No One But Me

warnings: talk of sexual assault, violence, gun use, misogyny, description of gore.

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When Lyle finally completed the trek to the cabin his gang had claimed as their headquarters, he was surprised to find a magnificent black horse and a wagon stationed outside the front. Who did they belong to? He hadn't seen another human for months, not since the showdown that had massacred his men and left him forsaken and alone. There wasn't a settlement besides Jackson for hundreds of miles, and as far as he knew no one ever travelled through this part of the state. So who the fuck could be holed up in his cabin right now?

A horse of such stature and a wagon that looked so well maintained couldn't possibly belong to somebody destitute and without the means of survival. And that meant a fresh source of supplies for him to get his hands on.

Food. Clothes. Shoes. Fuck, maybe even some ammo.

Lyle was stealthy as he slipped through the cabin's front door, painstaking in his effort not to arouse the attention of whoever was residing in his rightful house. With his gun in hand, he peered around the wood of the door but saw no one in the main living room. Although there was a small fire crackling in the fireplace and the place was warm, he could tell that whoever was staying there hadn't been there for very long. There were no immediately unrecognisible belongings anywhere in his view. There were no changes in decor or furniture, no drastic alterations. The telltale signs of the raider's occupancy were still littered around the place, too, like the empty bottles of moonshine scattered around the kitchen sink.

No one had been around long enough to clean up the cabin and rid it from the stain of degeneracy. It hadn't changed drastically, had not been transformed from a den of iniquity into a real home.

It felt surreal to Lyle, like he was suspended inbetween two different realities. His whole life had been transformed since he was last inside the walls of this cabin, yet nothing around him reflects it. There's even the faded red bandana still hanging in the coat hook by the door, the one that belonged to his buddy Wyatt.

As Lyle made his way into the center of the main room, he was conscious not to let the weight of his boots press too heavily against the floor. He remembered that one particular spot by the table that always creaked. He stepped around it before slowly creeping across the cabin to where the bedroom door was situated. It was partly closed but he could vaguely hear snoring coming from inside the bedroom - a definitive man's snore, low and rumbling.

Lyle tightened his hand around the grip of his gun. It's probably just one man, lone on his travels, laying in the bed asleep without a care in the world. It will be easy enough to kill him, shoot him right between the eyes before he had the chance to crack open an eyelid. But perhaps Lyle could have a bit more fun with this one.

He prowled toward the bedroom where the door was ajar, and then he carefully slid through the threshold.

It was a spacious main bedroom, big enough for a dozen men to sprawl out on the floor to sleep. On one side of the room were a couple chest of drawers pushed up against the wall. Facing westward from another wall was a queen sized bed - a lavish piece of furniture in the apocalyptic world, made of solid wood with an intricately carved ornamental bed head. Whoever lived here in the before clearly had expensive taste.

The first thing Lyle saw when he entered was the large shape of the slumbering man on the bed. He was rolled on his side and facing away from the door, his messy greying curls sticking out from the thick blanket he was tucked under.

What a sucker. Lyle had every intention of murdering the man, but maybe after a light interrogation to find out where he was from and what riches he had in his possession. He smiled to himself at the thought of a full belly and a new set of clothes. Stepping closer, he then noticed the other body curled up asleep infront of the man.