𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 || ᵈᵃʳʸˡ ᵈⁱˣᵒⁿ

iv

|[part four]|
-҉

AS THE SUNSET CREPT over the horizon, painting the sky with strokes of orange light, he brought the motorcycle to a gentle stop, signaling a temporary end to your shared journey. You observed quietly as he skillfully concealed his bike within the embrace of the bushes, his movements precise and calculated. The bike blended so seamlessly with its surroundings that even your trained eyes struggled to keep it in sight. He then proceeded to walk deeper into the woods, leaving a silent question hanging in the air between you. Were you expected to follow? Did his silent gesture imply an invitation, or was it merely a practical decision to secure the bike?

His voice, breaking the silence, carried a hint of amusement, "You comin' or are ya just gonna stand there?"

His words, simple yet laden with an unspoken camaraderie, shattered any lingering hesitation. It was an invitation, albeit a gruff one, into a moment of companionship amidst the desolation. The decision was made in an instant, and with a silent nod, you followed, stepping into the unknown of the woods and whatever semblance of safety it might offer.

Without waiting for another prompt, your legs propelled you forward, stumbling slightly as you followed him into the denser parts of the forest. He stopped a modest distance away, yet it was clear that in an emergency, he could swiftly return to his motorcycle. You couldn't help but admire his foresight; he was not only cautious but also impressively astute in his survival strategies.

It hadn't occurred to you earlier, but he had been carrying a duffle bag, which he now set down with deliberate care before setting off again to gather sticks. Observing his industriousness made you feel somewhat redundant standing idle, so you too placed your pack down and set about collecting branches, keen to contribute to the task at hand. As you returned with arms laden with wood, he acknowledged your effort with a nod and a grunt, accepting your contribution to the growing pile.

From the depths of his pant pocket, he produced a silver lighter, which he tossed in your direction, a silent query in the gesture. "You know how to make a fire?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of challenge.

Catching the lighter with ease, you tilted your head, a playful yet defiant arch to your brow. Did he really doubt your capabilities? "Yes, I am very much capable of making a fire, thank you very much," you retorted, your tone laced with a touch of sarcasm. His response was a noncommittal grunt as he opened the duffle bag and extracted a crossbow, slinging it over his shoulder without further comment.

You didn't bother asking where he was headed as you began arranging the sticks and branches into an efficient structure that would quickly catch flame. Tucking dry leaves at the base, you struck the lighter, watching the fledgling flames eagerly consume the leaves before dancing eagerly onto the sticks. As the fire established itself, you ringed the burgeoning blaze with stones and dirt, a precaution against the spread of wildfire. Seizing the moment of solitude, you retrieved a fresh set of clothes from your pack, relishing the sensation of slipping into fabric that bore the crisp, untouched scent of newness—a rare luxury in this world.

From the depths of your backpack, you retrieved a carefully crafted alarm system—a length of string adorned with small bells and assorted trinkets designed to produce noise, all wrapped in a cloth to mute their sounds while stored. With deliberate steps, you approached the nearest tree, unwrapping the string and securing it around the trunk. Methodically, you moved from one tree to the next, creating a perimeter of auditory alerts around your makeshift camp. Satisfied with your work, you leaned back against a sturdy tree, exhaustion pulling your eyelids shut almost immediately.

Your brief respite was abruptly ended by the jarring cacophony of your makeshift alarm. Instinctively, your hand found the grip of your knife, and you sprang to your feet, poised for confrontation. However, the threat wasn't what you expected. Instead, you were met with the sight of a disgruntled man entangled in your warning system, cursing under his breath as he attempted to disentangle himself. "Wait, before you rip it!" you exclaimed, sheathing your knife and moving towards him to offer assistance. Ignoring your offer, he gave his leg one final shake, freeing himself from the string's grasp. He spun around, muttering incomprehensibly, and in his hasty movement, something he was carrying struck you squarely in the face.