[b]Michael Wesley
Tagged- None
[/b]

Morning time...11 AM...it lacked the usual, familiar sounds of birds chirping, crickets scratching, and squirrels scurrying...something he felt that he severely missed. Regardless, he had long since pushed away such longings and desires, adapting to the situation as it was presented to him. No longer could he sit on top of the ranch house, plucking away at his grandad's old guitar, as the roosters crowed and the birds sung their sweet melodies. No longer could he get dirty and grimy in the pig pen, wrestling with the grungy little beasts. No longer could he ride his three-wheeler through the mud and leaves, chasing after that buck that had long since fled when he heard the arrow notching. It was all dead and gone...and he would have to deal with that;; He had already dealt with that. Regardless, the distant, rare sounds of bullets had woken him up a lot earlier that morning, around 3 A.M. or so. 

He had passed out at around 8 or 9 PM that previous night, after securing his temporary 'shelter' with a variety of different home-made traps - which involved certain lengths of rope and a bunch of old, cracked dishes and pans. Ever since he had been awoke, he didn't do much;; He simply stayed where he had fell asleep, eating a small portion of his packaged deer meat, some water, and then began the daily maintenance of all of his equipment. Wipe the bow down with some oil and an old rag, sharpen the arrow's head with his utility knife, and then use an older knife he had found in the 'shelter' to sharpen his utility knife. Make sure the feather fletchings were all correct and true, so that the arrows would fly true, and then tighten the durable string on the bow itself. This had taken a few hours, and thusly, led up to this moment in time.

His temporary 'shelter' was nothing more than a small, two-bedroom home that had the fortune to not have been looted already. It was hidden away near an alley, and was rather grungy and dirty - obviously, it hadn't taken a lot of money to buy the house, judging by it's state. There were no one here;; no blood, or bodies, or even clothing, although he had noticed, and used, different objects such as dishes and old kitchen knives to booby-trap the house and maintain his equipment. The previous owners must've had ducked out and ran away with their personal belongings once the shit hit the fan. He couldn't blame them;; In the beginning of this all, Michael could only imagine how horrified and fearful they must've been. It was truly a shame that this all had to go down...but that's just the way the cookie crumbled. Life was filled with hardships, and the death of his grandparents only solidified that wise saying. 

'Enough of that.' When was the last time he had talked, anyways? He snorted to himself, standing from the dusty, torn couch, and sitting his dark-colored recurve bow onto the old coffee table. Hard eyes glanced over the cache. His heavy-duty travelling backpack was sat on the table, a canteen holstered to it's side, right beside his leather-wrapped quiver, filled with his newly-sharpened and added arrows. Beside that, was a sharp, retractable knife, it's scarred silver casing battered. And finally, beside that, was a dark red crowbar, dried blood still specking the top piece. Michael leaned forward, grabbing an oiled rag to wipe the blood off, and then stood back up. Everything was primed and ready to go...it was time to go out and search for supplies. 

He slid the utility knife into it's holster on his right pants leg, making sure that the strap keeping it there was secure. Straightening, he slung the quiver over his back, making sure that it's dark brown strap was secure, before grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulders, making sure that it wasn't squeezing against the quiver too tight - an arrow being stuck, whilst he was attempting to notch, was something that he did not want to happen again. Satisfied, he strapped the crowbar to the right side of his backpack, before taking a glance around. Everything was taken care of. He had all of his equipment. His knife in it's holster, his quiver on his back, his backpack - which had his crowbar and canteen, and he had his recurve bow gripped securely in his calloused hands. 

Nodding grimly to himself, Michael zipped up his jacket, before pulling up the hood. A short walk later, in which he carefully stepped over a couple of snares and crunched glass, Michael twisted the knob towards the left, instead of the right, which would have made a sharp squeaking noise. Opening the door slightly, the man slipped out into the still city, his boots padding quietly on the blood-stained sidewalk. His first stop? That boarded up super-market he had noticed, whilst scouting around the city yesterday. It was in the downtown area, labeled 'Chris' Fine Foods'. His truck stayed parked near his base, a tarp laid over it to shield the inside from the sun.