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THE CHURCH
cold, hollow, barren.
the dust settles slowly.
merging into thick blood sank deep.
rot fills her senses, bodies piled high.
the bell stands static in time, the rope since slung up.
bloody footprints follow her, a trail of death.
axe high, she is the reaper.
he doesn't care.
She is stood in her unholiness, looking down at the carnage of the massacre. His head is tilted at the lords son, high above the brutality of mankind. He doesn't want to see, not again.
He does not know why the tourist has dragged him here, of all the places. Wasn't everything already said and done?
She kicks in the pool of blood she stands in, it splatters like paint being flung off a brush. She came here for needless slaughter, but there is none.
She expected tower, reclaimed, new exiles trying to grab any left over loot. Not that there was any.
Even the undead would do, but nonetheless.
He asks her why they came here, she turns. A chilling frown meets his gaze.
"You have light in you Casey, there's no point. Snuff it out."
She does not expand, and as she turns to leave she notices something that clenches her heart.
Mays body is gone.
THE GRAVEYARD
sharp wind, sorrow rides the air.
greys of tombstones blackened by inky sky.
the shambles of corpses traversing stone halls.
the stars are not out tonight.
fog rolls in, settling on the water
a lantern flickers, radio stutters.
he sits in the cold, not wanting to look at her.
she only wanted him to face what he'll inevitably have too.
Maryanne watches him from the bus doorway, imagines how their cold blood stained lips would meet in the harshest of moments. He is hunched, almost curled, somehow giving off the aura of a wet dog. She sauntered over, like a wild cat hunting its prey. A cold hand on the back of his neck, he twitches. Looking up at her with wide glossy eyes. She leans down to meet her mouth with his, a slow long kiss. He doesn't react.
He is too afraid to.
BASTION
damp, with silhouettes bounding from fog.
arms outstretched, flailing.
jaw slacked, saliva dripping.
blood under nails used to ripping.
fire still crackles under rain.
metal burning, rusting away.
gunpowder heavy from earlier that day.
the stain of death on the pavement.
The axe is stained with old blood, dripping with new. Both the dark murky blood of walkers, and the fresh bright one of humans. She basks in the fire, he lurks in the fog. The dead lie between them. Like May, innocent. Unlike May, she wanted them dead. Maryanne would weave the streets, slitting throats with ease. Let them come back, then it's twice the fun.
She trudges over the corpses to where Casey stands. Bodies still surround them, but she kisses him ferociously. He'll learn, he has to at one point. Maybe one day he'll become even worse than her. For now she smiles, a toothy unsettling smile. He actually loves her now, after all.
She smears her bloody finger on his lip.
"Mine."