CHAPTER ONE !

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In the darkness, her weary eyes burned with sin.

The air is silver and pearl, while a milky moonlight glow leaks through the cracked windows that shine above. Below the moonlit glass, Vienna Olson watched the faint rise and fall of a sleeping man's chest. Her sharp eyes carefully inspect every sudden movement of his restless slumber, waiting patiently to capture her perfect opportunity to escape.

     Battered fingers curl around the jet-black handle of her malignant dagger with stealth. The wicked man shifted in respite, sending a chill down Vienna's spine. Even though he was seemingly at rest, the madness blazing in his dozing mind was enough to scare the skin off her bones.

He is death in the form of a man. Joe is sadistic, and she knows that firsthand.

A ghostly path of light casts through the rigid rupture of the window, shining onto Joe's filthy facial features. Several cuts and fresh bruises coated his dry skin, accompanying an overgrown silver goatee and the infected yet self-healing scar underneath his dark eye. A tattered ginger-colored blanket covered his body, sheltering the evil vitality that sweltered the aura around him.

Vienna's eyes lowered to the slim pillow beneath the scared face and fixated on his switchblade hidden beneath the cushion. She imagined the fury of Joe's knife and the countless victims of its sharp-edged horror.

     Unwanted memories that aged into nightmares clouded her mind. All the sinful acts that Joe's crew committed—the pain—the wrath—swirled within, bringing her back to the true enemy.

He is the perfect embodiment of a sinner. Like many, Joe used the world's end to his cruel advantage.

     Sure, in some ways, everyone did. But not like him. No, not like Joe and his death-defying perspective of the apocalyptic world. Before the end, he was just another volatile man with a short temper joined by narcissistic tendencies, who spent his nights drinking Jack Daniels at busty bars—like most men who resided in the States.

     Though, there was a chilling fire in his eyes. Something dangerous was brewing, and the end of the world gave him the perfect opportunity to let it blow.

     The fiery demise of humanity created a new and hardened Joe. One whom friend or foe could not trust. Even his own blood was at risk.

     Selfish, cruel, and suffocated with anger, Joe tore down elements of hope for humanity as he ripped through the roads of Georgia, plucking hostile survivors off the streets—promising them security for the simple exchange of their souls.

     He claimed them.

     Joe created fear. That fear was the foremost reason Vienna stayed with the group. Even after everything she had seen or done—fear kept her contained. The Claimers changed her. They turned her into a monster—an advocate for the root of evil. It's not that she didn't want to leave. But, if Vienna tried to run, she'd die by dawn.

The Claimers weren't exactly the forgiving type. They held grudges until revenge was taken. Nothing would stop them from hunting the people they disliked in the apocalypse. Vienna had no idea what she was getting into with the group.

     In some twisted way, Vienna should thank them for their teachings. Without them, she'd never become skillful in the art of killing.

     At least she could thank Dean.

(could she?)

     Out of every survivor she'd seen since the beginning of the end, he became a face that could never be forgotten. He is the man who orchestrated the plan of this great escape to protect her—to save her.

     The sharp stare of Joe's blade mocked Vienna with her feeble reflection. She'd seen him gut the dead and the living with that knife—one wrong move, and she'd become its next victim.

     A familiar sense of fear swept over her like a rushing wind. If you want to live, you have to be willing to perish. Burying that feeling, Vienna blinked and took in a deep breath, preparing for this death-ridden morning. Tears blur as the fresh memory of the recent altercation flickers into her mind. It was more than an altercation; instead, an assail that left her hurt.

     She swallowed and rose to her feet, burning with anger, washed by the memory of last night's ugliness. Beneath her, Joe slept soundly along with several other men who littered the floor of their newfound dwelling: an abandoned motorcycle garage. It wasn't the worst place they've taken over. It was rather nice. Whoever owned the building seemed to keep it in good tact. Harley Davidson merchandise clung to the ceiling along with a taxidermic deer head that seemed to haunt Vienna with its beating eyes.

     A few men snored while others slept like corpses, which kept Vienna at ease. Her doe eyes poured over the room and inspected everybody that rested soundly, assuring herself it was time. It was time for The Great Escape.

     Her task is not to panic.

     Unfortunately, this was not a simple task. It was rather tricky and buzzed with danger. She had to remain silent and careful not to wake the sleeping assholes. But, if everything went as promised, Dean would already be outside in the night, awaiting her presence with extra rations, supplies, and the bullets he managed to scrap off Tony and Dan. This forbidden act already puts them at significant risk, breaking The Claimer's most prominent rule: stealing what others have claimed.

Her eyes are drawn to the wooden rack that holds several arrows that do not belong to her. It wouldn't hurt to snatch a few from Len. Considering he was an awful man. Vienna felt no remorse as she walked across the floor and reached for a singular arrow. Running her fingers down the black shaft, she grinned. Len had good pointers.

     Vienna wasn't lucky enough to find promising arrows on their recent scavenges, and Len was not one to share. Now, they were hers.

     Fuck you. She thought, glaring at his closed eyes.

Vienna crept across the concrete floor, remaining calm; she stepped over the treacherous bodies. As she approached the garage door, she met a glimpse of moonlight.

     When she reached the night, a soft gasp escaped her lips, feeling the urge to withdraw her bow at the sound. But only Dean panted with tired eyes. "We need to move now."

     She could still see his cross chain gliding around his neck in the dusk as he shifted and met Vienna's eyes while adjusting his pack over his shoulder.

"Let's go," Dean ordered in a strictly sharp tone. The sense of urgency in his manner made Vienna shutter. It wasn't like Dean to seem nervous. Usually, he was confident and prepared for the worst, but even he seemed uneasy.

     Vienna chose not to respond, conscious of the nearby man named Billy, who rested against a large oak tree nodding off, thanks to the back of Dean's shotgun.

     There was talk that Billy slept on his watch nights; he sneakily tried to get a few hours in, which was easy because there were only a few men in the garage. The rest were on a day supply hunt, leaving Joe's group shot. Perfect timing. Tonight, only Billy was on guard outside, weakening their defense. Sleeping on the watch is an act strictly forbidden amongst the affiliates of The Claimers. So, this would land him hot water with Joe after their absence—more specifically, the supplies' absence—and lead him to a gruesome death (if all goes well, of course).

     A cold breeze brushed against her rosy cheeks, making her shiver. She then adjusted her wooden recurve on her shoulder; its thin string rested against her forearm as she walked through the grass, ignoring the chill.

     Her eyes drifted to Billy, who lay lifelessly.

     A grin twitched her lips. Scoffing at the way his ash beanie covered his eyelids, acting as a dysfunctional eye mask. He was bound to get caught sleeping on watch this morning.

     She raised her hand and flipped him off. Then she kicked a few leaves that happened to land on his legs.

Dean already trailed up the hill that led to lines of overgrown trees; he tugged his jacket closer for warmth while turning back in search of the teenage girl. When he spotted her beige quiver in the night, he almost sighed and rolled his eyes at her antics. Clenching his fists, he felt tense watching the girl reach down and grab Billy's pistol that rested in the blades of grass beside his limp hand.

She was wasting precious time, bringing them closer to trouble by the second—at least, that's what Dean thought—the more time they spent lurking outside the garage brought them closer to death. One of the men could wake and discover their disappearance, followed by a hounded search for them, dead or alive.

     It didn't take long for Vienna to notice Dean's sour expression. His impatience crackled through the static, and she finally took notice of his appearance as a whole. Dark brown roots tangled against the back of his jacket, with sweat covering his tanned skin. Dean looked as if he had been carved from wood and left out in the rain to rot, and the melancholy apocalypse days clouded his eyes, leaving him with a weak structure.

     He raised a thick brow at Vienna, "Wasting your damn time with that pistol," His words had a nasal southern drag, "Ain't like you would even shoot it."

Vienna scoffed, "Thankfully, it's not for me, Jackass." Letting out a huff, she tossed the pistol into the crisp morning air. Dean caught the gun, biting his tongue; he kept himself from scolding the girl for making noise.

     His main concern was her safety. It didn't matter what happened to him. But, the fear of what could happen to her after he was gone lingered in his mind. A plagued thought.

     Dean chuckled at her actions. He admired the silver pistol, running his fingers along the magazine. The letter 'B' carved deep into the surface made him shutter. Claimed. This gun was not Dean's; it was Billy's. He's breaking the most forsaken rule amongst the Claimers again. The thought made him twitch, but the morality of this mission brought him back.

     His eyes fixed on Vienna's ash-brown locks as she scoffed, shaking her head in a nearly teasing matter.

     Her face retained the gentle edges of youth.

     Dean's jaw tightened. He must get her out of here.

     "Thanks. One of these days, you ought to let me teach you to shoot. Some day, that bow won't hold up." He muttered, gesturing to her auburn recurve.

     Vienna scoffed, brows furrowing at the thought. "I know how to shoot."

      She opened her mouth to speak again but was caught off by Dean bringing his finger to his lips, telling her to be quiet. He gestured to the garage that was only a few yards away. It seemed so bleak and empty. The moss-green cladding guarded the interior of the building. Inky-colored rubber tires disperse the grass across a gravel driveway leading up to the garage. Murky waters filled the tires thanks to last night's thunderstorm accompanying Vienna's sleepless evening.

     She was glad to say goodbye. Bad beginnings have bad endings, and her entire experience with The Claimers intertwined sinfully, a fearsome start to a fearful end.

     "I don't like the noise. You know that." Vienna added, ignoring his request to keep quiet.

     Dean stopped in his tracks. "You'll wind up dead if you don't get over that fear." 

     That comment left Vienna quiet because it was true. But to her, that didn't matter. Her bow was all she needed for now.

     With that, they began their journey.

     Trekking up the grassy hill, Dean shared one last glance at the garage. He imagines the building engulfed in fiery flames, burning the edges and melting the wicked memories that never ceased haunting him. Selfishly, he envisions the group locked in the barn. It's such a cruel image that he almost quivered at the thought.

     Why did he imagine such an evil thing?

     The same ideas Joe seared into his brain blurred without the man's help. Maybe he was just as evil on his own.

     Hastily, he contorted to face the trees—the moonlight gloom wrapped around the dark sky. The stars scatter amongst the painted atmosphere, twinkling in the vast night.

     Dean lifted his stubbled chin and sauntered forth.

      Amongst the silence, he knew that would be the last time he would see the crooked garage, and fate would rob him of everything.

• • •

     It is still early enough that a mist rises through the grass like ghosts stalking the land. Last night's rain brought all the warmth to the surface, coating its top with a soft morning dew.

     The sky is still dark, battling the light that seeps through the cracks of the atmosphere, itching to grow into a cloudy dawn. A yellow hue undertones the primarily dim blue shade of the sky. Vienna noted how the colors melted each other, enjoying the mourning morning before it left her half-hearted.

"I'm serious about the shooting thing." Dean's smoky voice broke the comfortable silence that so far consumed their journey.

Vienna rolled her eyes in response, and Dean reached for Billy's gun in his back jeans pocket. He rushed his pace and unloaded the magazine, counting the rutty bullets.

     After a long glance, he met Vienna's eyes. "Twelve," he proclaimed, "Twelve bullets in one magazine, plus we've got about six more cartridges—and how many arrows do you have left? Seven?"

     She hated that he always guessed right. He always had to know everything. Sometimes, she wondered how.

"Better off shooting rounds than reaching for arrows with the herds."

     In many ways, Dean was right. And Vienna knew this. It's not that she didn't care, but she wanted something different. Although there was no telling of what it is yet—it grows with the bow. A dream or a hope of some sort or even the gut-wrenching need to prove herself and gain control over her life because, now, it felt like life was not hers.

"Yeah, but it's best with a blade," she clasped her dagger in its leather holster. "The less noise, the better."

"Okay, killer, calm down. You're going to tire yourself out, kid. Trust me."

"Well, I've been fine so far. Haven't I?" Vienna defended, sliding her knife into its pocket.

     He was right about the rounds, though. Guns are best to defend a herd of roamers.

     The dead gathered in certain areas, wandering through empty streets in anticipation of the hearts of the living. Dozens to hundreds of the unliving walked the world. Luckily, their group only encountered two—and Vienna could hold her own with her aim.

That was Deans's primary concern. "With the herds of roamers and only two of us—you need to learn how to shoot." Before she could respond, he persisted, "When you run out of arrows or drop your knife, you'll need to rely on a gun."

     All he wanted to do was keep her safe, even if that meant he had to risk his own to save hers.

     Their conversation was interrupted by a claimant noise. The two halted and shared concerned glimpses, visualizing the intensity hidden before them. The sound didn't come from too far, a walking distance if it wasn't too noticeable. There was another thudded noise—a car door? Followed by a soft laugh: someone living.

     Vienna remembered when this excited her—the crossroads with other survivors, meeting more people willing to live. It made her uneasy, knowing their paths could take a dark turn. But, the laugher had a sense of silvery.

     Once again, they crept low, wary of their surroundings as they lugged through the woods heading towards their illicit fate.

     When Vienna came upon an abandoned trailer site with a truck parked beside it, she lowered her bow and pursed her lips at the company; there were two survivors: a young man and a boy wearing a cowboy hat.

     The man looked to be in his early twenties. He was tall and robust, obviously eating proper meals.

     They stepped out of a depleted blue pickup truck and stood on the muddy ground as the headlights dimmed.

     The pair broke apart and headed in opposite directions, searching for particular items. It seemed to be a supply run, something Vienna and Dean often did together. Once realization overcame her features, a brooding feeling crept over her skin. Her eyes drifted to Dean, noticing how his dark eyes focused on the opportunities before him.

     "If you want to get out of here and get away from them—then we need that truck. You understand?" It was hardly a question. If Joe or any other men were asking her this, she would have to nod in agreement without a second thought. But, this was Dean. So, she stared at him, eyes sharper than the arrows she fired, speaking louder than any words could.

"This is about surviving right now. We can work on our humanity later."

She gnashed her teeth, biting down. What the hell? Her eyes narrowed on Dean's now soulless eyes.

Dean ignored her shocked expression, focusing on the now and the icy plan that might as well deem him as the new Joe. But, in Dean's eyes, committing these vile crimes now eliminates the chances of having to do them later.

     If they were to escape The Claimers, that truck was their window to breach. With the vehicle, they could head north and gain a reasonable distance from the group. They would continue forward, find new lives, and bury their old ones.

     Then, they could choose humanity over survival—not now.

     Vienna watched, struck with horror. It was happening again—all over again. She froze in place. Boots stuck into the dirty forest floor while, once again, fear crossed her face.

     Dean lurked forward, carrying his pistol low. In response to the adrenaline, a thin layer of sweat coated his wrinkled skin. He ran a hand over his mouth, conjuring as many ideas as possible, seeking one with the best outcome: their survival. It was like something switched within. His ability to empathize is lost within the darkness.

     Yards away from him, the boy leaned into the abandoned car, searching its trunk for anything deemed valuable. But, the innocence within him silently hoped for a comic book.

     His onyx-colored hat tipped as he bent down, reaching for a case.

     Deans itched forward, peering over the vast, mossy trunk he leaned on. He monitored the situation as if he was the prey. If somewhere were to hunt them, their best bet would be to target the Vienna—Dean's weakness. That young man's weakness must be the boy.

     Dean shook his head, washing away the look of misery in Vienna's eyes that burned him. A look that will soon become his worst nightmare.

His eyes searched for the young man, aimlessly combing through the vast trees and bushes that rooted the soil. It didn't take long for Dean to spot him, rustling through a small abandoned shed a reasonable distance from Dean and the boy. His head told him to lunge forward and grab the kid, using him as leverage against the man. But, for once, he listened to his heart and glimpsed at Vienna.

     The girl seemed to be his own blood. The teenager had many traits that brought him back to life—the girl who gave him a purpose.

     "I'll threaten the boy," he took out his pistol, waving it amongst the dewy air. "You don't have to take part. I can see that look in your eye."

     Vienna turned crimson. "We'll be just fine without a truck." She turned to the trees, "That's a kid, Dean."

     The use of his name jerked a muscle in his jaw. If there were a God, he'd pray to him for mercy because he could feel the shift. A world's end was creeping eerily. The girl looked at him fearfully, like he was an oddity.

     In a world way, she became family to him. Someone he had to look after and keep safe. Now, she was looking at him with such a scornful expression that would never leave him.

     "You said we would get away from their fucked up shit—not relive it hours after we leave."  Madness rose out of her like bats. Once again, her voice had gone unheard.

     "This is for survival." He growled, sinking his nails into his arm, reminding himself to lower his tone. "You think they'll just let us go? That they won't track us days on end till they put a bullet in our head?" He polled, knowing she knew the answer. But, he was only met with silence.

     His forehead creased as if he was beginning to doubt his words after repeating them.

     Vienna didn't think of that until she heard Dean say it. But, perhaps it angered her even more. She knew what The Claimers did to those they stole from. In Joe's eyes, leaving them alive would induce them to significant failure that would bite them in the ass later.

     Which may be accurate. But, it was their unfortunate reality and telling by this situation: Joe's idea would prevail.

     The group would find Dean and Vienna and kill them.

     It seemed evident that the man and boy had a safe place to stay along with a group of some sort, considering their abundant amount of supplies and working vehicle.

     They also had guns, which in this world was the pinnacle of survival.

      It's highly doubtful they would let Dean and Vienna walk off without a fight. They had fought too many battles with lasting survivors that ended with red.

Dean decided to argue with her silence, "We took their weapons and supplies—they'll come after us. You know how this works."

"That doesn't mean you do this."

She'll learn to understand. He recited in his head like a prayer, primarily for his own reassurance.

     Dean looked back at the boy one last time, "We aren't what we do to survive. You know that, Enna." His undertone in the previous sentence crushed her with guilt. She said that once. Now, he was using it against her.

"Just stay back." He raised his gun.

Once again, she chose not to say anything, merely baffled by his inhumane switch. They were supposed to do good now.

     They would be better.

When Dean crept forward, Vienna felt the urge to reach out and grab him. She would throw him into the dirt and tell him to listen to her. She wanted to be heard for once.

     But she didn't move. Only her eyes followed Dean's figure that sauntered towards the unaware boy.

Vienna blinked and selfishly wished the young man would notice Dean's silent arrival and come to the rescue. It dawned on her that maybe Dean couldn't be fixed.

A stiff breeze made the forest rattle as the sullen and familiar click of a loaded firearm echoed through the air. "Hands up."

The boy, Carl, raised his arms. He let his muffled Beretta meet the grass, surrendering, knowing that a gun to the back of the head is no time to play hero.

     "Who are you?" His voice strained, "What do you want?" This time, he sounded much more confident with his words, trying to be fearless.

     Tough kid.

     "Just a man who wants to live, and I'm sure you do too." What a dick. Vienna thought. Dean sounded almost careless. This execution was spontaneous, a task that The Claimers had dealt with more than they should've.

     It didn't take long for the young man to hear the fatal words and notice the dreadful situation unraveling before him. Mitch dropped the canister of gasoline he held in one hand and replaced it with his carbine rifle, swinging it over his shoulder and driving forward.

     There was no time for him to process what he saw. But, seeing Carl with a barrel meeting the back of his head sent him spiraling.

     "What the hell? Drop the gun." Mitch itched forward, plodding down the wooden ramp of the shed.

     "Your buddy and I had a chat," Dean ushered his revolver to Carl's hat humorously. "We decided I'll be taking that truck you got over there, and we'll all forget this ever happened." He dragged his words on, smiling dangerously.

     Mitch scoffed in disbelief at the man's actions. His jet-black hair stuck to his skin as sweat brewed.

     "Trust me, son. Drop the gun." Dean sighed, acting as if Mitch was reacting boringly. "I'll do it—not kidding." He wiggled his finger tauntingly over the trigger.

     Mitch only irked forward, carbine raised to his eye level, blazing angrily.

     Vienna watched the scene unfold from afar.

     Tucked behind the vast log, she hid as her bony elbows leaned against the mossy wood. She nibbled on her bottom lip, taking in the entirety of the situation and planning what to do.

      Without another thought, instinct overtook her body. She drew an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to the bow string.

    Dim eyes peeked through the sight window of her weapon, aiming the silver arrow directly at the unfamiliar man who pointed his rifle at Dean. She was unseen, almost invisible. Pressing her pink lips into a thin line, she countered, moving to the left and aiming at Dean's head.

     A million thoughts were racing through Vienna's mind, and nothing made sense.

     So, she went for a whistle in the dark.

     She rose to her feet and lowered the bow and arrow.

     "Step back. Not a foot closer." Dean threatened with hard eyes. His now trembling hand inched closer to the boy's head.

     "Drop the fucking gun," Mitch barked out of an angry panic. It was like he could see the past years with Carl fading before his eyes.

     He didn't want to imagine this world without Carl.

     What would come after his death?

     He could already see Rick's eyes now, mournful and solemn, replicating the same idiom he wore the day Lori died. He couldn't do that. Mitch didn't want to be the reason—the one to blame.

     But, at this moment, he couldn't think properly. Shock pulsated through his veins at the sudden disturbance of this despicable man. He and Carl were on a morning supply trip that Mitch now regretted every splitting second of.

     They weren't supposed to go this far out. There was a line that surrounded their prison. It was drawn with a black marker onto a flaky exterior map of the jail's outskirts, with at least twenty miles of land between each corner of the prison and the marked line. Mitch and Carl were about ten miles farther than they should be.

     Then, Mitch stepped forward, unsure where his legs would take him and to what lengths he would go.

    But a feminine voice stopped him.

     "We'll just take the guns."

     Vienna's voice almost startled Dean, surprised by her vocal entrance rather than a notable arrow that would usually slice the room before she did. But, he scoffed. "No. We're not here to compromise. Make this quick and easy: give me the keys to the truck and your guns, and you can walk your sorry asses back to wherever you came from." He threatened, shaking his head, he added, "Seems like your place ain't too bad."

      Their appearance was clean. They must have fresh water.

     Vienna panted at the venom laced in his words.

     Mitch flickered, balancing his aim from one figure to the other. He was stunned by the girl's sudden appearance. "Listen. Move away from the kid now—then we can talk." His attention was drawn to Carl, whose eyes longed for his silenced gun that rested a few feet beside him.

     The young man inched closer, testing Dean's patience.

     Now, his tolerance had burned to ash that stirred with trepidation. Mitch's carbine pointed towards Vienna with fury—scaring Dean into backing up. Using this moment as a window, Carl reached for his gun; his fingers grasped into the grass, and he squeezed the clasp of his firearm.

Mitch almost felt terrible. The girl's piercing blue eyes burned into his skin. He could tell she was younger. A bit younger than him, at least. Maybe late teens or early twenties.

     The girl was captivating. Mitch was drawn to her but ignored the lure, focusing on Carl's life at stake.

     Dean reacted too quickly to the boys' arrogant leap. He was kicking the gun from his hand, using an adrenaline rush of force to bruise Carl's pale and gaunt hand.

      A cry of pain ravaged the last bits of Dean's stony soul. He diverted his eye from Carl's strained wail of pain and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet and delicately placed the barrel of his revolver to the side of the boy's head. "Now, let's try this again." Please. He almost wanted to add.

     The cry ignited a flame in both Vienna and Mitch.

     Two strangers were concerned for the same boy without knowing it. Vienna wasn't sure why she cared for the kid. But it probably had something to do with the innocence of a child living in this world. The type of innocence that taps a gun to your skull and demands you to bring back the deadly memories of the past.

     Recollections that Vienna buried deep within that startle her once she remembers. He was young, just like her brother.

     Carl pushed again, fighting to break free from Dean's harsh grip—and then, it all happened so fast. Seconds melt into another as time devours them.

     Bad beginnings have bad endings.

     A gunshot sounded through the amorous sadness of the night, and everything screamed in horror: the trees, the moon, and Dean's heart.

NOTE. Heyy. I am finally writing for this book again (slay). Sorry for any mistakes; I'll edit this again later—probably.

Thank you for reading <3 Stay safe!