(no subject)
On a Tuesday, Claire Pullman's world ended. Before then, when she'd pulled twenty people through the first few days, there had been hope. Not hope the way that her mother hoped that she'd grow up and marry a doctor, but hope in the way that not a single day did she wake up and say, "It's over."
Because she wore business casual and had a shotgun. There might have been a gap between when she last showered and when she wanted to have showered, but this was clear: Claire was not through yet.
One of her twenty put a hand on her shoulder and said, "Hey, I'll take this watch."
He looked hard. When she first met him, he'd looked soft. Like play dough. Malleable. Now, he took her spot and her gun with a, "shoot to kill" look on his face. During their first introduction to the zombies, Claire had been the first to convince her people that burying the undead was pointless. Don't try it. Shoot. Hit them in the head and leave the bodies because there are no cannibals like zombies.
"You're going to die," he said. He offered her a cigarette, and she took it.
"I don't smoke," she said.
"You're mutating badly," he said. He swept the gun to her head. She was the one who taught him that. "You become a 'wolf and I'm ending this."
"Fuck you," she said, standing straight. She took a drag on her cigarette, well aware of her stained business shirt. They hadn't had time since the last zombies to look for anything more than food and water. Food and water, she'd drilled into them. Food, water, and guns.
"I will," he said.
"You wouldn't get the chance," she tried staring him down, but the pain hit hard and then she was collapsing, knees first, arm around her stomach as she tried to brace herself with the other hand and failed. Sharp pain in her knees and elbow, throbbing burn in her stomach.
People were around her, taking her to her bed roll, making her drink water. She wiped away the wetness on her face and thought the most embarrassing part was that she was crying.
It was Tuesday, and she knew her mutation wasn't going to lead to becoming a werewolf (she was grateful) not a vamp (she didn't care). It was going to lead to a slow, painful end, her mutation slowly killing her in ways she hadn't thought she could be killed. She sat up.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You're not," and there were more protests, but she brushed them off.
"Just need some fresh air," she said.
The end was when she sneaked out with a handgun and a crowbar. Not trying to turn into a zombie, but a vampire, maybe. Wolf? Never.
No one had figured out whether taking a different virus would fix the mutation. But, her best guess was that trying would at least be better than blowing her brains out or sitting, waiting for death and surrounded by pity.
*****
When the vampire fangs sank into her neck, she only thought: Well.
*****
The Ageless started with the simple purpose of helping to organize the zombie removal efforts. The humans were half hearted about it, some still trying to bury the undead.
Everyone treats the Ageless now like they're an of course reaction to a bunch of people turning into vampires. Maybe they are, but Claire remembers this: they were all solitary hunters in the beginning. Every single one of them. She had to grind them under her heel through violence and bribery. She had to retrain all of these reborn people to believe that she was their best bet, that she made sure they all stayed alive and didn't kill each other off or get killed off by the werewolves.
Disparate people, desperate people, listened to her. Like usual, her instructions were simple: Get rid of all the zombies. From her lips, these fell like laws and she gained more. The rage, the anger, the need for violence that they'd all been feeling since the first of the attacks all were channeled by her will. She gave them the outlet that they'd all been needing, and her numbers grew.
Ten became twenty became more, an exponential growth that allowed her to be on a first name basis with the alpha. Before, she would have tried to kill him. Now, she had her kind to remember, the height of responsibility and the knowledge that they were depending on her. So, she saw the alpha and didn't try to claw his eyes out.
*****
She saw the Field Museum and said, "I want that."
Because she wanted it, she got it.
*****
She hunted alone until she realized that that was a bad political decision. Not to mention, it made her known for the wrong things.
Then, she hunted in groups, so that any victim she had didn't survive, was drained dry.
Red wristbands were safe, and she could train her people to do that by example. Punishment, if example was too kind.
*****
One of her first had been a petite little girl, ten years old, blonde hair and blue eyes.
Claire hated the kid. She took her everywhere, though, let the kid grab hold of her hand and trail behind. The humans melted when they saw it, it was like a free pass to do whatever she wanted.
Because even Claire Pullman couldn't be that bad if she was taking care of her own, if she was taking care of kids like that.
The kid's name was Harriet. She had fine blue veins that ran under the thin skin of her arms, a pulse that you could see by just looking at her neck. Claire used to curl her hair, so that it fell in golden waves and Claire could run her fingers through it
She still hated her.
Claire saw the first bite on a Thursday and had the guy who did it put in a shed to starve. He took days and she made sure that everyone knew why he was there. First rule: you don't eat your own.
Second rule: you don't ever touch someone Claire likes.
Harriet ended up dead anyway, ripped to pieces by a werewolf or a zombie. They didn't find out who, Russ would deny it to his grave, but all that was left was pieces of intestine, blond hair dried in blood, and a jawbone that Claire kept for a while until she tossed it out.
*****
A few years later and she saw one of her twenty, holding a shot gun on patrol for the shelter. The woman looked right at her and then pulled the gun to her shoulder, red wristband clearly visible on the arm steadying the muzzle.
Claire moved on.
*****
end