I was far from home. Forced to stay in the rubble of an abandoned French city district. They kept taking my things and my means of even being comfortable whilst I tried to cooperate. Eventually I said no I need to leave. They responded by taking me further away. He had taken my pistol for himself because of "concerns for my safety" which was also why I was made to live in a rainy open air stair set.
I gave up trying to be reasonable with them. I ran further from home into their realm until I found her bullets. They were loose and hard to carry, and by the time they knew I had them I had already made my way back home wards a short while, just to my huge stair way not unlike subway escalators. I snuck about until I had the rifle then I ran. It was dim and sad, a decaying ruin of the old society. Wet and dark. They caught up and still wouldn't respond to my concerns except by telling me that I should let go of them. The four of them advanced on me and I pleaded for them to stop coming closer and to let me go. She came closer, and I fired a shot hitting no-one. This only strengthened their resolve to catch me. They advanced faster while I clumsily reloaded. Fitting the bullet onto the end of the rifle barrel I aimed at him and barked a warning, he had my pistol out. She came right up and I pleaded while moving the gun to her as she reached to take the bullet from the gun.
There was no chance as I fired twice in quick succession. The first through her forehead and the second her chest before she even started to fall. I backed away and with painful conviction spat out "why didn't you believe me and why couldn't you let me go. You are as much to blame as I am for this death." Then I kept running. I fired a few shots to slow them and lost a few. I went running and hiding, they called for help searching. Eventually the man they called to search was leaving and I snuck behind him and took his place on the back of the motorcycle that was leaving. The driver had only a moment to see it was a different passenger when I snapped his neck. Taking the motorcycle I left and didn't look back, at that point knowing they thought I was on foot in the ruins there.
I biked ( not a motorbike now) quickly and casually through torn up French city streets. The police were abundant but didn't recognize me thankfully. I had no gun but three loose bullets left in my pocket. Making my way across the running city district I biked like a trick cyclist through the now rubble strewn corridor of a mile long half pipe with old shops on either side. This was an old scavenge ground that had been picked clean, now it was a no mans land before I border crossing. Reaching the border I slipped by with some help from the local lookout, went through the ever opening and closing freight ship hull. It has been converted to a manual giant bread machine, run by humans pulling and pushing the giant dough presses. I made my way through and knew I was beyond the border. Finally I was North enough to be safe, but rather than go east or west to more familiar lands I continued North a short ways.
I soon came to another ship/bread machine where they were making a giant batch of sweet rolls for their country. I waited here and sought to learn what they were doing. It was safe enough to relax and I felt the soft lumps of bread dough carefully. The dough and the room and the person that looked like a beeble combined into one lump, spiralling into itself until their was no image except off white swirl. That swirl took form as light from outside, low and muted at 6:20 am when my eyes opened and I woke.
