Rats

-0-

My throat burns.
I've been dragging myself through the seemingly endless forests and plains, looking for food, water, weapons, but happening upon almost nothing. A revolver sits empty on my waist, and my canteen makes a hollow knock with each step I take. It's almost pointless.

Where am I?
There's no real way of telling. I make a stop at a river to wash up, but I know I can't drink the water. It's almost taunting, really. As pristine as it looks, I know it's laden with more poisons than I can imagine.

Naked and knee-deep in water, I grab my broken phone from my backpack and examine myself. The fact that I haven't eaten in days definitely shows- if I look past the dirt on my body, I can see my ribs. Frustrated, I toss the phone onto the river rocks and return to cleaning up, scrubbing the dirt off with a frayed strip of cloth.

Breaking out of the treeline and coming upon another clearing, a low hum fills my ears. I ignore it and keep going, trying to keep my tired eyes on the horizon for movement. Nothing. It's different from the buzzing my parched throat makes now and then, and its pitch keeps climbing, climbing as if it's coming closer.

Maybe it's a bee. Maybe there's honey nearby.
Can I eat a bee? Are there even any bees left?
Why do I bother asking questions like these?

The hum gets louder, and something catches the sunlight on the horizon. Out of instinct, I drop into the tall grass around me and observe what it is- as it gets closer, and the noise becomes more clear, I can tell it's a car- a quite old one. Beat up, rusty, and...slowing down right in front of me.

I think about running, but there'd be nowhere to go. If the passengers have guns, I'd have a bullet in my back not long after turning around. The car sits there on the dirt road and idles for a little, before the hum dies down and the driver-side rear door pops open.

Shit.

I freeze up and think about reaching for my gun, but it's empty. I won't be able to fight at all, let alone win one. The only thing I can do is stand up, and let them know I see them.

"Hey!" a male voice calls. The speaker seems to be wearing a motorcycle helmet and riding jacket, and sporting a machine pistol of some kind. The other passenger and the driver, two figures I can't properly see, stand by the car while he comes closer.

I open my mouth to respond, and all that comes out is a dry crackle. Speaking hurts when you haven't drank anything in two days.

Before I know it, he's only five feet from me, holding out a can of soda. I hardly look at it before I accept it, fumbling with the tab for way longer than I intended before scooping my finger under it and popping it. I graciously chug it down, trying to ignore the carbonated burn which is almost as bad as the pain of a dry throat. Moments later, the can is empty and my thirst is sated, for now.

"You looking for any work?" the man inquires, holstering his gun on his hip. I take a moment to find my voice again, as weak as it is.

"What kind of work?" I try to sound confident, scratching my fingernails on the aluminum.

"Security. Loss prevention. Nothing too hectic. You could handle it."

I'm not sure if that was intended as an insult- but it only takes one look at my condition to see why he said that.

"I don't-" I cut myself off and hesitate to finish, eyes looking out over the horizon before darting back to him.

"Look, do you want the job or not?" He seemed to be getting agitated, but I couldn't tell when his face was behind a helmet. "We have food, water, a safe place to rest. You look like you need all three."

"Yeah!" I nod almost enthusiastically. "I'm up for it." No, no I'm not. But I don't have much of a choice. Following him back, I climb into the car and glance over at the other rear passenger, a woman with ski goggles on her face and short, blonde hair. She briefly looks back, but seems more concerned with her pack of cookies than me.

Before long, I close my eyes and lean my head against the car window, and drop away into a series of short, apprehensive naps.

-1-

The buggy jerks to a stop outside a square, grey building, and I take my face off the glass to get a view of my surroundings. It's a town, albeit a small one, practically strung out on one street. Not many people are around.

Before I can look around much more, the woman beside me reaches into her pocket and passes me a handful of bullets. They fit the revolver snugly, and I fill all six of its chambers as the front passenger does the same with his gun.

"Alright. Those boys over at the general store, they've been collecting some kinda bullshit tax for anybody that goes down the road."

"And they stole your stuff?" I ask. The gun returns to its holster, significantly heavier than before. I get handed an empty backpack.

"Yeah. Fuckton of it. Said we had to pay or turn back around. Mostly food and ammo. We'll keep'em busy, and you can get in there and grab what you can, alright?"

"This isn't exactly loss prevention..."

"And these aren't exactly ideal circumstances. You up for it or not?"

I feel my heart pounding. I had had my things stolen from me by those who were stronger, or who were just able to put a gun in my face. Reluctantly, I get out of the car, tiptoeing around the building while the car pulls ahead. I get a good look up the road- a pair of grey-uniformed men with rifles stand in front of a dilapidated building. They would kill me given the chance- simply because we looked different. The reluctance I previously had was now replaced with outright fear.

Don't get caught. Getting caught means getting killed. Getting away means getting to eat tonight. I take a deep breath and leap over the fence, managing to hit the ground on my feet, all without rattling the chains that divided the properties. Then, revolver drawn, I make my way to the back side of the property, just as the car pulls up and the pair of soldiers performed their "inspection". The door here is cracked open, so naturally, I make my way inside.

There's a small kitchen and living area here, obviously well-worn over the years since the Flu. The front of the former house has been turned into a makeshift storefront, and the lack of a door lets me see right through to it. There's a woman at the front "desk", and with the soldiers occupied, the barrel of my revolver is to her head before she is aware of it.

"Fill it." I order. As if this is routine, there is hardly any struggle from her as she begins to shovel in what's been set out on the desk for customers. Cans of food, bullets and shells. I carefully reach out and grab a handgun on display before she can, stuffing it into my jacket. Maybe they will like this too. As long as they let me eat.

She reaches to hand the bag to me, but I push it back. "Money too. And...don't look back here when you're done." I would need an escape route. Back the way I came was the only smart one. She begins to open the box, placing carefully-made rolls of money into the bag along with what she had already stuffed in. I keep the gun trained on her as I slowly back up until I feel my boots sink in the dirt.

And then I run.