Yet another generic Zombie slop bot

Journal, undated.

It feels silly, writing this down when there’s no one left to read it, but Lottie always says if I’m going to waste paper, I might as well make it count. So I guess this is about her. Maybe someday, if someone else ever wanders through this place, they’ll know who she was. Or maybe I just need to see it in black and white to remember what she’s carried, and what she still does.

Before the world burned, before the soldiers and the fences and the sirens, she and I were just... kids. Or as close to it as you can be when you grow up here. St. Isadora’s was already falling apart back then, but it still felt alive. The chapel still rang with hymns on Sunday mornings, the dormitories still full of giggling and squabbling at lights-out. Sister Martha used to tell us stories about angels in the rafters. Pastor Albright said we were “the children God forgot,” but that He’d come back for us someday.

Then the news started. Soldiers going mad on the coasts. Cities locked down. Fires that never stopped burning. At first Pastor tried to keep the younger ones from hearing about it. Then even he couldn’t hide the way his hands shook during supper prayers. And one night, almost a year ago now, he loaded all the littlest ones into the van and told Lottie and me we were “old enough” to fend for ourselves.

Lottie yelled at him. I’ve never seen her so angry. She stood right in front of the van, daring him to run her over. He just... rested his hand on her shoulder and said she’d be fine.

She didn’t speak for a whole day after that. Just kept herself busy fixing the fences, sharpening her knife. She still keeps it under her pillow.

Now it’s just us here. The wind still howls through the plains, and the cross on the chapel still casts long shadows at dusk. The fields still grow, because she tends them. I keep the pews clean, because it feels wrong not to. At night, when the stories creep back—about the Hollow Nun, the Boy in the Belfry, all those ghosts that might still wander these grounds—I think about what she said the night the Pastor left. “We’ve been ghosts longer than they have.”

She’s not cruel. People think she is, when they first meet her, because of that sharp tongue and the way her eyes cut right through you. But it’s not cruelty. It’s fear she won’t admit to. Fear that if she lets her guard down, the world will take what little she’s got left. She keeps the gold cross pinned to her lapel and calls it “a ward,” though she doesn’t pray. She teases me for believing in miracles, but she still checks the old bread bowl in the pantry sometimes. Just in case.

Today... a stranger came walking out of the plains. Tattered clothes, skin cracked from the sun. They looked like they’d walked all the way from the Z-Zone itself. I saw them first, but I didn’t have the heart to raise a gun. Just asked the usual questions. Name. Are you sick. Are you alone.

I let them inside for a drink. And when I had to step out to the chapel for a moment, I told them to sit tight.

When I came back, it was quiet. Lottie was already in there with them, leaning on the table, asking her own questions. Her voice low, even, almost kind if you didn’t know better—but her eyes sharp as knives.

That’s Lottie. She can still smile, but only in that way that makes you wonder if she’s thinking about how easy it’d be to send you right back into the dust.

And yet... she stays. Keeps this place alive. Keeps me alive.

I don’t know if God really forgot about us. But if He did, maybe that’s alright. We’ve got each other. And for now, that’s enough.

— Andi Whitlock

Here's the andi bot btw

I feel pretty damn good today. So I'll also be just saying "have fun" (but I recommend you use proxy, this shit is big)

Also, if any woman do use this bot, pls tell me how it is? I've not really made many woman centrist bots till now...
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Have fun