THE girl stumbles on, numb to the dead world around her. It has been several days since she found the skull in the mud, but the gruesome image of exposed bone refuses to leave her already disturbed mind. She has seen death in many other forms during the Trumpet genocides, most of which are far more gory than a mere skull, but somehow, this one is more than a yet another bloody mark on her once innocent conscience. It is beginning to harden into a battle scar, etched forever in the cognitive region between her temples. She is not entirely sure what she thinks of it, only that her thoughts are strong. That skull had probably belonged to someone who had at least a few more years of productive life in store for them. Someone who didn't deserve to die. 

Unlike a certain President. 

She will never know whether the owner of the skull was black or white, Democrat or Republican, gay or straight.

But she knows that they were human. 

And that is precisely why she cannot erase the memory of the skull's two hollow sockets, barely clothed by filmy, decaying flesh, staring forlornly up into her sea green eyes as if lamenting the inhuman fate they faced. Yesterday, she drove west with a passion, desperate to get as far away as she could from the place where her life was torn to pieces. She switched from abandoned car to abandoned car, leaving the vehicles behind as they ran out of gas. She was perfectly aware of the fact that a car is a much more conspicuous target than a person, but she didn't care. 

She has to get to California. 

She has to get to the Resistance. 

"Get yourself together, Maia," she says in an effort to expel the depressing notions that cloud her consciousness. Over the past few days, she has gotten into the habit of talking loudly to herself. After all, the only people who are around to judge her are tucked away in mass graves. She says all kinds of things: anything that comes to her mind, really, from corny pre-genocide Trump jokes to inspiring song lyrics from long-dead artists. Sometimes, when she has nothing else to say, she repeats her own name over and over again for the simple satisfaction of hearing it said out loud, for the sake of reminding herself that she is still a person with a history and an identity.

Remembering gets difficult. 

"Live like an animal, become an animal," Maia shakes her head as her muddy hand brushes past the torn fabric of her once white jeans. She can't remember the last time she has had a shower, and deodorant is a distant memory. A few years ago, she would've been disgusted by her own stench. Now, she can barely smell it. 

Suddenly, something rips her out of her thoughts. She freezes on the corner of what used to be a sidewalk, her hand automatically going to the gun at her waist. She clenches her toes over the crumbling curb, afraid to turn around. Living in this deserted city, now a nesting ground for nature's most unseemly children who are now reclaiming their homes, has heightened her senses. It hasn't made them sharper, per se, but it has certainly made her more aware. 

Someone- or something- is here, and she knows it. 

She slides the pistol smoothly out of its holster, holding it at her side, before whipping around. She turns slowly in a circle, but sees nothing. The air is still...too still. 

"Who's there?" Maia hisses, holding her gun out in front of her with both hands. She wears the best threatening expression she can muster, her knees bent and ready to spring up at the slightest sign of danger. 

The lid of a nearby trash can clatters to the ground and she jumps, turning in the direction of the sound. A scrawny boy leaps up from the weed-infested concrete, his eyes widening at the sight of Maia, whose pistol is now pointed straight at his face. His eyes are bloodshot, displaying an obvious lack of sufficient sleep, and he has a large black eye. He manages to open his swollen mouth just wide enough to utter a single word. 

"Crap." 

"Don't move," Maia mutters, her arms shaking in terror. It has been almost a whole week since she has seen another live human, and her circumstances encourage her not to trust anyone. 

"Okay, okay, I'm not." The boy talks with a slight lisp, probably a result of his bleeding lips. He crawls out from behind the trash can, sitting cross-legged in front of it. Coughing, he raises his bloody hands. "Please...put the gun down...I'm hardly in a position to hurt you." 

After a quick glance at his emaciated frame, Maia realizes that there is truth to his words. The boy is in an even worse condition than she is. She shakily lowers her pistol, and watches as the boy's features visibly relax. 

"So," he says. "Trumpet or Resistance?" 

"Genocide victim," Maia sighs. "I was lucky- or unlucky- enough to survive. As far as I know, I'm the only one from my town." 

"You're white," the boy observes dryly. 

"I was born in California," Maia crosses her arms. "I don't have to be a minority for Trump to hate me." 

"Trump doesn't even know that you exist." 

"You know what I meant," she rolls her eyes. "I'm really not in the mood." 

"No one is, anymore," the boy chuckles. "I wonder why." 

Maia already knows that he is going to be the kind of person she would like very much to strangle. Still, he's a person, and he's not intent on killing her. That's a start, at least. 

"So, what's your name, mystery girl with a gun?" the boy asks. 

"Maia McGee. Yours?" 

"Devon Sutherland," he grins, rising from the ground to display his deceptively great height. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my fellow post-genocide zombie."