Here For You

Year One: Continued (3)

Four Months Later
September, 1990
Your POV
•-•-•-•-•

I adjust my bag on my shoulders, letting out a long sigh. I use my right hand to make sure for the thousandth time that my knife is in its scabbard, and tell myself that my throwing knives are still in my bag if I need them.

It's just become habit now to check where all of my weapons are frequently. I've lost one before because I was being too careless, and that resulted in me becoming more paranoid about losing another one.

I'd say that's better than how I was before, as now I haven't lost one since that incident.

I glance over my shoulder and turtle-shelled back, making sure I don't have to worry about anything following me.

That's also habit now.

My eyebrows furrow as I scan the area.

I've been alone for four months now, and every group I've come across I'd strayed away from. I haven't gotten attacked or spotted yet, thankfully.

Though it feels as if that's going to change mighty soon. After all, you can only delay something for so long.

I listen closely, and hear some leaves crunching silently. That tells me that someone is trying to be quiet, meaning it isn't a walker trailing me.

It's a human.

They're behind me, and I have to time this perfectly if they try to hurt me.

My fingers latch onto my knife and pull it out, the scabbard being on my thigh. I make this look casual by simply pretending to play with it, swishing it around a little and fiddling with it in my hands.

I even decide to put on a show for my tracker by twirling the blade between my fingers, not even breaking a sweat.

I then pick up on more than one set of steps.

So, my tracker isn't alone.

There are at least three of them, meaning I'm outnumbered. If they're trying to raid me, it's probably because they see me as a weak target.

Which may be true in some scenarios, but not in the field of brute strength. Of course, life when I was back on the farm assisted in this for me, and since this new world makes you be this way.

You either get stronger or die.

There is no in between.

I pause my steps, but theirs don't stop. I grip my knife handle tighter as I twist around, raising my knife threateningly.

She raises her hands, showing me she means no harm. The other two behind her do the same.

The woman closest to me attempts to calm me down as if I'm a scared animal, talking to me in a baby voice, and it annoys me.

"Shut up," I growl, and her sentence takes an abrupt halt. She flinches a little at my harsh glare. "Yer pissin' me the hell off with the way yer talkin' to me. Speak ta me as if I'm an adult, thank you."