APRIL 20, 2019
CONWAY, NEW HAMPSHIRE
USAMRIID UNDERGROUND INSTALLATION
STATUS: ACTIVE

—

How long had it been since they went to ground? Lisa had lost track of the time as her present work took precedence over her frivolous thoughts. To this day, she was still at loss for how bad Generix had responded. Dozens upon dozens of testing had been done, and the symptoms which had brought them to their current state in the world was very very uncommon in the test subjects. Hell, even the FDA allowed the select abnormalities to be overlooked. Outliers they said. Lisa scoffed. It was the damn outliers which should have resolved before releasing the medication.

“Doctor Coen,” Lisa looked up as a scientist came up to her. It was Philip. His black hair was awry. Due to lack of sleep no doubt. “Here are the results. Negative across all substances. We’re running out of samples too.”

Lisa thumbed the report. “I had hopes for substance #231,” she said as she tossed the report onto the table. “Have you tried administering substance #131? It had the strongest reaction to the Generix.”

Philip frowned as his jaw clenched then unclenched. Lisa knew the sign far too well. Philip did it when he was nervous. “We weren’t counting on how quickly Generix adapts to outside elements. Recall that Generix works by balancing the neurotransmitters in the head. It’s suppose to either produce or depress the production of the transmitters — depends on the patient and how their the—“

“It mutated again, didn’t it?”

“…Sorry Doctor.”

The lights in the lab flickered slightly as the room shook. In the beginning, Lisa always panicked at the tremors. Though it was only the generators restarting its power cycling, she imagined it as an earthquake. While they were stuck god knows how far beneath the Earth, she couldn’t get the idea of being crushed in this metal, safe coffin. It was irrational she knew that. Hell of a better way to die as opposed to the surface alternative too she thought.

“Well shit, Philip. If the damn med keeps changing on us, I don’t know how we’ll be able to reverse the effect. Sure we can isolate one strain, but if it mutates … Jesus. This’ll all be just damn impossible! It’s hard enough finding a compatible substance to a strain as it is. Generix makes Ebola look like the flu — and that’s fucking saying something!”

“Calm down Lisa. Look.” Philip pointed towards a nearby computer screen. “We have isolated samples. What if we our hands on a live sample?”

“The Colonel would never agree to that.”

“How can you be so sure? We haven’t even asked him yet.”

“You’re suggesting a surface sortie.”

“It’s the only alternative we haven’t tried.”

Lisa frowned. “Oh we’ve tried,” she said, “and we paid for it.”

—

MAY 19, 2019
SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

The lens of the mask was fogging up. Adrian had been walking for a little over two hours as a nearby town came into sight. Even though he was well away from the highly radiated zone, he hadn’t the energy to take it off. On his back, he was hauling an overloaded climbers bag filled with a bunch of goodies he had found on his outing. Normally, he’d come back with a fair amount of space. However, what he found at the hardware store disrupted the norm. He was surprised no one had hit that spot yet. A treasure trove was what it was he thought.

As he approached the makeshift barrier the town had created, a pair of guards trained their weapons on him. He heard the mechanical click. He stopped. He released his hold on his crossbow and let it hang to the side. He made no move to his sidearm either.

“Make one fuckin’ wrong move,” said one of the men. Adrian hadn’t missed the provocative tone either. “Off with the mask. Slow and easy!”

“Easy on the trigger Mark,” Adrian said as he removed the gas mask. He checked his radiation marker. He had replaced the previous — which had been near black — with a fresh one. It was still in the ‘acceptable’ range. “Word on the street says your a quick shooter.”

Mark and the other guard — whom Adrian didn’t recognize — lowered their weapons as locks on the gates were being unlatched. “I ought to do the world a favor,” said Mark as he spat on the ground, “and put a nice little whole in that tiny fuckin’ skull of yours.”

Wiping some grime on his black cargo pants, Adrian re-situated the pack and walked towards the opening. “A favor? Who’d bring you your goodies then?”

Mark descended the shaky, makeshift stairs. “Did you find any?”

Adrian took off his pack and rummaged within. “Had to put down them crazies to get these,” he said. Several seconds later, he found what he was looking for. “For a real hard ass, you’ve got a hell of a sweet tooth. Here. Make those candy bars count.”

Mark came and took them. His eyes momentarily lost the vicious intent to kill if needed and gave way to look of childish glee. His fingers roamed over the bars, as if he had won a million dollar lottery ticket. “Dude, you don’t get it,” Mark said as he pocketed the bars. “These may be the last chocolate bars. Ever. If the world remains as fucked as it is, you won’t see these lovelies anymore. How are things out there?”

Adrian chuckled as he shouldered his pack. “Information will cost you,” he said. There was still some time to trade in the salvage he had gotten. The market ran late on Monday. “Bring something worth trading, and I’ll fill you in.”

Ignoring the crude remark from Mark, Adrian continued to trudge through the town. The place was made up of contracted buildings made of sheet metal and the integration of various pre-fall buildings. The settlement itself wasn’t big by any means nor was it small. Resting outside the city limits, it was a prime location for his line of work. It was also dangerous. Things often wondered out of the city to the settlement. Adrian didn’t envy the guards one damn bit.

Nearing a building where a crudely made sign labeled, The Raging Patriot, Adrian made his way inside the bar/inn. It was the only one, damn monopoly he thought to himself. The loud and raucous atmosphere washed over him immediately as a blend of alcohol, stale vomit, and the cringe worth smell of the ‘daily special’ filled his sense of smell.

He ordered a drink and sat down. His legs cried out in glee from the long awaited respite he gave them. While the patrons all enjoyed their time, he wanted nothing more than to get a room and sleep — after he traded the salvage of course. Adrian removed his worn jacket as he sat within his dirtied grey athletic shirt.

Welcome to the beautiful land of opportunity. He toasted to himself and drained his glass. And to another day living.

MAY 19, 2019
SYRACUSE, NEW YORK.
The old-Redcross station.

"DANA! I would like those alligator clamps -before- my patient dies if that's alright!", Derek Frost all but screamed over his shoulder at his skilled but sometimes slightly stressing assistant, a young woman of eighteen years.
"Sorry. Mr. Frost!", Dana called back as she came running into the makeshift "surgery" room, which was simply the old supply closet of the Red Cross station with a table, surgical tools and a tarp on the floor, and which already had a hefty amount of arterial blood from the knife wound on the patient's neck.
Derek took the clamps from Dana and gently took her hands, guiding them to the spurting injury.
"You know the drill. Keep pressure here while I make the incision. Is the O-negative ready?"
"Yes, sir. Chris was applying the IV to the bag last I saw him", Dana replied, applying firm pressure to the wound.
"Good deal. Alright making the incision". Derek said, applying a grill lighter to a scalpel blade to sanitize it before placing it against the skin of the neck, running the blade parallel to the artery and then peeling the skin back over Dana's gloved hand, which was still applying pressure from the side.
Experience as a combat medic and working with battlefield surgeons allowed Derek to find the issue relatively quick. The artery wasn't severed, but it was definitely punctured and still bleeding profusely.
Fixable, he thought to himself.
Derek grabbed the first clamp, pinching the upper part of the artery between his thumb and forefinger before placing the clamp just below his fingers and letting it shut on the tissue. He did the same thing with the lower part, stopping the blood loss almost immediately.
"Go ahead and keep pressure, Dana. He wasn't put under, he just passed out from blood loss, so i didn't bother using morphine", the medic said as he removed his already prepared hooked needle and thread from his suture kit and began closing the puncture in the artery.
Once that was repaired, Derek examined his work before removing the clamps, then watched it again. Satisfied that the bleeding didn't start up again, he sutured the incision he had made, and then the knife-wound before having Dana apply gauze and medical tape around the mans neck to protect the wound.
"Alright. Good work, girl", Derek said, giving one of his rare praises to his assistant as he snapped his blood-stained gloves off and toss them in the bin.
"Head over to the pantry and get yourself a half-dozen MRE's to take home".
Dana's blue eyes widened.
"Seriously?", she asked.
Derek sighed and hung his head. "You'd think even only being here a short time, you'd have learned -not- to question my generosity when it makes rare appearances. Now git.", he said swatting lightly at the back of Dana's blonde head, who dodged and laughed as she headed out of the room and up stairs to the kitchen area.
Derek allowed one of his rare smiles, but smothered it quickly as the older and more experienced assistant entered the room.
"Got your O-negative, boss", Chris said, hooking the red-bag on the patient's IV pole.
Derek didn't need to guide Chris. he had been here much longer than Dana and had worked as an EMT in the past. Derek removed his apron and washed the arterial blood off of his skin as Chris connected the blood-blag to the best vein he could find on the patient's other arm.
"Looks like we're good", Chris stated.
"Alright, lets get him on a gurney and wheel him to the other room", Derek responded, speaking of the original crew-quarters the Red Cross volunteers had used to sleep in during crisis. Derek had long since converted it into a patient-recovery room.
While Chris left to bring a gurney, Derek went ahead confirmed that his patient's vitals were stable, finishing the assessment shortly after Chris returned.
The two men gently shifted the unconscious man to the gurney and took him to the nearest cot in the recovery room, there Derek set up the IV pole with the fluid and blood bag next to the bed and checked the man's vitals once more before exiting the room with Chris behind him.
"Looks like that's it for now. Do me a favor?".
"Sure man, whats up?", Chris asked, removing his own gloves and pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face.
"I'm going to lay down for a bit. The patient...Andrew Ramirez, I think...Yeah, his wife and daughter are in the basement. Let them know the good news, yeah?".
"Sure thing. Want me to get you if any one else comes in?".
Derek grunted. "Might as well. I sent Dana home for the day so it's just you and I for now".
"Gotcha. Yeah, get some rest, Boss", Chris said as he headed for the basement.
Will do, Derek thought to himself, suddenly feeling drained from the last thirty-something hours of no sleep.
Slowly, he climbed the stairs to his living quarters. Originally it was a break room for the workers who manned this station with connecting doors to the kitchen area. Derek had moved a mattress and his personal gear and clothing into the room, but maintained a very spartan living condition.
The weary corpsman kicked his boots off and collapsed on the mattress, pulling the sheets over his legs and closed his eyes.
He was out in a matter of seconds.

Things could be worse. They could always be worse. It was something Artemesia knew for a fact. Life while it sucked and it sucked really bad right now; it could always get worse. One of those sayings she always avoided and with good reason.

Any time anyone had ever said it in her past, things got worse. A whole hell of a lot worse. Sometimes she still shuddered at the thought. In the current state of the world, she lived free without the same fears as she had growing up. Instead, the world brought out something else entirely. She was running again. A race she thought she had won.

Now she wasn't so sure the race had really begun until the fall of humanity. Life in the old days seemed trivial compared, but in those days life was hard and the constant fear of being next never helped.

Art never worried about any of it. If it happened it did. But she wasn't going to live that way, not like her family, not like the people now. She would shot herself before she allowed the past to catch up with her.

With a heavy sigh she shook her head. Her white locks were frazzled and the ponytail and braid holding them had seen better days. She was in need of a nice long shower, but then she knew everyone probably did too.

Her cargo pants had seen much better days. The ends were frayed and in need of sowing again except she was out of thread and she bent her last needle cleaning one of her guns. The bottom of her right sleeve of her shirt was ripped from where she'd received a wound to her arm. It still throbbed with pain and shooting her powerful guns was a nightmare, but she suffered in silence and alone.

Her arm was field dressed with brown discoloration seen all over it. She hadn't dared to look at it since she'd taken her knife too it. She would wait until she found someone, hopefully, with better than the basic skills she had.

Both of her heavy guns were slung over opposite shoulders and while for most people it made it impossible to run, she got along just fine. She had two pistols, almost out of ammo strapped her thighs and a few worn knives left on her. She needed to restock once she found a place. She didn't have anything valuable to trade or barter with, she didn't hunt for objects like everyone else. She was just a wanderer taking out as many of the crazies as she could where ever she went.

It didn't take her much longer to finally get to the shack hole she'd seen in her scope. It looked even worse up close. She'd seen the guards from the ridge she'd been on, but she didn't care about them.

Artemesia stood in front of the gate with her hands near both of her pistols. The guards didn't look none to happy to see her. She smirked.

"You can either shoot me or you can let me in." She stated simply.

Neither of the guards moved.

"I'm not gonna eat ya. Just want to see a traiteur and see if I can restock my supplies."

So her white hair probably wasn't helping the situation much. Finally one of the guards waivered and she was granted access. Yep, the settlements further south were a lot more open to others.

Walking around the little ransack of a town, it didn't take her long to find what she was looking for. The bar was on one side, a place she knew she would head before this day was over, that and a market to try her luck, but first she had to get her arm looked at.

The old Red Cross building was across from the bar. She headed across the street and opened the door. Yeah, the building looked as run down from the inside as it did the outside. Her frown deepened before returning to normal.

"Hey, is there a traiteur around here?" She raised her voice at bit hoping to be heard. If not, she would just look for proper supplies herself. She didn't want to redress the wound as her medic skills were only average for the position she had. She killed people for a living not healed them.

Glancing around again, she started looking for a few supplies. This world was far too cruel and if they left anything out in the open, she wasn't above taking them if it meant her survival. Honestly she just wanted her arm looked at because it was pain numbing to lift it up let alone shot with it.

April 26th, 2019
Capital District (Albany), New York

---

A morning sunrise unlike anything else always bid welcome to the day. Even amidst what everything had become the site was one surely many would have relished. The faint hues of shifting yellow as rising from the horizon the sun clambered higher and higher in the sky over the hours, unaware of all else that existed. Long stretching rays lit up most places with the brightness of midday, while stretching shadows cast others into the darkness. It was in those places that the dark and scary things always seemed to gather, since to be frightened in the light was foolish, wasn't it?

I don't understand how you can be afraid when the suns up. It's like everything's easier to see, easier to avoid or kill. It's not like in the dark where every corner can kill you.

Those words were some of the last of one Jacob Price. Now he sat curled between an old dumpster and the foundation of some back alley building. The sun shined bright in his eyes silhouetting what stood above him. Great tears welled in his eyes and his lips quivered with faint, almost lost, quivers of denial and desperation. His hands clutched at the collar of his shirt, pulling up in vain to try and protect himself from what was coming. Then, as soon as he'd been cornered the whimpers and prayers ended as Jacob Price was murdered.

In that moment Charles 'C' Sticks watched the gruesome ordeal transpire through the sight of an old surplus Russian rifle. Teeth ground until his jaw hurt, but he could not look away. He had a job to do, and that man and his murderer were both a part of it. Admittedly he needn't have Jacob Price die, though he needn't survive neither for the man had failed to pay his escort. However, what had murdered him was of the utmost threat to Sticks and those that crouched behind him in the fourth floor of the building.

Separated after a surprise attack from the crazies, mutants, or whatever else you fancy yourself with calling them, Sticks had rallied who he could, dealing with what he could as they moved forward. Jacob Price was the last of the group that hadn't been hit in the initial attack and was only found after he'd fired the rest of his pistol into his murderer.

“Just shoot the fucking crazy! He doesn't need to die like that!”

Emar. A taller brutish man, about six foot with broad shoulders and neat clothes. His image was soured by rotten breath and a horrible attitude. Atop these lovely graces he was also a coward and traitor in most peoples minds. However, he paid well, and Sticks had accepted to escort him towards one of the thought to be safe areas.

“Shut the fuck up Emar, it'll hear us!”

Ryan this time shouted in a whisper. He was far shorter than Emar; still rather young and skinny. He had a good head on his shoulders but didn't act quick enough to survive on his own. He did regardless have a lot of friends and always had a way with words. That was probably why Emar listened to him. Then again, maybe it was because Sticks had taken a knee and angled his surplus rifle towards Emar.

“You agreed to do as I say, and I said not everyone would make it if you didn't listen to me.”

Sticks was cold and quick. Spit flung off his lip as he ended his words and leaned forward towards the outspoken bully. Emar listened and fell backwards against the wall, scoffing and turning his head away from the grisly sight. Mumbling curses about his escort provoked another response from Sticks.

“I'll kill you just as soon as any other bastard out there Emar, so shut the fuck up for once.”

A silent nod complete with pursed lip was all that Sticks needed. He turned back to Price and his murderer. The monster had sunk its hands into the blood of its victim and another had joined it. They would make five in total, meaning there wouldn't be anymore from the ones that had attacked his group. With all of them soon to be dead and most of the group alive it meant he wouldn't need to fear having anyone killed in their sleep tonight. That was of course assuming no one slept through a shift.

Taking a single deep breath, holding it for a second and slowly releasing it Sticks steadied himself. He brought his arms in closer, pushed the butt of the rifle into his shoulder and slowly removed the safety. His finger slowly graduated to the trigger as he inhaled once again, this time slowly and shallow. Then everything stopped; he held his breath and waited.

Ba-bump

Ba-bump

Bang!

Ba-bump

Bang!

Ba-bump

Ba-bump

Exhaling he waited to ensure both shots had been dead on. The first one he was certain, as the figure immediately fell backwards from the force of the round striking. The second shot was aimed at an erratic target though, and Sticks had to hold his eye to the sight and watch for it to move again. If it had moved again his next three rounds would of struck it dead center and beaten it into the ground. Luckily he was a good shot. He returned the safety on the rifle and slowly came up to a knee and looked sternly to Emar.

“They're dead now, and we're safe. So why don't you keep your damn mouth shut because it seems to work a hell of a lot better that way. Alright?”

It was the same dream. A recurring nightmare Derek Frost had ever since things fell apart.
He was in Dallas, Texas. a little more than two hours from the college he had been attending in Stephenville.
He was visiting friends, and a girl he had met while still active-duty in the Navy the night before the infection went rampant in the major cities in the metroplex of Dallas-Fort Worth.
The nightmare never changed. No matter what he did, he was not in control of his dream-self. She....Erin....Always died the same way.
Maybe it was more of a flashback? This had really happened. Now Derek relived it some nights when he closed his eyes.

He would always wake up, just as he had when it happened, to see her stunning blue eyes looking into his. He would smile, and she would slowly glide across the bed back into his arms. He would kiss her, then get up to make coffee for the both of them, and she would remain in bed, her bare-body covered only halfway by the sheets and her mischievous smile promising things yet to come upon his return to her room.
His dream-self would be pouring coffee, and then jerk when he heard the window in Erin's room shatter and hear her scream his name.
Always, he would run to her room, his rapid heartbeat drowning out all other noise, even muffling her screams of agony and terror.
Upon entering, the first thing he noticed was the blood. Always the horrifying amount of blood. Then his gaze would center on the crazy eyed, filthy figure stabbing Erin in the stomach over....and over....and over again.
Derek, looking through his own eyes, would see his vision become red and hear his own scream of rage and despair.
His body hurtled at Erin's attacker, slamming him to the floor and pinning him down.
His fists and feet delivered brutal strikes at the infected man's face, spraying the hardwood floor with blood and scattering teeth until he stopped breathing. Only then, did Derek's rage end.
He turned quickly to Erin, her breathing coming in shallow gasps as she reached out for him. Derek saw his hands place themselves on the shredded mess that was her abdomen, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.
The woman didn't have the strength to even make words. Her eyes were filled with pain and fear, but even then she managed to reach out and grab Derek's hand, squeezing it.
Just as it had been every time, Derek heard the words coming from his mouth. Empty promises that she would be okay. That he would get her to a hospital.
And then just as it had been every time, the life faded from her eyes.

Derek Frost jerked awake when he felt a hand on his arm, reaching in the darkness for the Jungle Primitive machete he kept next to his mattress.
"Whoa whoa! Hey, it's me! It's Chris!", a voice whispered loudly from next to him.
"Chris! What the fu-", Derek began to say, but was interrupted when Chris clamped his hand over Derek's mouth and shushed him.
"Derek. There's someone downstairs".
The way Chris said that told Derek it was probably -not- a regular patient.
"Where?", he whispered back.
"Main room. Looked like she was scrounging for supplies".
"She?".
"Yeah. Hard to miss the long, white hair. Her outline in the dark was definitely not masculine". Chris said.
"Armed?", Derek asked as he picked up his Remington 12-gauge sawn-off, loading both barrels.
"Well fuckin' duh. Otherwise I would've handled it myself. Looks like shes got a rifle of some sorts, I dunno what else".
"Right. Stay here". Derek said, quietly stepping across the floor and making his way down the stairs.
He could hear the intruder scuffling around in the dark as he neared the base of the stair-case, crouched on the balls of his feet. He brought the double-barrels up with both hands as he stepped onto the floor and spotted the woman's white-hair in the dim room.
Derek, still crouched, stopped about 10-feet from her and brought the bead of the shotgun on her center mass, her back facing him.
"Lady, you got about ten seconds to get the fuck out of my station before I pull this trigger and send two 12-gauge shells hurtling into your ass". For emphasis, Derek pumped the sawn-off.
"One......".

Having found a few supplies that she could use later on for more field dressing and other things, Art had them stuffed inside of her cargo pockets. That was when she heard something. She slowed her movements, but the noise went back up the stairs. She frowned.

This was a place of healing. They weren't supposed to run the other direction. In this day and age they had to be used to people coming in with weapons and such. It wasn't like she was going to leave them where they could be stolen. Hell no. The two rifles were her babies.

Artemesia drew one of her pistols and kept it in front of her out of sight, the safety already off. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling. She knew something was getting ready to happen. The sniper in her wanted to find a hole in the darkness around her and blend into to take out the enemy.

She couldn't do that. These weren't the crazies she was dealing with. It was normal people. She wasn't going to kill if she didn't have to. Her hands had enough blood on them from her days in the military. She wasn't adding more to it if she had the choice.

There. Just barely. Another noise on the stairs. This one was different. Either they had gone to get a weapon or this was another person entirely. Her index slid onto the trigger, but she pretended to continue looking for supplies. All of her senses were on alert.

"Lady, you got about ten seconds to get the fuck out of my station before I pull this trigger and send two 12-gauge shells hurtling into your ass."

Now there was something she was used to - being threatened. She smirked to herself as the noise of the readying of the shotgun went off. She turned to face the male bringing her gun up with her and pointing it at him.

"One......".

Luckily she'd been in the dimness of the room long enough that her eyes had adjusted. She couldn't make out all of his features, but she knew enough as to where to shoot to kill him if he pulled the trigger on her.

"If you shoot me you're dyin' too. Cause cher I don't miss." A smile formed slowly on her lips. Of course, all she wanted to do was grimace in pain. Her arm was tight from resisting the urge to shake. She just had to use her right arm to hold the gun.
The entire upper part of the limb was screaming in agony at the effort just to keep the gun up let alone keeping her arm steady.

"All I want is a traiteur cause I really don't want to field dress this thing again on my own."

Despite all the warnings she had going off, there was something oddly familiar about the male. She couldn't put her finger on it, maybe due to the pain, her hunger, or wanting a decent night sleep. She wasn't sure, but the light in the building wasn't helping any. If she could just see his face clearly she'd know if she knew him. She didn't forget every many people.

"So whatcha say? Someone in this blasted place do their job and heal people or we make the misere?" The smile returned. Death didn't scare her. He could threaten all he wanted. She'd seen the face of death many times and never blinked. If he was coming for her all she was going to do was laugh at him and tell him it was about time. All of her family was dead by now and she wasn't going to complain about joining them.

Derek's trigger-finger twitched when the intruder made a sudden motion, pistol in hand and aimed right at the medic.
Fuck. Too late. I should've wasted her, he thought to himself.
"If you shoot me you're dyin' too. Cause cher I don't miss." , she responded confidently.
Derek narrowed his eyes, still aiming the double-barrels at the white-haired woman in the darkness.
The voice. The hair....it all seems familiar. Who is she?
"All I want is a traiteur cause I really don't want to field dress this thing again on my own."So whatcha say? Someone in this blasted place do their job and heal people or we make the misere?".
Derek slowly lowered the shotgun and turned his head back to the stairway.
"Chris! Get my field kit and a lantern down here!".
"We're not killing her?", Chris called back down.
"Nah. She needs medical attention". Derek yelled back, turning back to face the woman.
"Groovy!". Chris answered as she shuffled around upstairs.

"Lady. Whats your name and where are you hurt?", Derek finally asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Well it seemed Death didn’t want to claim her today. What luck. Artemesia would have rolled her eyes at the thought if she didn’t want the male to think she was crazy talking to herself.

Once the shotgun was lowered she released the hammer and put the gun back on safety before putting it back in the holster and latched it shut. Resisting the urge to rub her arm to loosen the muscles she stared back where she could see the male.

He had training from the way he moved on the stairs and handled her, he was military. Ex-military now. Maybe that is where I knew him from. I’ve worked with a lot of people over the years…But if he was military then why is he here treating wounds unless…

Her thoughts took a second turn when another male came down the stairs carrying both a medical kit and a lantern. Finally some light in the darkness. But the lantern offered more than just a reprieve on her eyesight. It allowed her to see him well both of them. Their banter reminded her of her old life where she had people she trusted at her back as well as them trusting her to save their asses. She sighed.

She turned back to the first male, the one who still had the shotgun. She debated on which name to give him. She had several. Her codename, Switch. Her last name, the one everyone called her for years, Dimitry. Her real name, Artemesia, which no one had called her since she was a child. Her nickname, Art, which was the closest anyone got to being personal with her.

Finally she decided that not answering would be better, at least for now. As soon as the second male was close enough with the lantern, she turned to the side and pointed with her left hand to her upper right arm. The white bandage was completely brown now except for a few places and a few bright red spots. Just hope that the bandage isn’t stuck to it… It’ll be a bitch to take off and that’s if there’s not an infection in it.

Using the light she looked up at the male from the corner of her eye. She frowned, but showed nothing else to what she was thinking. She knew him. Her mind started whirling back to all the past memories and she had to clamp them down. They could surface over a drink later. After her arm was all patched up.

“Doc. Medic Frost.” Had she had a different personality type, she would have started laughing at the irony of the situation. They had been on missions before. Well, either one or the other had been attached to each other’s units.

He’d once been someone she could call friend. He’d seen her as she’d once been and was there for the day she closed completely into herself. Of course, he hadn’t been there for the worst of it.

He was the last person she thought she would see in this world and frankly one of only two she was glad she did see.

“Mon cher, you are the last person I thought I’d ever see.”

She moved to where she could sit down for this knowing it was going to hurt. Maybe more than the last wound Doc had patched up for her. She still had the scar from it. The left side of her face from her hairline to her ear was a silver scar from a bullet on a mission.

She shook her head to keep those thoughts down. She refused to ever look herself in the face fearing she’d see the scar and remember why it was there. More memories she didn’t want to face.

Art cast him a sideways glance. “You plan to kill everyone who comes in armed?”