Twelve

There were twelve. Twelve of them and one of her. Some brandished blades and others had guns. One wore a helmet covered in spikes. Eyes bulged, as did muscle, hardened with use. Radiation had changed them—made them more than they were. Less too. Useable teeth were for the fortunate few; the few who would eat the meat of the fallen. Toxic wind added fingers and took away limbs and they lived hard on the dunes of the badlands. Reeving. Killing. Devouring.

She had seen them arrive as the village lay sleeping. A village of peace. A village of hope. They had feasted that night: mutant beef paired with hooch. Food was sparse and its finding led to careless elation. The sentries, too drunk to be any use. She met the enemy in front of the fence. Don’t come inside. Please don’t come inside. She asked that they wait. Wait and talk. Some of them laughed.

The largest one spoke. He spoke common-tongue in ragged staccato. They came for water and food; they came for women and men; they came “cos’ they could”. If she gave in, she’d be dispatched quickly. Put up a fight—there'd be pain, blood, and torture. She looked back at her home, at the toys left by children. They knew not what came.

She fell to one knee—tears in her eyes. The pain rose in her throat. This was the end and what an end it would be. Her hands and knees quivered as the twelve moved on in. Her biceps swelled and she screamed. The transformation: it hurt. Radiation had changed her—made her more than she was. Less too. Less afraid. There were twelve of them and one of her. They didn’t stand a chance.