Prompt: The sword on her belt made an impression.

Amelee Holmes wasn't your ordinary Brawler, besides the fact that she was first in the Class.

Brawlers were the heavy fighters, with loads of armor and heavy, two-handed weapons and cocky attitudes. Amelee had seen their type before - the stocky guys with flushed faces under their helms, blabbering loudly and posing as the Archer girls walked by. Brawlers had a large variety of weapons, from top-heavy executioner axes to spike-studded hammers. Amelee was an an anomaly. She chose a sword.

It barely fit into the Brawler category with its weight, but she could easily wield it with one hand, just like she could sprint a mile in her armor without breaking a sweat. Before they had attacked she was training for the Crossfit Challenge in Cali, and her strength suited her now. Even with an almost-Swordsman-Class sword, she was the leader of her Class.

The other Brawlers resented her for it, but didn't try to catch up to her rank; she was too high above them to even attempt leveling the playing field. Nasty rumors tried to degrade the only thing the other Brawlers could touch, her reputation, but no matter how many times someone whispered that she had been using Swordsman weapons most of the Brawlers hero-worshiped her still.

There were five Classes, made after they came in - Brawler, Archer, Swordsman, Engineer, and Medic. Amelee got to choose her Class, but many were sorted at random, or where there was a shortage. Even so, patterns began to emerge among the Classes, stereotypes that outlined each one.

Archers were usually girls, who thought it wouldn't be too hard to shoot a bow and failed miserably. There were a few really good Archers who could hold their own in battle, but only a hundred or so of the millions in the Class. The rankings showed that pretty well, with a massive J-curve when people finally got good.

Swordsmen were young, arrogant guys who could pick up a sword and swing it around like everyone else in the world but somehow thought they were special for it. Amelee often saw them sparring in the streets, pretending to be in Star Wars or their favorite videogames. There were many more skilled Swordmen than Archers, thought, so they were better in fights, and more dependable. Leader of the Swordsmen - or at least, number one ranked - was Lao Minitz, known as LaoMin by the Swordsmen. So legendary he was almost never seen in fights, a world-famous recluse, which only boosted his fame.

Engineers were a motley group, but they also designed and forged most weapons. Amelee could respect that kind of skill. Weapons were ranked in classes too, from A to F like grades. She had a B-Class rapier hybrid, one of the best available Brawler weapons, custom-made. A-Class weapons were uber-rare, although it was rumored LaoMin had one.

Amelee always thought it would be fun to be an Engineer, toiling in the heat of the furnace, but the Brawler rankings could show anyone she was where she belonged.

Medic was a very basic Class, but very important. Medics doctored up any soldiers injured in fighting them, which was quite a lot. When Amelee had broken her arm in a Brawler duel she could admire the Medic's practiced skill, the ease with which he set the bone, his kindness. Amelee know enough about the body with Crossfit, but there was no way she could do what the Medics were doing. Of all the Classes, they were easily the most under-appreciated.

Brawler was a medium-sized Class, but Amelee still made an impression within it and in the other Classes as well. Number one in a Class was no small feat, and most were venerated in their Class. LaoMin was practically deified by the Swordsmen. Despite the occasional envious Brawler, Amelee was treated very well in all of the Classes. It wasn't often a girl reached upper rankings in her Class, and never the top spot. It was practically unheard of.

But they didn't care.

Amelee know they weren't zombies, but the infectious disease that rendered them brain-dead and malicious might as well have been zombie-itis. when she first heard about the disease on the news she laughed it off, like some dumb zombie ripoff in a B-list teen fiction book.

That was before all the high school students in America and Europe were sorted into Classes and recruited to kill the carriers.

Her parents had been livid when she took the letter home. How can the government do this? It's illegal! Apparently not. By then Amelee's self-proclaimed zombie-itis had reached epidemic stage. Someone needed to take action.

She had hopped from camp to camp when they realized just how quickly her skills were growing in training. Soon she surpassed her lead Brawler instructor and leaped into the rankings, where she worked her way to the top. Every Brawler knew Amelee Holmes, prodigy. The only place they could find a good job for her was in Arlington, guarding the Pentagon.

She didn't know how quickly her Brawler skills came to her, or why. Leading the ranks gave her priority for a better weapon, and she had traded her D-Class training single-edged beat-'em-up, the trainees' nickname for the clunky sword, and received her B-Class hybrid.

They put her in battle as soon as possible, and it was like cutting through the waves of enemies in her little brother's stupid old videogames. True combat was a challenge, and, while it was sickening, Amelee liked putting her life on the edge, where one footstep can be your demise, just you and your sword and your wits to keep you alive. An exhilarating rush, but she didn't worship the adrenaline like the others did, fighting in the streets just to get that feeling buzzing in your head and your heart hammering. When you're the most alive.

Amelee though that was foolish, especially if you got yourself killed.

Not everyone was a fighter, though. The bottom of the rankings, the kids who huddled in their bunks at night and cried themselves to sleep because they had ended their first life. Killing wasn't completely dulled to Amelee, but it didn't keep her from fighting all the same. It didn't crush her spirit, it made her stronger.

Not that it changed anything. Everybody fought, and so would she.

The first squad patrol of the day was around the Pentagon, where most of the generals and officials of the US had holed up and locked the doors, hiring a top-notch squad of soldiers to defend in. Amelee's patrol consisted of two Swordsmen, Hart and Pierre, ranked high in their Class, and Irene, an Archer from Louisiana who Amelee had gotten to know pretty well. Very few undead zombie-people came to the Pentagon, so they spent most of their days chatting aimlessly and trying to sneak glances through the cracks of the doors of the Pentagon. A faint breeze of air-conditioning tickled Amelee's ankles as she walked past.

"Seen anything yet?" Hart asked, smoothing his brown bangs away from his forehead. His B-class Falchion lay beside him on the pavement, gleaming in the heat. Amelee was sweating under her Brawler armor, too, but it was part of the Class, and she could always use the protection. Pierre was sitting at Hart's feet, picking at the hem of his jacket with clear apathy. The government had flown him in from France when they got wind of his skill, so he didn't speak much English, but Amelee got the impression that he wouldn't talk much anyways.

"Where's Irene?" She asked, gazing across the parking lot, where the heat radiated above the asphalt in waves.

"I think she went to go find a perch. You know, scope out the undead, right? I think she's bored, and a kill would be nice."

Amelee glanced down at her weapon. Every kill was recorded and elevated your rank, but she still didn't worship the kills like the other soldiers did. To her it was the worst kind of sport, but unfortunately, one she excelled at.

"How long has she been gone?" She looked at Pierre, who gave her a bored stare back.

"I dunno, ten minutes? Don't stress about it. Not like these government trots need any protection anyway."

Amelee was watching Hart when it happened, when the dart of black zipped across her vision like a fleeting shadow, and the arrow buried itself in Hart's shoulder.

Shock froze her stiff, then she dove in front of Hart and raised her sword in front of him, the typical gesture of a fighter ready for battle. Pierre scrambled to his feet and copied her motions with fluid ease, eyes round as coins, and Hart let out a trembling breath, then a rasping inhale.

"Hart, stay calm. It's just a shoulder wound."

The Swordsman groaned behind her, then turned the sound into a pained laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Where's our shooter?"

Amelee scanned the buildings around the parking lot with interest. To reach them, at the doorstep of the building, from the tall high-rises across the highway, would take an archer of expert skill. Someone who had been trained. And chosen for their skill.

Whose skill remained unchanged through the transition to death.

"Irene." Pierre muttered, and Amelee's blood ran cold, freezing her sun-warmed skin.

Irene was after them. Irene had been infected.

Hart started to babble, and a small thought bloomed in Amelee's mind - he's going into shock.

"Well, she's a better archer than that, or she would have killed me. Maybe she's still loyal to us, she doesn't want to kill us. You know, fratricide totally wipes out your score..."

"Hart, she's dead! She doesn't care about scores anymore!" Amelee shouted back, and the boy was silent.

"It's okay." Pierre murmured, his accent and inflection making his words almost inaudible. Amelee had never heard encouragement from Pierre before, but she assumed he was just consoling his friend.

"Where did she go to patrol?" Amelee asked Hart, still keeping her eyes on the buildings.

"I don't know!" He groaned. "Somewhere beyond the parking lot."

"It's not safe over there. She was probably ambushed."

Pierre jumped to attention and held his sword ready, and Amelee followed his gaze to the edge of the parking lot. A lone figure was emerging on the horizon, still in the shadows of the buildings, walking with slightly tottering steps their way. Even at the distance Amelee could make out the bow dangling from its hand, and the quiver slung across its back. No doubt about it, it was Irene. But what was she doing?

Hart groaned again, and Amelee reminded herself that he would need medical attention soon.

"Pierre, go help Hart. Call an ambulance or something. I'm going to see Irene."

Pierre's brow furrowed, but he obliged and knelt next to the wounded boy, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Amelee ignored him and stepped into the broiling heat, holding her sword at her side, knuckles clenched white against the metal. If it really was Irene, protocol would kick in, and Amelee would have to do the one job she was tasked with - defending the Pentagon.

As Irene's figure approached Amelee could see that she must have been infected recently. Her eyes were already dulled and dead, but she managed motion remarkably well, which was probably why she was able to maintain her expert marksmanship. Even so, her steps were wobbling, which Amelee assumed would throw her aim off. Maybe she had been shooting to kill.

"Irene." She called out, but the figure didn't react, didn't even lift the bow, just kept walking, blank eyes roaming across the area, jaw beginning to slacken. Amelee's heart tightened at the thought of Irene being the first of them to go. Irene, who had become her friend in the world of stiff competition, who reminded her of old times. Irene was gone.

"Irene, stop. Don't come over here." She pointed dramatically back where she had came, but the girl still wandered forward, deaf to Amelee's pleas. "Irene, don't come any closer."

Any closer and I'll have to kill you.

At that moment Hart gave out a scream of pain - Pierre must have removed the arrow - and Irene's stance changed. Her vision sharpened, her hands clenched on her bow, every scrap of her tuned into the pose of a deadly hunter stalking its prey. Ignoring Amelee completely, she drew an arrow and set against the bowstring, then scanned for her victim.

Amelee had seconds when Irene raised the bow, angled it towards the Pentagon doors, where Hart and Pierre stood exposed, with no way to protect themselves. There was only one thing she could do.

"I'm sorry." Amelee whispered, the stabbed her sword down. Stabbed in the back by someone she called a friend.

And in some far-off database in some far-off country Amelee's score leaped up again for another kill.

Not the murder of a friend. Not fratricide.

Just another kill.