Not Again

“Why do you kill people?” she asked, trembling, her face sprinkled with blood and dust. “There are so few of us left.”

It was an innocent question from a terrified victim. Not my victim. He was dead. She was his victim, but would live.

“You don’t want to know. It’s better this way.”

I slapped a fresh clip into my pistol and holstered it. Tried not to look at her.

She started sobbing.

I tweaked the brim of my hat down so I couldn’t see her eyes. Noticed blood caked on my glove. I bent down, grabbed a handful of sand, and scrubbed it off.

“A… are you just going t-to… leave me here?!”

That was the plan. Walk off into the sunset like a good post-apocalyptic gunslinger.

“I reckon so.” I reached into my jacket and put on my John Lennon sunglasses. “You can get by on his stuff.”

“Take me with you!”

“No.” I lit a cigarette.

“I’ll marry you!”

I turned, cigarette hanging from my lip.

She was blind. I’m a heavy smoker… I sound like a teenage boy.

“I’m a woman.”

“I don’t care!”

Sigh. Not again.

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