Snippet #2058853

Jo's days always went something like this: Wake up when-the-fuck-ever (she didn't have a clock, and the small skylights on the warehouse roof didn't let in much light), drink a beer (or three), complete the bare minimum in body and oral hygiene, count her weapons, do a few rounds of target practice, and a retreat to her mattress to enjoy her solitude. Lather, rinse, repeat. She was completely alone, save for her weapons, booze, and comic books, which was just the way she liked it. Things were less messy when it was just herself, and, to be perfectly honest, she'd never been all that enthused about other people even before the whole apocalypse thing. Save for the 2 days a month she went out on supply runs, she never saw another living soul (and even then, you couldn't really call the genetically modified zombies "living"...), and that was fine by her. As far she was concerned, the fewer people she saw, the more booze and guns there were for her. And so she was quite content as she lay on her mattress, flipping through her comic book and sipping beer. The warehouse was quiet, and all was as it should be. She was nearly to the part where Spiderman saved the screaming Mary Jane from the dastardly Green Goblin and swept her off to safety. It briefly occurred to her what a stupid comic this was, the way dumb Mary Jane had just gotten herself captured and shit, but hey, the whole webs-shooting-out-of-your-hands thing was pretty cool. Not as cool as having a shit load of weapons, but cool all the same.

And then she heard it, a rustling and a click from the backdoor, and she did a mental facepalm before grabbing for the pistol at her hip. Leaving the door unlocked had been a stupid mistake, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with a couple gunshots. Unfortunately, she was just a little too slow this time. Before she had fully gotten her gun out of its holster she found herself looking up the barrel of a handgun. Being Jo, she was much more interested in the gun than the person holding it, and she inspected the weapon in the hand of the intruder, noting its style and make. Nice piece. I'll have to take it when I'm through with him. Heaving a sigh, she set her beer down and got to her knees, gracing him with a half-smirk. "A better question is, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing here? This is private property, you know."

Technically, that was true. About a month ago Jo had stolen a can of orange spray paint from a run-down convenience store and spray painted a charming "Keep the fuck out" across the front and back doors of the warehouse, but obviously this moron couldn't read. But hey, that was fine; if elementary English was too difficult for him to comprehend, she'd let her bullets do the talking.