At the boundary of the Hundred-Acre wood, Pooh paused a moment and turned his face to the breeze. It was the first time in days that the wind hadn’t brought with it the iron tang of blood, or the lung-scorching smoke from all the fires they’d set trying to corner him.
They wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
Pooh rubbed the ears on the plastic likeness of his old friend Piglet that hung on his belt, remembering happier times. The time before the war.
Everything was different now.
Pooh’s BattleEye alerted him to IR-visible movement a quarter mile up the draw. No cover between here and there, but these bandits couldn’t shoot worth dick.
Pooh hefted the mighty axe over his shoulder and turned to say one last goodbye to the Hundred-Acre Wood. Under his breath, he muttered:
“Oh, bother.”
