The second strain of a deadly virus, Neuro Type 2, ravages the globe, outrunning every medical breakthrough. In the small, rural town of Rosedale, Virginia, life clings on like a flickering candle, but the virus's relentless presence is undeniable...
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"The past is never dead. It's not even past." ~ William Faulkner
~*~ Chapter 3 ~*~
4:51 PM
Near Pinner's Family Farm and Smith Man Lake, Rosedale VA
With the teens
Chasing Daylight
The forest hummed with life as the marsh rabbit crept through the thick underbrush. Its brown fur, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding foliage, made it a master of hide and seek. Every hop carried it in and out of the shadows cast by towering trees, only to disappear again. The rabbit moved with an oblivious grace, unaware of the amateur huntress stepping in its tracks.
Megan crouched low, her breath steady but shallow. The warm hues of the sky — soft pinks and oranges — signaled the day's close, casting long, creeping shadows across the ground. Each patch of darkness was a trap, making the rabbit's outline blur with every step. A cold wind brushed past her face, sending a twist of her kinky hair falling across her cheek. Her round glasses caught the fading sunlight, briefly reflecting a golden hue before the shadow of a passing cloud obscured them.
She shifted her weight, pressing her knees deeper into the damp earth. The familiar chill of wet soil seeped through her worn blue jeans, but she barely registered the discomfort. Her focus was on the rabbit and the subtle movements around her. Her father had always said, "Stay low. Quiet feet. One eye on the target, one eye on everything else."
A soft voice drifted on the breeze. "Twenty miles deep, just like I taught you."
Megan didn't respond, though she desperately wanted to. Something snarky. Something to earn a laugh they could share. Her soul yearned for it.
"Now, don't rush it," he urged as her trembling fingers wrapped around the bowstring. "Feel the bow, Megan. Remember what I said about the string — it's an extension of you. Don't fight it, or you'll lose the shot."
Her grip tightened, hands steady despite the cold, though she could still feel that familiar quiver beneath her skin. The damp forest air filled her lungs, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the sounds around her.
She could hear the trickle of the nearby stream, the rustling of leaves overhead, and even the distant call of a bird. The rabbit had paused, sniffing at something on the forest floor, its little nose twitching in curiosity.
"Anchor point, Meg. Find your anchor point," he reminded her. She pulled the string back to the corner of her mouth, feeling the familiar tension.
"That's right," he said softly. "You always want the same spot. Your anchor keeps you grounded. Keeps the shot consistent."
