The air in the gas station was scorching and moist; it reeked of death, due to the two walkers trapped inside, tied by their ankles to the counter, close to the windows, so nobody would enter when they saw them. They had been trapped by a girl, who was now sitting on the floor, dripping wet in sweat, playing with a revolver. She was skinny, her skin dry and gaunt, her blond hair frizzy, her eyes sad and aimless. She had been playing with the gun for days now; she was sure she was turning crazy, but couldn’t or didn’t want to do anything about it. Lux was utterly tired of living, but for the first time she didn’t have the determination of killing herself. She was sure that loneliness, famine and inactivity would eventually end her without an effort. She didn’t know how long had she been on her own, but it had been definitely over a month. Maybe two. Her wounds were sure healing, both the outer and the inner, and she had grown up to be a survivor, with all the immoral acts it
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