[ WP ] It 's been 8 months since the zombie apocalypse . You fell in with a tough as nails roughneck group . When in the city looting , you come across a scavenger . He 's your best friend from before the outbreak and your crew unanimously decides to execute him ( he is armed ) .

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 **Sabre's** **Edge** 
 ^ # 37 
 
 ^^7-25-14 
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 It was the first time I hesitated to kill someone. 
 
 Eight-months, and I did n't recognize him. But he spoke my name. `` Ralph...'' And I recognized the voice, it cracked the way it always did under pressure. 
 
 The same way it cracked when we were six and caught red-handed filching candy from the corner store, 
 The same way it cracked in high-school English, whenever the long haired and luscious-lipped Ms.Gardner called on him. 
 
 `` Ralph...'' His voice paralyzes me. My saber is aimed at his neck, and I find myself searching his dead eyes. But is n't the faintest glimmer of my old friend to be found in them. Jack is dead, and this shriveled creature has stolen his voice. Behind me, there is a stir of discontent and impatient curses. the mutterings of my men are gaining momentum. They have never seen their leader hesitate. 
 
 `` It's me Ralph, I'm Jack!'' He is struggling to his feet now, and my paralysis dissolves. 
 
 I shove him violently back to the ground and scream, `` Shut up!'' And as I raise the saber again I remember that the sword was a gift. 
 
 I remember the smooth wooden floors and the rapid percussive rhythm of feet shuffling and pounding. The weight of the pads and the Kevlar, the metallic claps of foils and sabres. I remember sunlight glinting through the windows as we weaved back and forth for hours, until we collapsed with exhaustion. 
 
 Jack always won, why would n't he? He had been scouted by the Olympic team just a month before *it* happened. We had gone from wooden play-swords made of branches to sparring sabres together, sometimes he was nice and let me win, but he had always been the talented one, and that had never changed. 
 
 I cursed my memories now. The sword had been his parting gift to me. A weapon not for sparring, but a genuine artifact. And with it I had killed, and killed, until I myself died. Now I was trying so desperately to kill him, I cursed my weakness. I wanted to kill him, but my limbs would n't obey me. 
 
 `` Damn it Jack! Pick up your sword!'' I found myself yelling. The light came on in his eyes, and Jack, for now I knew it was him, no matter that he seemed only a frail shadow, found his feet and gave me a chill grin. 
 
 When we assumed our stances, I found myself facing the wrong way. 
 The confusion of my men as we cut into them could not be exaggerated. But in the end two-against-forty are not very good odds. 
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 **END** 
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