The Other

They were always other. They were always gone, dead to the world. Or so we thought.

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2. Remembered

At first, we hadn’t even had guns: this wasn’t America; we had little things called free healthcare and gun control. We’d made due with Chinese slingshots, throwing skills and kitchen knives until we met up with the shady, supposedly military group. Whoever they were, they taught us ‘civvies’ how not to die. Kinda. Sorta. Not really, to tell the truth. Their tactical skills were worse than their acne.

So they died.

We didn’t even have to plant misinformation.

So we got the guns, no loose strings. A new leader rose: a mother whose kid had been Turned. She shot the kid herself, breaking down as she did so. She recovered, though, she wanted revenge, and she was the best thing that could have happened to our group. She still cried, she still raged, but she kept us together. As comrades.

God knows how she did it. I doubt she did herself.

When we cried, she’d cry along with us. When we fought, she’d fight alongside us. She was less of a leader, and more of a glue, a super-glue.

And then her other kid died.

She couldn’t do it again.

She died.

I had to shoot her myself, and it was the beginning of the end.

And now, just two weeks after, I am shot by the others in the group, right after the man is turned.They shoot him too.

And they are now the other. 

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