Sherry Apocalypse - Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature

She stood, adjusted her red bow, and helped the other two to their feet. Three schoolgirls in a dead church. The last pack of a broken world.

Her training, if you could call it that, kicked in. She’d learned from a dying soldier in the first year. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation is a hole they bury you in.

She was seventeen, though the mirror in the ruined department store told her she looked forty. Her uniform was no longer a symbol of youth, but a tool. The pleated skirt, hemmed with fishing line and razor blades, allowed her to run. The white blouse, stained rust-brown and charcoal, was stuffed with Kevlar scraps from a shattered police drone. The red bow at her collar? That was for her. A last piece of the girl she’d been before the Siren went off. Sherry Apocalypse Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature

They called her pack “The Schoolgirls.” It was a joke the raiders made—until they didn’t. There were five of them originally. Now, in Pack 1 P (Mature designation—meaning they had survived longer than any other juvenile unit in the sector), there were three.

They ate in silence. Yuki leaned her head on Sherry’s shoulder. Mei hummed a pop song from before the Fall—something about a boy, a summer, a car. Sherry couldn't remember the words. She stood, adjusted her red bow, and helped

Mei uncorked a brown bottle. The liquid inside shimmered like diesel rainbows. She rolled it gently. It shattered at the feet of the man with the mask. His scream lasted two seconds—his lungs turned to jelly inside his ribs.

Sherry pressed her back against a fallen pillar. The church smelled of mildew and old incense. Through a gap in the stained glass—a serene Mary now missing her face—she watched the men argue over a broken vending machine. Her training, if you could call it that, kicked in

“Contact,” Yuki whispered from the choir loft. Her voice was a reed in the wind. “Three mature male scavvers. Armed with pipe guns. They have a dog.”