@pulchravictus - a quiet place
Dirt flies up behind her bare feet as Im sprints between the sparsely-spaced trees, the ragged in-out of her breath and thudding of her pack on her back is deafening on her ears, as is the sickening scurry of heavy feet through the underbrush not more than a quarter-mile behind her. She takes a hard right, leaping over a fallen log to strive towards where the railroad tracks met the river, the iron girders of the bridge just visible beyond the trees. An arm reaches back, and her fingers fumble at the side of her backpack, digging out her last chance and clutching it in her sweaty palm.
Just need to get to the bridge. Just need to get to the bridge. Just need to–
She can feel it closing in, and her thumb flicks open the small flip phone in her hand, cranking the volume up as high as it will go before pressing the keypad at random. The river reflects the sunlight like a beacon in front of her, and she forces her legs to pump faster. Almost–
Her feet hit the wooden planks of the bridge and she stops in her tracks, hits ‘ call ’, and hurls the phone off into the trees somewhere to her right. It sails farther than she expected, ringing as it flies through the air, and Im watches it as she flattens herself against one of the support beams of the bridge, hand over her mouth and nose. A hellish moment passes as she watches the creature emerge on spindly legs from the woods, pausing for a moment before clambering over the railroad tracks and into the forest on the other side, leaving Im to collapse and catch her breath, the roar of the river underneath drowning out the thunder of her heart.
The echo of a ringer sounds and he stills, his body rigid and the world drowning out with the crashing and screeching echoing in the distance. His hands still on the pack of sand he was laying, the bag lowering to touch the ground with a faint rustle. Not loud enough, good. His steps were slow, were cautious. It came from the river. They were close. It was close. Swallowing down the sudden rise of bile threatening to touch his tongue and react with his nerves, the survivor moved. Deftly, quietly, bare feet touching sandy paths until he can reach the wetter ground, until he can find the spring that will cover up twig snaps and crunching leaves.
He moved like a pro, like someone that had experienced far more, had been through hell and survived. Ha, wasn’t that what this was? Was this not hell on Earth?
Gritting his teeth sharp, jaw setting to reflect the grind of molars and canines, the survivor ducked and dipped through brush and low hanging branches. The bustling of the river touched his ears and he continued, steps cautious and slow despite the drowning sound. Nothing was completely safe. Nothing.
She came into view just as the hitch of the bridge did, his steps slowing to a stop as he took in the sight of another person, of another human being for miles. The man near the waterfall jumped weeks prior, and the family that he’d been establishing a small trade route with via sand had been killed just three mornings ago. But she was alive, not torn to shreds, and very much adapted enough to know when to cause a distraction. His steps were slower than before, one hand raising while the other fell to the gun he kept strapped to his side. It was foolish to have with him, but if he was ever cornered... Well, he wasn’t going to die without some kind of fight. He only hoped she wouldn’t pose one.
