Carter doesn’t know how many weapons she’s built at this point. She just has to keep going. It feels like a never-ending pile of them, carefully stacked into boxes and bags. She’s on the easy ones now; pre-made molotovs, a supply of bottles into which she’s pouring a measure of Whitney Field’s highest proof alcohol, a rag, secure it, repeat. The precision of the process is distracting, soothing. She can focus on this instead of the radio calls going on in the dispatch station, just a little way away, pouring in bad news and limited victories. The only person next to her is Dutch.
Carter puts down the rag, and looks up at her leader, younger than she is, certainly, but one of the few people in this world she trusts. Apropos of only the tally in her head counting up the approximate zombies (too many) there still are in the main horde, she asks, “Do you think. This is still going to work. Right?”
SCENES: SUNDAY: Carter & Dutch
Carter doesn’t know how many weapons she’s built at this point. She just has to keep going. It feels like a never-ending pile of them, carefully stacked into boxes and bags. She’s on the easy ones now; pre-made molotovs, a supply of bottles into which she’s pouring a measure of Whitney Field’s highest proof alcohol, a rag, secure it, repeat. The precision of the process is distracting, soothing. She can focus on this instead of the radio calls going on in the dispatch station, just a little way away, pouring in bad news and limited victories. The only person next to her is Dutch.
Carter puts down the rag, and looks up at her leader, younger than she is, certainly, but one of the few people in this world she trusts. Apropos of only the tally in her head counting up the approximate zombies (too many) there still are in the main horde, she asks, “Do you think. This is still going to work. Right?”