I have decided to scale down my target NaNoWriMo number from 60,000 words to 50,000 words. It’s just more sustainable, and that’s supposed to be the number anyway. I think I’ll be able to hit it, too.
The trap was so tricky, I almost didn’t see it. No, that’s a lie. I didn’t want to see it. That’s how you get somebody, you know. You show ‘em something they want so bad, they won’t care if there’s a hook in there somewhere. There’s always gonna be a hook.
The four shamblers didn’t look like rustlers or bandits; they were all dressed like bravos, with fancy town duds and flashy jewelry. Only, their clothes were ripped up and wore down from walking all that way without heeding their path, and the jewelry was tarnished and stained. There was just something sick about their bodies and things, the kind of sick you don’t get better from. I don’t know who looted those poor bastards after we left them in that camp, but I bet he ended up wishing he hadn’t.
They weren’t thinking straight, either. Even a town tough knows how to gang up properly on a person, but they didn’t talk to each other, or plan. The only thing they ever tried to do was grab, and pull. No tricks, and no weapons. One of ‘em had a knife on his belt, but never reached for it even once.
That still made ‘em dangerous for living people, since they wouldn’t stop and didn’t care about getting hurt. For me? Four against one wouldn’t have gotten me in a sweat, if I still sweat. Six against one might have been more of a chore, but Marigold had put paid to two on her own. Shoot, it was so easy, I started to play with them. You know, just a little. Cats play with mice, don’t they? Nobody says anything when they do, so it’d be fine to get a little practice in. I’d been in the grave for a time and a half. I wouldn’t want to get my skills rusty, would I? Or… maybe rusty wasn’t such a bad thing…
That was when I shook myself, set my jaw, and went back to laying these enemies out on the ground with a minimum of fuss.