Still Breathing.

A Story by Hurricane.

The mess of woods were a blur, in the chill of the night and the blind following of darkness, Katarzyna trailed back and forth between the trunks, weak frame slipping and stumbling on the muddy grounds beneath her. It had only just transitioned, it’s strange how quickly it happens, how the darkness lingers so very briefly and you soon find yourself folded, entirely so in it’s grasp. With a belt tight against the foreign intruders of bullets in her calf, she continued, body lulling as she ventured forward as powerfully as possible, but seemed so lazy in her unrelenting movements.

Upper torso of clothing was torn, barely there material covering what little remained in her pride. There were no marks beneath, only the curve of fingertips harshly imprinted over her sensitive, lightly tanned skin. They’d come from nowhere, offered to spare her life if she obliged.. but she couldn't stop herself, it was instinct, a reflex to bring the serrated edge against his throat with the more surprising carnal growls that broke through her lips as she made for her escape. It was a stupid thing to want for a woman with all the evil that stalked the world; but they seemed safe, knew what they were doing, had cars, supplies while she had come to own very little aside from what she’d managed to throw into a bag from both the hospital and on the run. Death was coming for her.

The icy grip against her as she broke lazily through the woods to a smaller expanse of grass and even small ponds, seemed tighter against her chest, squeezing her heart. The blood was still pulsing beneath the belt as it struggled to keep tight, the metal bar rubbing against the leather banded material. The crimson colour had leaked through most of the cloth that she’d also ripped from the other side of her jeans, to aid in cutting off the circulation, but the more she ran, the more her heart needed to beat, pulsing through her veins and thus testing the flimsy material. It was all she had; she had done the best she could, especially considering she couldn't remove the bullets that were embedded deep in the muscle of her leg.

The moans and groans of the dead around her were ignored, she had no time to be afraid, to be considering an attempted massacre of numbers that incredibly surpassed her own. She had only time to run, the backpack felt heavier against her malnourished frame. Her body wasn’t going to keep obliging, she could feel it seizing up, slowing at her own weight before she hit the sudden stop of a tall gate. There wasn't’ much else she could see and in her panic, she wasn't’ looking, it was a separation between the dead that was beginning to circle her. Pulling the miniature flash light from her pocket, she trailed the light to the top of the metal mesh to what she expected. Wire; barbed wire. “Gotta be f*****g kidding me,” the words seemed hiccuped, a sheen of dirt and sweat ever present against her skin as she slipped off her backpack, pulled the thick blanket from inside, threw the rest just over, caring little as it snagged just above, tearing against one of the straps before it fell, with a dull thud to the dirt ground on the other side. Gravel, it seemed, more than much else. Well, this is going to hurt.

The blanket was strewn lazily across the passage of wire before she began her ascent, boots digging briefly into the middle, thicker mesh of metal before she hooked her leg over; the barbs peeking through, digging into her leg but without pressure, there was no piercing. Yet. Lugging her self up, she could feel it, piercing her skin, teeth gritted as she muffled the yelp. There was no time to be clean or comfortable about this, gripping against the blanket, she pulled it against her shoulders, curved herself to one side and fell.

There she lay, as morning came, small, her silvery blonde hair matted with dirt as she lay potentially lifeless, the dead pushing the boundaries. A puddle of blood against her leg and dripping to the ground, along with the fresh wounds that had been made the night before. A canvas of sorrow, painted with blood.

© 2013 Hurricane.

Author's Note

There wasn't a particular route or introduction I made, I have a lot of different characters that I've used in a number of short stories and this is just one of those and an idea I had for her.