Elsie, Continuing the Start of the Outbreak

continued from Part 1

I collapse on the cool tile floor of the camping store, my breathing heavy, trying to make sense of everything. Bob is gone. The world outside possibly crumbling. It takes a few minutes for my heart to stop racing and for the silence to sink in.

Slowly, I push myself up and gather what I'll need. I wipe the hatchets clean, the blades sliding through a rag with a whisper. Next, I spot a brand-new crossbow and a pack of bolts. Perfect for keeping distance. I grab a sturdy hiking backpack off a hook and begin filling it. Water purification tablets, a first aid kit, rope, a flashlight, and extra batteries. I throw in a few cans of food and a portable stove. I'm uncomfortable taking these without paying, but with Bob gone and chaos unfolding, it feels less like stealing and more like surviving.

Just as I zip up the backpack, the sound of a Jeep pulling up breaks the silence. Two men step out and enter the store. They're rough around the edges, middle-aged, with hard lines etched into their faces that speak of lives lived harshly. One has a scar running down his cheek, and the other sports a greasy bandana. They start grabbing supplies, seemingly indifferent to the world and Bob's lifeless form, which one of them steps over without a second glance.

A part of me was itching to ask them—about the outbreak, what they'd seen on their way here, anything that might give me a clearer picture. But deep down, I knew it was smarter to just keep moving. Talking to them, really engaging, would only pull them deeper into my life, and I couldn't afford that distraction. I had too much at stake and many other things to worry about.

As they gather their gear, they whisper to each other, throwing wary glances my way. I catch bits and pieces of their low voices, enough to feel a prickle of danger. They begin to move strategically, almost like they're trying to flank me from either end of the aisles.

As I pack up the last of my gear, the man with the scar steps forward, introducing himself. "Name's Ben, and this here's Caleb," he says, gesturing to his partner. His voice is rough like gravel being churned up under tires. "World's going to hell, you know? People dying everywhere. What's your name, honey?"

I didn't want to be rude, but I could tell these guns were no good. "Elsie."

Caleb chimes in, his eyes scanning the shelves absentmindedly. "Yeah, and good luck calling for help. Sheriff's offices are swamped. Heard they might send the National Guard but haven't seen hide nor hair of 'em."

I shift my weight, uneasy, and start edging towards the door. I need to get out, need to keep moving. But as I move, Ben steps casually in front of the door, blocking my path.

"You know, it's not smart traveling alone," he says, locking eyes with me. "You should come with us."

You know those times when you've got to trust your gut, even if it might lead you down the harder path? That's how I felt standing there. Maybe Ben and Caleb had good intentions; maybe they didn't. But everything inside me screamed that they saw an opportunity in me—a young woman, alone out here. In their eyes, I was just prey.

And when they casually mentioned the lack of sheriffs or National Guard? They probably thought it would scare me, make me feel vulnerable, and more likely to stick with them. But all it did was reinforce my resolve. No law enforcement around didn't just mean no one was coming to help me—it also meant no one was coming to help them.

I could've hung around longer and played it out to see their game. But the truth is, I've got places to be, and people are counting on me. These guys, Ben and Caleb, might not have meant any harm, or maybe they did, but either way, they were just another obstacle in my path.

As Caleb creeps up behind me, something primal snaps inside. Without a second thought, I yank one of the hatchets from my belt, spin around, and drive it into his kneecap. His scream pierces the silence as he crumples to the floor.

Ben reacts instantly, his hand darting to his belt. "You bitch, you're dead!" he shouted, fumbling with his pistol. It snags in the holster, buying me precious seconds. Not waiting to see if he'll free it, I raise my crossbow and fire. The bolt flies true, striking him in the stomach. He staggers back, his gun slipping from his grasp as he hits the ground. I rush over, my heart hammering, and snatch the pistol away.

Standing over them, I can't help but lecture, "You could've been better people, you know? Not everyone's your enemy, not everyone's your prey." They groan, pain etching their faces. 

Ben's eyes meet mine, desperation mixing with the pain. "Help me," he murmurs, the bolt protruding grotesquely.

I shake my head, slinging my pack over my shoulder. "Make better choices." I step carefully over Ben, still groaning on the floor, and make my way to the exit. The Jeep is right there in the parking lot. It's too far to walk to the reservation to meet my uncle and his tribe, and a vehicle would speed everything up. 

Turning back to Ben, I move quickly, his pain-filled moans echoing in the small space as I search his pockets. My fingers close around a set of keys. I pull them free without a second glance. With the keys in hand, I step outside, the cool mountain air brushing against my face. I slide into the Jeep, the engine roaring to life under my touch.

 As I drive away, a glance in the rearview mirror catches a few staggering figures shuffling toward the front of the camping store. It hits me—they're zombies, just like Bob. My grip tightens on the steering wheel, the realization sinking in. Ben and Caleb are still in there, wounded, vulnerable.

For a moment, the thought of turning back flickers through my mind. Could I? Should I? No, those two strangers don't matter to me, and the world I knew was fading fast behind every mile I put between myself and that camping store. With a deep breath, I push the pedal harder. The figures disappear into the distance as I focus on the road ahead.