And she was fishing for three, one of whom was a burly man with an appetite that doubled, possibly even tripled that of his companions’. That was perhaps two good meals at most for a single person.
She tugged again, her patience wearing thin after catching only four small specimens during several hours of fishing. It ignored her demands and continued flitting about, its close proximity to the hook cruelly taunting her. “Bite the hook, you stupid fish,” she mumbled under her breath. She gave the line a small tug to entice her target. Her green eyes intensely studied a small, drab fish swimming busily about her line, occasionally nibbling at the scrap of meat on the hook but never taking it. The brand logo was still discernable, but brands had ceased to be even remotely important in the zombie apocalypse. She held out a fishing pole found on the sailboat that had brought her group to their island paradise, but it was already beginning to bend permanently downwards and lose its bright finish to frequent usage and exposure to the elements. She was seated atop a palm tree that was bent over the clear shallows of the ocean below, its fronds swaying in the breeze. The calm was a welcome change to a young woman of nineteen who had, so far, survived the apocalypse with only the help of some scavenged weaponry and three very different companions.
It was an atmosphere in stark contrast to the terrifying and wretched one that had spread over most of the planet within a few short weeks as an unprecedented supervirus single-handedly brought the human race to its knees. Seabirds cried in the distance, the sound harmonizing peacefully with the gentle swooshing of the ocean waves as they crawled up the shore only to sink back into their source. The sun was slowly descending, the majority of the Florida sky still blue with rims of orange and pink merging with the horizon.
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