Unarmed: A Story from the Wasteland

Ava hadn’t aimed her shotgun at anything living in a long time. Not since the last time she’d been forced to defend the house from the shamblers.

Though calling shamblers “living” was generous. They dragged their limp bodies forward in jerky, involuntary motions, rolled their heads, let out wet, rattling groans—but there was nothing behind their eyes. She might as well have been aiming at moving targets on a range.

But the figure in front of her now was no shambler.

Through the shotgun’s sights, a pair of dark, unmistakably alive eyes stared back at her.

And beneath those eyes, aimed straight at her, was the barrel of an assault rifle.

Olga pressed her index finger against the metal above the trigger guard. Her whole body trembled from hunger and fear, her hands barely obeying her despite the endless drills that had hammered in the rule: the finger touches the trigger only after the decision to shoot has been made.

She didn’t want to shoot the woman in front of her, even if the woman was aiming some battered old gun at her. She didn’t want to kill anyone. She just wanted to survive.

“Lower your weapon,” Olga said, forcing her voice steady.

The woman didn’t react. She stared at Olga through the shotgun’s sights. Olga couldn’t see her eyes directly, but she felt the gaze like a blade against her skin.

“Let me go. I won’t do anything.”

Nothing.

“I promise,” Olga added, breath catching.

Her heartbeat thudded against the rifle’s stock.

The woman stepped toward her without lowering the shotgun even a fraction. The shed’s wooden floor creaked under her slow, deliberate stride. Olga realized she was backing away at the same pace.

Another step. And another. Olga kept retreating until her heel hit the wall.

She was trapped.

“Okay, I’ll lower mine first,” she said, panic tightening her throat. “Okay?”

A slow nod. No other movement.

Olga crouched and set the rifle down with exaggerated care, keeping one hand raised. She didn’t look away from the woman, who still watched her with her cheek pressed to the shotgun’s stock.

The shed’s open door let in just enough pale evening light for Olga to make out her features. Early twenties. Slight. A green beanie pulled low, a long brown braid spilling over her shoulder. A worn green cardigan, loose jeans. She looked like one of the activists Olga had been ordered to disperse from the streets again and again.

The rifle hit the floor with a cold metallic clatter.

“There,” Olga said, raising her other hand. “I’m unarmed.”

**

Ava felt her hands shaking around the shotgun. She bit her lip and pressed the stock harder against her chest, trying to steady herself.

“My name is Olga,” the soldier said, lifting her hands a little higher.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for shelter. I’ve been in the forest for two days.”

She looked it: soaked uniform, mud-caked boots, dark eyes flickering with exhaustion and fear. But the emblem stitched onto her chest — two interlocking squares — stood out bright and unmistakable.

Ava wouldn’t let herself be fooled.

“What are the Forces doing in the wasteland?” Ava shot back.

Olga exhaled shakily and lifted her hands again, as if they kept wanting to fall. Ava thought she saw a faint tremor in her fingertips too.

“My unit was sent to the border for maintenance. There was a breach in the fence. I came through it.”

Ava let out a hollow laugh.

“A Forces soldier just wandered across the border on her own?”

Olga held her gaze, searching for eye contact.

“Yes. I deserted.”

“And what did you expect to find here?”

Olga’s eyes dropped. Her arms curled closer to her body. She was clearly struggling to keep her hands raised.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m not a threat to you. I promise.”

Ava’s arms ached from holding the shotgun up, but she forced herself to keep it steady.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I haven’t eaten or slept in two days.” The words spilled out of Olga in a rush. “I’m injured—I got cut in the forest. Some help might save my life. But if you want me gone, I’ll go. Just say the word.”

Olga lowered her gaze even further, exposing the back of her neck. Her hair was shaved short at the nape, the longer black hair above it tied into a thick bun now dripping loose strands of wet hair.

Her back rose and fell with quick, uneven breaths.

Something in Ava tightened. An impulse flickered—an urge to reach out, to touch the damp camouflage fabric just to prove the woman was real, alive, warm. She hadn’t been this close to another human being in a long time. Long enough that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Seconds passed. Ava thought she could hear heartbeats—maybe her own, maybe the soldier’s, standing there with her hands raised and her head bowed.

She should shoot the bastard where she stood.

Or let her go—let her wander the wasteland. Let her see what the Forces had done to them. What was left after the barbed-wire fence went up and people were left to kill each other to survive.

Her hands trembled harder. She tightened her grip on the shotgun, the sight wavering with the tremor.

Nothing good had ever come from a marcher.

**

The shotgun’s barrel lifted and pressed against Olga’s chin, cold metal nudging her face upward.

Reckless. The most reckless weapon handling she had ever seen.

She raised her gaze slowly, the barrel guiding her chin, her hands still lifted, her posture still low in surrender. Her breath hitched. The woman was close now—close enough that Olga could see the faint tremor in her arms, the tight line of her jaw, the sharp shape of her cheekbone.

The woman looked back at her, her stare as hard and metallic as the steel touching Olga’s skin. But beneath it, just for a heartbeat, Olga thought she saw something else. A crack in the shell between them.

“Please,” Olga whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it. “Please.”

The woman didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The barrel stayed where it was, lifting Olga’s chin a fraction higher.

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

And then the woman’s finger shifted on the trigger.