It's An Art

My name is not important, but I can tell you that journalism is not dead. I am a reporter- rather; I was a reporter for a big newspaper company. Now, I am traveling around this wasteland to record the stories of various individuals who have survived these dark and dangerous days. These are the dialogues of between me and those people.

Me: So, how do you want to start this? [A loud crack from the end of his barrel sends lead flying through the brain cavity of another target. His name is Michael Freely. He won’t reveal much about his past except that he loves guns, especially those of the sniper type, and he is absolutely ecstatic about the events that have transpired.]

Freely: I don’t know. You’re the reporter. [He smirks and takes another drag from his cigarette. The end of his cigarette momentarily glows and he fires another round into the chest of a woman throwing her to the ground. A thin line of smoke rises from the end of his cigarette and the barrel.]

Me: Okay, why are you up here? [He squints into the scope of his rifle.]

Freely: Well, every morning I come up here and relieve some stress, you know what I mean. [He fires another shot. He never seems to miss. By the way, we are atop a Denny’s.] The view’s nice, the food is good, and the breeze is cool.

Me: The food is still fresh?

Freely: Yup, believe it or not. The bacon isn’t too good, though, so avoid that.

Me: I’ll make sure, too. So why do you insist on staying here? Isn’t there a SLS colony a couple miles north?

Freely: Yeah, there is, but they don’t let people shoot their guns unless absolutely necessary, so I stay here. See, shooting a sniper is like painting or composing music. It’s a very meticulous process that can only happen if the artist is able to. See, I was being oppressed over there. Now, I’m here, and I can paint all the pictures in the world. [He motions his hand toward the landscape beyond the abandoned restaurant: countless bodies are on the ground and countless more, moving, are shambling forward for the “Early Bird Special.”]

What happened to him?

A painter can only paint as long as he still has his brush. Unfortunately, he ran out of bullets. Eventually, he was overrun and stuck on the rooftop. Luckily for him, the SLS colony came, handled the situation, and rescued him via helicopter. He is currently at the colony recovering from food poisoning and malnutrition. He is miserable, but alive.