F4A. The Bitten. Violence, Madness and Depravity.

A bite from a zombie is a death sentence. Everyone who has ever been exposed to pop-culture knows that. Common fucking knowledge, right? Of course, everyone knew they weren't real too. Well, just like the clitoris and the female orgasm, it turns out they are very real. Just like you saw on TV before the series writing went to shit. Lumbering, half rotten corpses stuffing their faces with bloody flesh, the seemingly deceased picking themselves up and joining the horde and blind me if they weren't fucking hard to kill. Re-kill. Un-undeadify. Whatever.

So what do you do when the zombie hordes come marching through? When the dead rose there was panic, confusion, chaos, some folk turned to Jesus and chose to ignore the irony, but mostly people just kinda died. The dead move slowly but, by whatever fuck-up of evolution, sometimes all a person can do when a corpse comes stumbling towards them, teeth snapping, hands grasping is freeze still and shit themselves.

Eventually people started getting it together. They banded in groups, built walls to keep out the hordes and started growing food and scavenging the old world. They all had their thing. Some groups were happy, hippy communes growing herbs and herb. Some had obvious leadership, benign or otherwise. Some violent and predatory, the traders even more so. But there were none quite like us.

We are The Bitten. A bite from a zombie is a death sentence, I said that already. But isn't life, like, totally a death sentence? Philosophical shit. Point is, the bite can be beaten. You have to fight. And I don't mean the 'hold hands with your loved ones and cling to dear life while you sweat in bed' kind of pussy fighting. You gotta crush necrotic skulls with a blunt object for as long as you can keep swinging your arms. Adrenaline was the only cure. And it's not like you can just pick that stuff up in a hospital any more. You have to make it yourself in situ. Keep going long enough and maybe you might pull through.

We've all been tested. It takes a certain level of crazy to willingly let a zombie bite you and even more on top of that to make it through the night.

We've been selected for scouting duty. It'll be you and me out in the rotting corpse of the old world, far from the safety of our high walls and violent brethren. Well, you, me and Chew-Bones.

Chew-Bones shakes his head, rattling the long chain leash I hold clutched in my scarred fist. The enormous rottweiler huffs a wet breath before settling down again, folding his paws under heavy jowls. We can smell the dead coming, but Chew-Bones can sniff out the equally dangerous living and is more than happy to maul them. He's a good boy. Oh, yes he is.

I sit in the prep chair, cold steel pressed against the side of my head. The straight razor is dragged back, cutting away the stubble on my temple. Both sides are shaven down, the black hair left on top tied into a short tail. It's ritualistic. A savage's haircut, black warpaint daubed over my eyelids and drawn in streaks down over my thin lips. My left forearm is wrapped in wet rags, easing the pain of a fresh brand. I'm marked with similar branded scars from wrist to elbow, a simple straight line for every sortie into the badlands.

My knee-high black boots have been freshly polished, the steel buckles buffed and the laces done up tight. My white vest clings to my skin. My nipples are obvious through the thin material, erect with excitement and arousal. My mid-thigh length skirt is lifted and a short-haired blonde has her tongue buried in my wet cunt. That's not a part of the usual preparation ritual, but it's not like we're sticklers for tradition.

I bite my lip, tasting the oily charcoal based makeup streaking from upper lip to the tip of my chin. It's hard not to move too much and I find myself pushing away the other girl's head when I get too close. Don't want another scar on the side of my head from the razor. I take a few steadying breaths before pulling her back in.

The rust-ridden gates close behind us and we're let loose on the world. This isn't a supply run, so we're travelling light. We're looking for horde movements, other settlements moving in too close or evidence of marauders in the immediate area. We don't have to shoot, murder and maim. But we're gonna.

Chew-Bones pulls on his leash, as eager as I am to start hunting. I lean my shotgun over one shoulder and turn at the waist to look you up and down with cold-blue eyes.

"Lead the way!" I chirp, bouncing on my toes with playful exuberance. "I wanna stare at your butt."

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