the skies are grey

winter

[implied mentions of cannibalism. had zero interest in going into detail about, so it shouldnt be too bad, i dont think]

With winter brings bitter cold wind and food becoming scarce. It's Peter's least favorite time of year, and while he's never been the best hunter, he knows the basics of skinning animals to cook over a fire. The main issue is finding a big enough kill for them to eat off of.

Bow in hand with an arrow ready, Peter slinks quietly through the woods. The jacket he found a few weeks prior in an old mall he picked through isn't very thick. He paired a sweater underneath it, and it keeps him warm enough during the colder months. There's a shake in his hands that he isn't entirely sure is just from the cold.

He spots a rabbit leaving its hole and shoots it quickly. Letting out a relieved breath when the arrow hits the target, he walks over to retrieve it. "This won't last long," he mutters to himself, taking the arrow out of the animal and tying the dead rabbit to the saddle of the horse.

As he does so, he spots something out of the corner of his eye. When he turns his head, he spots a grazing deer nearby. It's large, with antlers spread out like twisted fingers out of its head. It's enough meat to feed two for at least a few days; longer if rationed right.

Peter quickly ties up the horse to a tree. "You'll just startle it," he tells the creature, gently scratching its muzzle before sneaking closer to the deer.

He aims quickly and lands the first shot in the meat of its shoulder. It yowls in pain before taking off in a random direction. Peter curses under his breath before following the trail of blood that it left behind.

The woods grow thicker the farther he strays from where he left the horse. For a moment, he panics that he's lost his way. All the trees are bare of leaves and all look the same amongst the scattering of rocks. The only reason he knows he isn't going in circles is the blood trail and the footprints he leaves behind in the snow.

He has to shoot the deer once more before he follows the trail to a strange scattering of old buildings. The first building he enters is a mostly empty cabin made of a skeleton of lumper barely holding it up. Not bothering to try and find anything of use in the meager leftovers of building, Peter continues forward. On the other side, he spots the deer lying dead in the middle of the field.

After taking the arrows out of the deer's corpse, Peter hovers over hit a moment, trying to figure out how he's going to drag back such large game back to the house he's hiding out the winter in. Suddenly, there's the sound of a branch cracking from near one of the buildings, and he wastes no time in bringing up his bow and aiming the arrow at the sound.

"Who's there?" he demands, glad that his hands stopped shaking when he needed them to.

Two older men come out of where they're hiding. They both look no older than thirty-five, guns hanging over their shoulders rather than in their hands. The one in front holds his hands up, palms facing forward in a sign of peace. "We mean no harm," he says. "We just came this way in search of food." He then nods towards the deer. "Great game you've got there. I know of a lot of women and children that could feed."

"Yeah, well. Children are hungry over here, too," he says, his aim never wavering. "Don't step any closer or I'll put one right between your eyes. Same for your pal over there, as well."

The one that spoke chuckles softly. "My name's Quentin. This pal of mine is Russell. Is there, by any chance, anything you're willing to trade for some of that meat? Clothes, weapons, ammo?"

"Medicine," Peter answers quickly. "Do you have any antibiotics?"

Quentin and Russell exchange a look. "We do," Quentin says slowly. "Back at the camp, we can—"