and squeezed at his sockets and cheeks. He quietly wept into his hand at the profound absurdity of it all. He had gone his entire life believing in God without ever having a single shred of evidence, and now when it was all around him and he was finally answered, it was in a tone of apathy and inaction. Here in the moment of rapture he would be left without a shepherd while the dead rose all around him.
His grief was interrupted by the pressure that clutched at his figure at methodical points of his body, wrenching and tugging hard enough to rock his heavy-set frame. He held his breath, fearing for the worst, but when he opened his eyes it was again nothing but sky above him.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Slowly two silhouettes crept across his visage from opposite peripherals until they merged into a dusky face looming over his own. As his heart rate elevated, so did his pain. His ears rang with the pounding of his blood THRUSHING against his drums, and in those mirrored lenses looking down upon him; he saw the face of death.
It was himself.
The mask behind the glasses stretched out in curiosity at the sight of the bewildered expression on the man’s face. Thick, lush, feminine lips flattened together with their corners tweaked upwards in bemusement. Out from under the bill of a ball cap, the ruffles of dark, dirty raven locks floated like feathers on the warm breeze twirling over their coupling. She was an angel.
"Because I can’t spare the bullets."
The angel finally spoke. Her voice was a taunting whisper that followed the long, dull rip of metal teeth as they vacuumed together to create a seal. She faded away, engulfed and set aflame by the overriding blast of the sun almost directly above. In a final, desperate throw of his arms he latched onto the strap of the bag he recognized to be his daughter’s. He could feel that panda shaped button on the padded harness under the pressure of his thumb. He felt the contours of its face and imagined it was his daughter, but his goodbye was stolen by a second tug, one hard enough to wrench it from his weathered and failing fingers.
His limbs fell to the ground in complete and utter defeat. He lay splayed in the pattern of a crucifix ready to be taken. Rolling thunder and the shuffling of bodies thudding against the road filtered off into the distance.
He was gone. She was gone. They were all gone.
Bye bye baby.
A battered, broken, disgusting basin was the pedestal for all the evil she saw in the silvery reflection of the world around her. It was a prison for all the sins she had ever committed. They clawed at the glass from behind the taunting, fucking hypocritical graffiti and she clawed right back at them until her nails chipped and her fingertips bled enough to erase the dead eyes devouring her soul.
Caylix wailed the synthetic façade of grief, a sensation that could no longer be genuinely manufactured. She had lost the facilities to long ago in the fire, but it was still a ceremonial habit of hers deeply ingrained by a society that no longer existed. The damned cried with her. Crocodile tears dripped from her rounded chin, and for a time, she accepted the rotting hand that fell upon her shoulder. It squeezed with compassion, bestowing sympathy through an icy grip long thought by many to have no feeling, but lately she felt more akin to them than anything or anyone else. The woman closed her eyes and felt the wooden panels beneath her feet shake. They groaned out under the weight of a second presence, and though she wanted to let go she only squeezed the grip of the forty-five sitting upon the lip of the basin tighter.
Her shoulder dipped under the pressure of the dead hand encroaching upon it, and fluidly she grasped onto it with her left hand, and jerked it to the right as she span around. The ever curious, ever surprised expression on its rotting face didn’t change as it stumbled to the right, only to topple down onto its knees when Caylix flung the boot-laden tarpals of her feet into the outside of its shin. Her right hand uppercutted the barrel of her firearm into the stunned creature’s mouth, wresting its front teeth free from its blackened gums to the cacophony of warped limbs snapping off of a dry oak.
Caylix looked beyond her captive critter towards the welcoming light which seeped in from the open door. The shadows of the others shambled across her face. Indifferent of the plight of the monstrosity she held captive at her feet, they took their time and wobbled ever nearer to her, arms swimming through the air as if to keep balance or to somehow help propel themselves closer to a target she wasn’t sure they knew why they wanted. The one at her feet gurgled as she punched the barrel in deeper and pulled the trigger. Wet and muffled, it blew the toupee off of the walker’s head, and stirred red mist and dust in the light from the bullet hole it left in the doorframe. Using that hole as a reference, she angled her hand and fired again and again, at first stumbling, and then dropping one of the not so distant figures to the floor. Dislodging the snotty barrel from the man’s floppy dome, she balanced his body upon his knees and walked around him to gather her things from the back of the toilet.
Tissue: used frequently to wipe the excrement of humanity from dank, dusk pockets absent of God also worked better for sins than a thousand Hail Marys. As she holstered the freshly wiped firearm her spirit felt revitalized. Caylix bared witness to the remaining three, watching whilst they stumbled over themselves. She brandished her pick and her body flowed towards them full of pride, brutal grace and confidence. It truly was her calling, and the only thing that gave her joy in this life.
Outside, she slipped her aviators over her large, gray eyes and snapped her pick back onto her pack. In her wake sat the mutilated remains of the new dominant species speckled and spattered across the room.
They never cleaned that fucking place anyway.