Thistle Amberwood age: 15
It was the name of the destination on her father's orders. As her father had been a known scientist before the outbreak,
his work with the organization had them moving constantly. Searching for survivors.
Maybe searching for the reason. Maybe even a cure. Things that did not matter to the girl.
Since the outbreak took her mother, Thistle just followed where her father led. With a sigh, Thistle placed the paper back down.
Pulling her hood back over her head she slumped back into the chair at her father's desk. All Thistle wanted was the carefree life she had known before.
When the door to the study opened, Thistle sat up. He would know she knew. Knew it was time to move on.
If you had asked her when she six would she be able to fit her life's possessions into a knapsack,
she would have replied "no" with a giggle and run off to be with her horses. That answered floated in a world that only existed in Thistles dreams.
During the journey from Sochi, Thistle thought of the last time she had seen a horse. It was AMD, after mother's death.
The organization had based themselves on a farm. Thistle in her boredom had wandered to the barn.
There she found a horses skeleton still bridled and in its stall. Her father located her later, curled up next to the remains asleep.
It was where she would sleep for the time they stayed at the farm.
Her mother would say Thistle could ride a horse before taking her first step. They were her life. As the daughter of a prominent scientist
her world never consisted of need. A spoiled rich girl? Perhaps. But also one that eagerly signed up to Girlguiding Scotland.
Relishing in the weekends of camping. Survival skills she did not think she would ever need. Until the outbreak.
The scouts may have taught her how to build a campfire, skin a rabbit and even the inner workings of a car motor.
What they did not teach was how to cope with the loss of your best friend. How to clean the blood of the infected from your clothing.
How not to drown from the inside as in this world, no one cries.
The quick stop of the vehicle jarred Thistle from her thoughts. Looking out the window, the landscape here could've been anywhere.
Thistle stayed seated as the outside was checked for the infected. The all clear was given. Grabbing her knapsack, she headed into the small building.
As her father and the two men assigned to protect him spent the days searching for survivors, Thistle would go out scavenging.
She tended to whatever building was their current home. Organizing the food supply, trying her best to keep the medical supplies stocked.
Before the outbreak, she had been a social child. Now she talked to only herself. Unless of course her father was around.
It was in the evenings that she enjoyed the most. As the men would go over what they located during the day.
Thistle would work on the repairing of clothing she found. Her horses may be dead. But the one connection to who
Thistle had once been was still her passion of clothing. The spoiled little rich girl would still want to die in a decent outfit.
It was when her father and the two guards did not return for five days that Thistle suspected something was wrong.
Sure a day or two gone, fine. But never this long.
Thistle stood at the opened front door. With a step she began her journey to find those she knew to be lost.