of thought. The gimps below seemed so far away, tiny. I’d never shot anything so tiny. I grabbed my bow, hands slippery with sweat. My arms were shaking and wouldn’t stop. If Blueeyes noticed, he didn’t say anything. When I grabbed an arrow, it worsened. The jitters moved through my shoulder and into my chest, affecting my breathing.
They were too far away.
Way too far.
I stood, raised my bow, straightened my back, inhaled, and held my breath. For a moment, I closed my eyes. A part of me wished the gimps wouldn’t be there when I opened them, that I could go back to shooting trees and annoying Blueeyes about letting me shoot trees. It didn’t work. They were still there, foggy eyes staring at nothing in particular, torn flesh flapping in the breeze. They were like the dirt, like the rain or the wind. They were always going to be there. I scanned the group and settled on a particularly large one near the back. One of his legs was bent backward, dragging along the pavement, a trio of dusty bones protruding from an open chest. I named him Oneleg , repeated it in my head. I’m not sure why. Despite the distance I could hear him moaning in that soft-sad way all gimps moaned, like starved animals, lonely monsters waiting for something. I was putting him out of his misery. That’s what I told myself.
It was mostly true.
When the wind died, I fired. The arrow bounced off the roof of a car, flipped, spun through an open window. Absolutely none of this happened in the vicinity of Oneleg. A few of the gimps heard the noise, saw the arrow sail into the building, moved in its direction.
Blueeyes handed me another arrow. “Try again.”
I loaded it, aimed, inhaled, and fired. I hit a brick wall. “I’m sorry.”
He handed me another. “Shut up. Try again.”
Fifteen arrows later and I hadn’t hit a thing. Thankfully the gimps hadn’t caught on. I’m not entirely sure what they thought of the random arrows bouncing off everything or if they were even capable of putting it together. Probably not. As long as they didn’t see us or smell us, we were safe. Oneleg continued to limp around without a care in the world, arrows breezing past his head, slamming off garbage cans and crashing through windows. He was mocking me and he didn’t even know it. I swear, I swear I could see a smile on his face. Blueeyes stood, dropped a bundle of arrows to the dirt, unsheathed his machete, and started down the hill. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
He didn’t bother to look at me. “Down there.”
“No. Y-you can’t. There are too many.” There were too many. They were too close together. Even for Blueeyes.
“Guess you better start hitting something.”
They noticed him when he was halfway down the hill. Thirty heads turned in unison, thirty eyes widened, and thirty mouths opened. All at once they snarled. My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I fumbled, slipped, and landed on my rear. By the time I grabbed an arrow, Blueeyes had engaged them. He never stopped moving forward, never paused or hesitated. After killing one he moved to the center of the group, chopping and slicing, kicking them in the chests to keep them at a manageable distance. With every second the mass of hungry monsters thickened. They surrounded him, plodding inward, rotted teeth chomping. My first arrow hit pavement, ricocheted off a wall and landed in the dirt. It was way off target. Even with them crowded together, I hit nothing. A gimp grabbed a handful of Blueeyes’ jacket and pulled it taut against his neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. He removed the monster’s arm from its torso and put a blade through its skull. I reached for another arrow and dropped it. When I finally got it into place, the bowstring slipped through my fingers. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I could barely see Blueeyes. A sea of gimps had swarmed him, an ugly, panting mass of gangrenous limbs. If he was alive, he wouldn’t be
They were too far away.
Way too far.
I stood, raised my bow, straightened my back, inhaled, and held my breath. For a moment, I closed my eyes. A part of me wished the gimps wouldn’t be there when I opened them, that I could go back to shooting trees and annoying Blueeyes about letting me shoot trees. It didn’t work. They were still there, foggy eyes staring at nothing in particular, torn flesh flapping in the breeze. They were like the dirt, like the rain or the wind. They were always going to be there. I scanned the group and settled on a particularly large one near the back. One of his legs was bent backward, dragging along the pavement, a trio of dusty bones protruding from an open chest. I named him Oneleg , repeated it in my head. I’m not sure why. Despite the distance I could hear him moaning in that soft-sad way all gimps moaned, like starved animals, lonely monsters waiting for something. I was putting him out of his misery. That’s what I told myself.
It was mostly true.
When the wind died, I fired. The arrow bounced off the roof of a car, flipped, spun through an open window. Absolutely none of this happened in the vicinity of Oneleg. A few of the gimps heard the noise, saw the arrow sail into the building, moved in its direction.
Blueeyes handed me another arrow. “Try again.”
I loaded it, aimed, inhaled, and fired. I hit a brick wall. “I’m sorry.”
He handed me another. “Shut up. Try again.”
Fifteen arrows later and I hadn’t hit a thing. Thankfully the gimps hadn’t caught on. I’m not entirely sure what they thought of the random arrows bouncing off everything or if they were even capable of putting it together. Probably not. As long as they didn’t see us or smell us, we were safe. Oneleg continued to limp around without a care in the world, arrows breezing past his head, slamming off garbage cans and crashing through windows. He was mocking me and he didn’t even know it. I swear, I swear I could see a smile on his face. Blueeyes stood, dropped a bundle of arrows to the dirt, unsheathed his machete, and started down the hill. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
He didn’t bother to look at me. “Down there.”
“No. Y-you can’t. There are too many.” There were too many. They were too close together. Even for Blueeyes.
“Guess you better start hitting something.”
They noticed him when he was halfway down the hill. Thirty heads turned in unison, thirty eyes widened, and thirty mouths opened. All at once they snarled. My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I fumbled, slipped, and landed on my rear. By the time I grabbed an arrow, Blueeyes had engaged them. He never stopped moving forward, never paused or hesitated. After killing one he moved to the center of the group, chopping and slicing, kicking them in the chests to keep them at a manageable distance. With every second the mass of hungry monsters thickened. They surrounded him, plodding inward, rotted teeth chomping. My first arrow hit pavement, ricocheted off a wall and landed in the dirt. It was way off target. Even with them crowded together, I hit nothing. A gimp grabbed a handful of Blueeyes’ jacket and pulled it taut against his neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. He removed the monster’s arm from its torso and put a blade through its skull. I reached for another arrow and dropped it. When I finally got it into place, the bowstring slipped through my fingers. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I could barely see Blueeyes. A sea of gimps had swarmed him, an ugly, panting mass of gangrenous limbs. If he was alive, he wouldn’t be
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