The Bad Word. That's what they call it now.
It's been six months since all hell broke loose.
We live in a small town, so we got off easy. Or easier, at least. Survivors who came in from the outskirts of the city said it was pandemonium over there—people running, screaming, dying where they stood.
I get up from my sleeping mat in the corner of the dimly lit room. Others around me stir as well, rising one by one when the morning bell rings.
The Bad Word—put simply—it's a word that kills people. That's what we think anyway. If you hear it or read it, you die. turn to dust.
I kneel by the bowl of water in the corner and splash my face. Cold. The others begin lining up behind me.
It started on the morning of June 3rd, 2012. A group of terrorists hacked into the world wide web and began broadcasting the word to devices across the globe. At first, the government thought they could stop it by taking down websites. Then they tried cutting power to entire cities, blasting massive waves of incoherent noise to muffle the sound.
Didn't matter. The terrorists hijacked the giant speakers and used them against us. Most cities were ruined after that. And the government? For all I know, it collapsed right along with them.
I fall into line with about twelve others. Rations are being handed out—clumps of baked dough and bits of fruit. Apples. Bananas. Onions. You take whatever you get.
What kind of people cause this much chaos? The terrorists went silent after the first attack, but reports say remnants are still out there, hovering around, hunting survivors. Madmen. Demons, even.
I step up to the counter. I got an onion.
We don't even call this stuff food. Comfort is dangerous. Get too used to this kind of life and you stop fighting for better. You forget what normal even feels like.
Not that we talk much down here anyway. There's a hush culture. I've heard about camps where someone came back from reconnaissance and accidentally said the word at base—killed everyone instantly. Like a bomb.
Ever since that rumor spread, people stopped talking altogether. You get frowned upon for speaking too much. Everyone looks at each other with suspicion, trusting only their small circles. That's how things work down here.
I take my plate and head back to my sleeping spot, sitting down to eat. Quin walks over, plate in hand.
"Good morning, Anna," he says, flashing that stupid signature grin.
I look away. "Nothing is good about my morning."
He glances at my plate. "Is it because you got an onion?" He sits beside me. "You want mine? Look, I got an apple today."
This fool is always treating me like a kid.
I wave my hand, rejecting the offer. Andy approaches us, holding two pieces of paper—probably the map and the roster for the supply run.
"Hey guys," she says, waving the roster. "You're on duty today for the supply run."
I knew it. Again. Those ogres always find a way to add our names, anything to save themselves.
Scouting and supply runs, sometimes reconnaissance—it's all the same. Deadly. Casualties are common. At our peak, the base had twenty-seven people. Now we're down to fourteen. Some left. Most died on runs. Those who left are probably dead too.
Me, Quin, and a boy named Zane have the highest success rate. So they push the duty entirely onto us. Easier that way. Quin always just accepts it.
Fuck those bastards.
"I'm sorry," Andy says quickly. "If you're not okay with this, I can tell them to re-pick." She looks genuinely worried.
Most people here suck. Not Andy though. She's an angel—the heart of the base. She injured her leg on the day of the outbreak while searching for survivors. It got infected. It healed, but she can't walk properly anymore, so she can't go on runs. I know it eats at her.
There's also the Chairman—the leader of the shelter. He's a good man, I think. Dealing with him is never a hassle. Then there's the old couple, and the mother with her two kids. They're… fine. But they never do anything. Always leeching. Especially that mother. I helped her deliver one of those kids, the one that cries all the time, and she still looks at me like I stole something from her.
"It's okay," Quin says to Andy. "We can handle it."
That idiot. He did it again.
"What do you mean we can handle it?" I snap, glaring at him. "You always rope me into this stupid charity work. Don't decide for me. I don't want to die with you."
"Don't worry," he says calmly. "I'll protect you."
With what?
I drop the topic. Somehow, I always give in when he talks like that.
"Who are we going with?" I ask Andy. Please don't let it be Drew.
"Josh and Tim," she says.
Great. The other two doofuses. At least it's not Drew.
I glance toward the corner and see three clowns glaring at me like children. Grown men, still mad because I didn't want to play hooker with them. Andy turned them down too. They can't do much to a soldier, so they take it out on me instead.
They don't aim for Sonia, probably because she's nursing, won't be a problem for much longer. Cowards.
How can anyone be focused on their dicks at a time like this?
The tallest one—dirty blonde curls—is Drew.
Black wolf-bangs with faded white highlights—Tim.
The fat one with a bowl cut holding an unlit cigarette—Josh.
"Why are you looking at me?" I snap. "We have a job to do. Let's move."
"Bitch," Josh mutters under his breath. Just loud enough.
Bastard.
Quin and I drop our plates, grab the supply bags from the front of the room, and head to the entrance. Josh and Tim join us soon after, still glaring, trying to look tough.
Andy comes over and hands the map to Quin. "Good luck," she says softly. "Be safe."
She twists the heavy handle of the vault door, pulling it open just enough for us to slip through.
Yes. We live inside a bank vault.
Everyone is terrified of those monsters.
We pass through the door and begin our expedition.