[I]Fleas[/i]

Five days west of Raleigh... 
[hr]
He had woken. That much was certain. The canteen was dry. The rations were gone. It made getting a start to the day easier. Nothing to slow you down. Just get up, and walk. No need to take time to eat and drink. This is what he told himself. He was on the move by sunup. He tried to compile a mental list of other positives that he could be thankful for. The hole in the sole of his right boot kept him on alert. The lack of supplies in his pack kept it lighter to carry. The nearly-empty magazine in his rifle likewise made for a lighter load, and made certain he was choosing his shots carefully. The ache in his stomach kept him sharp. On the edge. Where he needed to be. 

He followed the highway. Not on it. Too many wrecks, too many shufflers. No, he stayed clear of the 587, instead walking within fifty yards of it, currently on the South side, flanking the road. This area hadn't been too heavily populated, but ahead he could smell the decay, the incessant smell of a place humanity had once been, and had left, as if swept clean. In the times before, nobody ever thought what the smell of a thousand homes with broken windows and rotten drywall would be like. Nobody ever realized how badly the death of a nation would fucking stink. 

There was a cluster of houses ahead. He stopped, a hundred yards away, and consulted his old AAA map. Maybe the outskirts of Bailey. He could avoid it by crossing to the North side of the 587, but there were rotters. A few, but (checking the load in his M1) more than the three rounds he was packing would allow. Skirting the community to the South would take a day, to move safely. And he could use supplies... decision made. He moved off, into the outskirts of Bailey, NC. 

It had to be the right house. Nothing that had been obviously looted. Nothing with the Govvie spray can markings on the door from all those years ago (1/3 was common. Sometimes as high as 4/8.) He shuddered. The first number indicated number of infected, second number was number dead. Usually these were sprayed by local police in the first days of the fever. Later, as the systems collapsed, some govvie s&d teams kept up the practice. Wasn't tough to see which of the markings were old, and which were newer. 

He walked on for an hour, maybe an hour and a quarter. Finally, he spied the right house. It was set back, off the muddy street. Surrounded by a large yard, and a fence about four feet tall. There was no obvious signs of looting, only deterioration over time. And the front door had no Govvie markings. Either the place had been empty when the world died, or nobody had ever checked inside. Either way, it was the best candidate he had seen all day. 

What was that? Sound. Not shufflers. Distant. Moving this way? He found cover, behind a crumbled wall at the side of the road. Definitely coming closer. Whoever -- whatever it was, it was moving carefully. Taking time to avoid making noise...

[@MenageAUne]