Beautiful Remains

Calming adrenaline pulsed through my veins as I slipped myself over the cement like a seal. My achy, chilled fingers gripped the end of the roof so that I could drag my into a proper viewing position. Finally, the avenue and all its cracked glory was in sight.

The footsteps I had keyed in on belonged to a group of five, black-clad men. Their path was taking them past the clinic. Each expression held such a wary glint, but that was understandable. Other survivors would have let them go by without a problem without a second glance, but I had already given them that glance. It came naturally, to stop and observe the area twice, and I’m glad it did.

Unbeknownst to them, a single undead was loitering behind a truck that they were getting dangerously close to. Only one unnecessary move or sound on their part and they would all die.

It didn't take me long to decide my course of action.

My finger already graced the trigger and my sight was already focusing on the corpse’s head through the scope of my Barrett .50 Cal. The harmless people looked needy and I would feel bad for leaving them to the rotten infection. I shot and suddenly realized the flaw in my plan.
They don’t know I’m not going to hurt them.

The dead was now crumpled in a lifeless heap, but the passer-bys that I had saved were unknowing and confused. One even pulled out an MK-47 and motioned another to stand behind him. It looked comical from my perspective, like a bunch of ants helplessly scrambling around.

Yet my laughter didn't leave my throat nor did it show on my face. In their sudden regroup, I had noticed the human-sized lump in the arms of the tallest. My frown deepened as the man kissed the forehead of the person that he was holding.

A strong rope tugged at my heart, begging me to run down to them and aide them, but the danger. What if the person he carried was diseased?

Could I risk it?

Another gust of air angrily rushed through the area, making the hood on the carried one fall back. The face of a sick women, not too far from my age, appeared, and I saw her features. Jutting out bones and an appearance of death, she wasn't infected; she was starved.
Carefully skimming the area, the small band was making their way slowly down the street. Finally, they saw the freshly slayed undead and the majority of them put away their guns.
It wasn’t strange for survivors to help other survivors in these little ways, but missed shots weren’t strange either. Sometimes, one could find supplies waiting to be pick up on the side of the road. These gifts were often given up by a stranger that saw you coming and knew they didn’t have long to live, the poor things. Other times, it was just empty bullet shots to others to stay away. Most common was the direct hostility that this group had been expecting; a sniper onslaught and ambush.

I shot another bullet into another loitering corpse not too far from them and in sight. Maybe this would build so type of trust between us, even if it was such a large barrier. Not only that, their reaction would also help me decipher the type of people they were. If I was going to help them, they at least had to be sensible folk. Smarts were vital and my “friendly” shot would determine if they had any with them.

This time around, they saw the corpse fall to the ground, but no one smiled gratefully. Unsure about the help they were receiving--but not refusing--the majority just jumped in place . The one with the MK-47 was smart enough to stay armed and suspicious.

All right, they pass, I thought as I wriggled away from my scouting point and towards the fire escape, let's go tell Dylan we have guests for dinner.

Notes

*just puts this here and runs away*