"You're a dead woman, filthy Mutant," Slater said, and the tall, silver-haired, pale-skinned man aimed his shotgun at me. At this distance, even an old codger like Slater couldn't miss. Genetic wonder though I might be, I was far from invincible and we both knew it. A bullet to the head does to a Mutant exactly the same thing it does to a normal human. I couldn't run. Even with my speed, I was dust. What's a gal to do in situations like these?
"Hold up," I said, with my hands in the air, for I was honestly out of ideas. I looked into Slater's frosty blue eyes, and saw not a hint of mercy in them. The old man smiled cruelly. I had my rifle at my back and a foot-long curved knife on my waist sash, but I'd be dead before I reached either of them, even with my superhuman speed. He was going to end my life.
Slater ruled these parts and had quite a few men and women under his command. As a Landlord, he didn't get to his position by being nice. Mercy, pity and compassion went out of style ages ago, since the very end of the twenty-first century, which saw the modern world end in nuclear fire, and saw the improbable rise of Mutants...and Zombies.
It occured to me that I was about to die, at the tender age of twenty two, far from home, and at the hands of a frigging Landlord. What's a Landlord? A man or woman who runs or controls a territory, backed up by heavily armed men and women. They're a few sedentary types in a world where most people are on the move, in search of food and water. Some of them are formidable, like Slater here.
Earlier, it seemed like a good idea to raid Slater's compound, since it appeared promising, what with oil canteens, rusty but functioning cars, and a fully stocked wheat field and gardens in the back. In our world, this is considered the pinneacle of wealth. I thought I could take it from him. Now I was about to be dispatched to the next world for my hubris. It simply didn't seem fair...
"There's enough of that," came a deep, masculine voice, and half a second later, Slater suddenly dropped like a marionette whose strings got caught. Standing over him, wearing a bright smile, Antonius Pierre, leader of the Marauders, winked at me. I looked at my savior, and sighed in relief. I went to him, arms wide, and gave him a hug. Antonius gently kissed me on the forehead, and I buried my head against his chest.
"I got your back, Sheliza," Antonius said, and I looked up at him, and smiled. Antonius is six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, massively muscled, with smooth charcoal skin, a thick dark beard and a neatly shaved head. He's human, and originally from the remnants of metropolitan Detroit, Michigan. A place which my kind, the Mutants, consider to be almost sacred ground because so many of us came from that region.
"Thanks big bear," I replied, and Antonius ran his hand through my long, unruly blonde hair, then poked me in the nose. Normally, I would feel annoyed by such a gesture but today I'm actually relieved. For a man his size, Antonius can move with surprising speed and stealth. He'd snuck up on Slater and knocked out the old bastard, saving my life in the process.
"What do we do with him?" came another voice, and I looked past Antonius, at Shoukri Abdi, the six-foot-tall, dark-skinned, curvy young Somali Muslim woman originally from Minnesota. My sister, I thought with a smile. Shoukri smiled back at me, and then gave a swift kick to Slater's insensate body. I smiled with satisfaction as the old buzzard moaned in pain but did not wake up. He would never wake up, I'd make sure of it.
"Problem solved," I said, as I took my blade from its sheath, and slit Slater's throat with it. Blood oozed out of the wound, and in the hot desert sun, the old Landlord breathed his last. I counted to sixty and sure enough, Slater's eyes opened, and a deep, guttural, hunger-filled moan emanated from his mouth. The Landlord was gone, and something else had come to take residence in his body.
I shoved my blade into Slater's skull, and destroyed his brain. Instantly, the Zombie that Slater had become stopped moving. Destroy the brain and you kill the thing, whether it's a human, a Mutant or a Zombie. I killed the old man twice, and felt nothing but a sense of satisfaction. Antonius looked away, but Shoukri Abdi smiled at me, nodding in approval. I returned her smile, and we bumped fists. Shoukri is a killer, like me. We do what has to be done.
"The loot is ours," Shoukri said, and I nodded, as the final member of our group, a young Asian guy named Mario Yan, appeared. Six foot-one and lanky, with dark hair, bronze skin and a jovial, friendly face marred by a few scars, Mario is our little clan's tracker. He can find anyone anywhere. In his hand he held a bloody machete, evidence of a fierce fight against the other members of Slater's compound.
"There's no more of them," Mario said, and I watched him wipe his bloody machete against his coat, and then put it back in its sheath. The four of us, with Antonius in the lead, headed to Slater's compound, to loot the dead man's treasures. It was a veritable treasure trove. Fruits and vegetables, oil for cars, tons of weapons, and domestic animals such as goats and sheep. Slater had been quite wealthy by post-Apocalyptic standards. This was a good raid.
We took about all that we could fit into the back of our Rider, an old Pickup truck that's probably older than me. We set the sheep and goats free, let them roam in the wilderness and find what scarce grass and water remain. If we left them in the pen, they'd get mauled down by any Zombies which happened by, drawn by their scent. In the wild, like any living creatures, at least they'll have a chance.
We Marauders knew better than to stick around Slater's lair. The Landlord might be dead, along with the seven men and three women that were part of his compound, but there might be more of his people on their way back. We got what we needed, plus a little extra, and were on the move once again. That's what it means to be a Marauder.
Now, given the state of the affairs between humans and Mutants in this post-Apocalyptic world, you might wonder what someone like myself is doing with humans. I, Sheliza Hauser, am a Mutant. That's true. I should also tell you that I don't believe genetics are everything. I'm an intelligent being and make my own choices. I'm my own woman. Fate cast my lot with these people, and they're my family.
I first saw the light of day near Detroit, Michigan, in a Creche. I'm older than I look, having been left behind when the First Ones left. You see, many decades ago, when the United States and Europe were duking it out with the Islamic World Powers, they secretly used cutting edge technology to genetically engineer a breed of super-soldiers to fight the battles they never could.
