fauxley
Molly ran through the plaza, pistol extended in front of her. She rounded a corner, swept the empty room, turned again. He was standing less than three feet away, looking the other way. She hesitated less than a second, and put three bullets into his back. He fell, blood spraying from his front, and fell, dead.
The barber leaned back, measuring the lock of hair. It was nearly long enough, but needed perhaps a bit more. He lovingly rolled it back up, tying a bow around the loops, and slid it back into his desk drawer. He walked back to a dim closet, peering inside. The doll was lifelike, and soon, would be ready.
My troops were tired, bone tired. We made camp in the shattered remains of a skyscraper, the skeletal husk casting a strange shadow on the ground. I sat on a blackened bench in front, contemplating our next move, wishing to god for the war to be over.
Her skin was the color of mango. I never found out her name, doubted if I would have been able to pronounce it anyway. She signaled the beginning of the end for us, and I never knew it till she was gone. She killed four of my men, and ran away with my favorite pistol. I'll kill the bitch the next time I see her.
Outlet mall. Scene 1. Two people walking into the Gap. One is carrying a pistol. The other, a baseball bat. Both have grim smiles on their faces. Both wearing orange hunting vests, cigarretes in their mouths. Neither is shaven. Both are white males, ready for sport.