prosaparte

They demand him, there are strangers at the gates. He goes out by the old and thick camouflaged door at the wall. You can never be too careful against the mutants. From the wall, watchful eyes see how their most veteran guardian gets closer to the worn out buses. Suited up in tough leather clothing, and with a long machete hung at his back, the man reaches at a slow pace the first vehicle. He knows the deal, too many years of atrocious experiences have sharpened his instict.

The headlamps' light stretches their sihouettes on the ground. The guns throw metallic glints toward their opponents, teasing them to end it once and for all. Just one of them doubts. The woman and the other guy, not at all.