Post by Tennessee Whiskey on Jan 7, 2016 12:40:29 GMT -8
The squirrels had been hilarious, to begin with, but had rapidly gotten less so, starting with their uncomfortable proximity. The crows were even less funny, and now Whiskey is forgetting how to laugh again. Her routine has been the same for the past week: Wake, hunt, stakeout, report to an unresponsive voicemail, sleep. It would be boring, if not for two things: She doesn't bore easy, and she's been ordered to do this. Or as good as.
The position she's in would have been impossible to maintain for this long if she were still alive--crouched for endless hours like a gargoyle or Batman on the roof opposite the building--but she's not alive. Across the street, though? "Voodoo zombies" had probably been a bad description. Hearts beating, muscles moving, eyes shifting in REM sleep. They bled when cut, though the jury was out on whether they laughed when tickled. But were they alive?
When she shifts position, silent and unseen and uncomfortable, it has nothing to do with her body. The concrete beneath her is cold as ice, but that doesn't bother her, not that you'd have known if it you'd been able to see her face. Whiskey doesn't usually have the best grip on what it does, but even she knows a grimace from the inside. One of them is almost certainly dead, after the beating she'd taken. Blood loss like that should have had her woozy even before Whiskey left. But before that, was she still alive? Had she still been human? Her eyes were red, vacant. She moved like a runaway truck with no driver. And the whole building was probably compromised like that. A whole building of those things. People. Same difference.
Were they still people? Whiskey could confirm lifesigns, easy, but she didn't have the eyes to see a soul. That was above her paygrade. Unfortunately it was also her job. Save lives. Sounded easy. The trouble was determining if she'd already failed or not.
The position she's in would have been impossible to maintain for this long if she were still alive--crouched for endless hours like a gargoyle or Batman on the roof opposite the building--but she's not alive. Across the street, though? "Voodoo zombies" had probably been a bad description. Hearts beating, muscles moving, eyes shifting in REM sleep. They bled when cut, though the jury was out on whether they laughed when tickled. But were they alive?
When she shifts position, silent and unseen and uncomfortable, it has nothing to do with her body. The concrete beneath her is cold as ice, but that doesn't bother her, not that you'd have known if it you'd been able to see her face. Whiskey doesn't usually have the best grip on what it does, but even she knows a grimace from the inside. One of them is almost certainly dead, after the beating she'd taken. Blood loss like that should have had her woozy even before Whiskey left. But before that, was she still alive? Had she still been human? Her eyes were red, vacant. She moved like a runaway truck with no driver. And the whole building was probably compromised like that. A whole building of those things. People. Same difference.
Were they still people? Whiskey could confirm lifesigns, easy, but she didn't have the eyes to see a soul. That was above her paygrade. Unfortunately it was also her job. Save lives. Sounded easy. The trouble was determining if she'd already failed or not.
