strawberry jam off their faces. They looked like they had devoured the bloody guts of a few small children during some sort of ancient wayward religious sacrifice.
They relocked the doors and John helped them push the furniture back against them for added security.
Then we heard another loud noise.
This was way more frightening, in my opinion.
We heard voices, dozens of angry voices shouting intelligible words.
One of the women inside started freaking out, “Oh my god, we took their food! They’re going to kill us! Quick, throw some of those boxes outside to them.”
Some people rushed to her aid, grabbing what remained inside those boxes to give a hasty peace offering but Micah stopped them.
“Wait, wait,” he waved his hands. “The other men and I left half of those boxes for them, they have no reason to be angry.”
“Yeah, they can’t expect us to starve on their behalf just because they were here first,” John piped in.
“We should still give them back!” the same woman squealed.
“It’s best that we all stay in here,” someone else said.
“Don’t you open those doors!” another yelled.
“They’ll bust in!”
“I want to try and hear what they’re yelling about,” the man with the ponytail said as he crept up near the front of the theater, where the source of the voices were coming from.
Intrigued, John followed the man.
They both listened for about five minutes, without responding to the Nomads. John returned, “They were going on and on about a ‘last meal.’ It was hard to make it out but they kept saying, ‘Attack! Attack!’ too.”
Micah was calm and lost in thought. Probably weighing the options and each possible outcome as I was. Like, maybe they’re warning us about something. Maybe they’re trying to hurt us. But I don’t see why they would think that they could possibly hurt us. We still have muscles.
Micah finally walked up and asked for a steak knife from the long-haired guy. He let it drop into his shirt pocket.
They were both pushing a big desk aside when the bomb hit.
~~~
They looked like they were on a bad reality TV show, like some producers dumped them on an island. The Nomads. I didn’t go near them, as most people in the theater didn’t either. Not out of fear, but out of smell. A mix of every offensive smell known to man, with a top note of urine stain.
A few of the Nomads died, a lot of damage was done to where they had been living, and I got my stuff back. Some of it, anyway. John found it. I didn’t ask him how or where he got it, I didn’t care. I did ask him, though, whether or not the food in boxes might be poisoned. He said he didn’t think so because, “Explosions are fun. Food poisoning is boring.”
The Nomads carried their dead in a sort of haphazard ceremonial march to the golf course a few hours later.
I guess the first time the helicopter dropped the boxes of food at the park (long before John and I arrived here), the Nomads went and got it and brought it back to where they camped out. By the missing section of Something Wicked. They went on to say that this is how the enemy smokes us out. They do it by starving us and then dropping food. So we crawl out of our holes and they drop the bombs. They also mentioned that we shouldn’t move so much during the daylight hours and stay hidden and scattered, as the enemy would prefer us to be
They relocked the doors and John helped them push the furniture back against them for added security.
Then we heard another loud noise.
This was way more frightening, in my opinion.
We heard voices, dozens of angry voices shouting intelligible words.
One of the women inside started freaking out, “Oh my god, we took their food! They’re going to kill us! Quick, throw some of those boxes outside to them.”
Some people rushed to her aid, grabbing what remained inside those boxes to give a hasty peace offering but Micah stopped them.
“Wait, wait,” he waved his hands. “The other men and I left half of those boxes for them, they have no reason to be angry.”
“Yeah, they can’t expect us to starve on their behalf just because they were here first,” John piped in.
“We should still give them back!” the same woman squealed.
“It’s best that we all stay in here,” someone else said.
“Don’t you open those doors!” another yelled.
“They’ll bust in!”
“I want to try and hear what they’re yelling about,” the man with the ponytail said as he crept up near the front of the theater, where the source of the voices were coming from.
Intrigued, John followed the man.
They both listened for about five minutes, without responding to the Nomads. John returned, “They were going on and on about a ‘last meal.’ It was hard to make it out but they kept saying, ‘Attack! Attack!’ too.”
Micah was calm and lost in thought. Probably weighing the options and each possible outcome as I was. Like, maybe they’re warning us about something. Maybe they’re trying to hurt us. But I don’t see why they would think that they could possibly hurt us. We still have muscles.
Micah finally walked up and asked for a steak knife from the long-haired guy. He let it drop into his shirt pocket.
They were both pushing a big desk aside when the bomb hit.
~~~
They looked like they were on a bad reality TV show, like some producers dumped them on an island. The Nomads. I didn’t go near them, as most people in the theater didn’t either. Not out of fear, but out of smell. A mix of every offensive smell known to man, with a top note of urine stain.
A few of the Nomads died, a lot of damage was done to where they had been living, and I got my stuff back. Some of it, anyway. John found it. I didn’t ask him how or where he got it, I didn’t care. I did ask him, though, whether or not the food in boxes might be poisoned. He said he didn’t think so because, “Explosions are fun. Food poisoning is boring.”
The Nomads carried their dead in a sort of haphazard ceremonial march to the golf course a few hours later.
I guess the first time the helicopter dropped the boxes of food at the park (long before John and I arrived here), the Nomads went and got it and brought it back to where they camped out. By the missing section of Something Wicked. They went on to say that this is how the enemy smokes us out. They do it by starving us and then dropping food. So we crawl out of our holes and they drop the bombs. They also mentioned that we shouldn’t move so much during the daylight hours and stay hidden and scattered, as the enemy would prefer us to be
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