Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Critical Strikes

I killed a man this morning. Not a zombie, trying to devour me from base instinct, but a living, breathing human being. And right now, all of us are split up and hiding. 

I am in a room at the hospital we were searching, under a pile of bodies. To be extra careful, I won't be posting this until we are safe. 

So let me explain. 

Yesterday's search went well. We loaded up with hundreds of pounds of supplies, the medical pavilion we were at was pristine. There was a bit of everything; syringes and medicines, surgical supplies and isolation gear. Imagine the most obscure tool needed, the most uncommon supply, and one or another of the buildings we ransacked had it. We even took apart one of those chairs women deliver babies in and took that with us. It was a portable model anyway. 

So, I guess that made us cocky. Overconfident. 

Fast forward to this morning. We were searching our last scouted location, a large hospital in eastern Kentucky. Looking here was more of a bonus than anything; we had gotten almost everything on our shopping list at the pavilion, and could have gone home. But Gabrielle decided that sticking to the original plan was a good idea, if for no other reason than to move any useful supplies we couldn't take with us to a secure location and hide them. All of us agreed. 

But during our search, we came across a group of people apparently doing the same thing we were. I was lagging behind the others a bit and heard Gabby yell through an open door. I sidled up and took a very careful look through, only to see a man with a gun pointed at her. There were others in the room that must have been with him, three or four of them, but none of them had weapons drawn. 

Gabby was trying to talk to him, trying her damnedest to compromise, but she was getting nowhere. And I could see his trigger finger getting twitchy, the sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to muster up the courage to do something, anything. 

So I drew my pistol and stepped forward, and fired three times. It should scare me how easily my feet fell into perfect position, how ingrained it was in me to give that steady and consistent pull twice in his center mass before evenly raising the barrel and letting the third round find the smaller target of his face. 

Everyone else in our group did exactly as our pre-established plans required them to do. They ran like hell. 

The other people in the room reacted slowly, only one of them able to shake off the sudden and violent death of their teammate quickly enough to fire at us. He hit Darlene, though I can't be sure how badly she is hurt. All I managed to see was her stumble after the shot rang out, looking back at her over my shoulder, and I saw her stumble. I know she didn't get caught then, but as of right now I am not sure where anyone is. I hope our vehicles are well hidden enough to keep our attackers from finding them. We're screwed if that happens. 


Ok, the folks that attacked us are gone. I guess we just waited them out. We are back on the road, heading toward home. Darlene is hurt badly, she took the shot in one of her kidneys, and we have no idea how bad the damage is. Gabby is tending to her as we hustle back toward the compound, and I am hoping that we can make it home quickly. We need Evans and the clinic. It's the interstate for us if we can manage it, we can't afford the time that the back roads will take. 

I hope she makes it. 

I know I had no choice, but I feel bad about killing that guy, and not just because the consequences of my actions led to Darlene being hurt. He and his folks may not have been bad people, just scared and looking for stuff to keep themselves healthy, just like us. I hate that it had to be that way, and it is really bothering me. 

I feel bad about killing someone. 

I guess that's a good sign. 

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