'Hello boys' she coughed, blood streaming hotly and holily between her breasts. They weren't good shots, being trained in an apocalypse, inefficently and without the years of experience that would see her dead, and not them, poor lads. The arrow had slid through her shoulder, but had missed anything that mattered, but she had been forced off the boat with the shock of it. It was a short, one armed swim to shore. Then, a quiet and painful scramble up the rocks so she could creep up behind them, close enough that they couldn't draw range. Sadly for them, her fists, and a knife, could. Momentarily, she felt sorry for them.

But survival was a serious game and sometimes one could not afford pity. Boys like this had killed her man a month ago, and the feeling of anger and pain was still visceral. It sat in the pit of her belly and from there all action birthed. Besides, she had her own to protect. From here, she could see the boat, drifting between the headland. If the kids did what they were told, they'd stay below deck until she could run down the dunes to meet them. At least, that was the plan.

They came at her, screaming merrily. How could one find such joy in killing? Two quick thrusts, each, between the ribs into the heart. They fell like birds. She wanted to cry, because the one on the left reminded her of her youngest, in fierceness and looks alike. He had hyperchromia - one blue eye, one brown, just like Joey. Both mattered not - food for worms. She closed their eyes and put scoops of dirt in the hollows. They belonged to the earth now.

Image from Unsplash

This was in response to @mariannewest freewrite prompt, 'Hello boys'. It's a continuatino of sorts, from my freewrite the other day. I couldn't help but pick up the thread. Read it below to see how it might fit.

If you wanted to live in the New Zones, you needed a boat with a shallow bottom, a map whispered to you from a passing traveller who liked the cut of your jib (both literal and metaphorical), and the steel blue courage to run through the twin headlands guarded by those who would have it a secret, and you'd have to not catch an arrow to the neck. It would be helpful to have a hold of cider, salt and seeds, sailcloth, batteries and even a smidgeon of tobacco, because old habits die hard.

When you get there, you'll have to plead that you were worth something, or else be food for the fishes. Black soil is trade in those parts, rich and fertile, made of corpses, shit and grass alike. They didn't take crypto, or fiat, or any of the old world currencies. You had to know when to press seeds in the soil, to taste the earth and declare it wanting, and know then what to feed it with. You'll have to build a home with an axe and teach children to make rocket stoves, scale trees to sit watch across the bay, fight with pitchforks and shovels if they came hunting. If you find your way into the goblet shaped bay and were invited to stay, you will join the richest people on earth. Anything else was not worth dying for.

Maybe I'll write an entire story in 5 minute freewrites. What do you think?