[b]Clayton Burrows - Hill Country State Natural Area[/b]

Clayton sat quietly down by a log, being careful not to make any sudden movements. He proceeded to slide his rifle of his arm and gently land onto the log before him. Clayton hasn't used this rifle since he was a young ignorant boy being dragged to hunt game near Lake McMurty by his overly eager father. His father loved to hunt; it almost scared him actually. How could one man love killing another species so much? Clayton's theory was that it was just his father being more in touch with his baser instinct. In a way, he was more human than most. Clayton got down on one knee, trying to be as comfortable as he could while doing so. He started to position the gun more effectively, so that the butt was being pushed against his shoulder for controlled firepower. He then placed his head down towards the scope, fiddling with the focus on the scope while doing so. In his sights was a white tailed deer just mindlessly grazing amongst the plants around it. 

The creature must have been about 80 yards away, which was a decent distance to fire from. As his focus on the scope was made clearer so was the creature's nature. This was an animal that has been afraid of man for thousands of years and yet it probably hasn't seen one in months. However the fear still resides in him. If Clayton was too simply run the creature would sprint in fear and terror. He wonders how deer would act 100 years from now when man is completely gone. Would they go manic or be more passive? This whole world has given Clayton more time to think than he knows what to do with. He enjoys it. He likes the ambiance and the silence. Who knew desolation had a silver lining? With enough twiddling he finally found his focus. His finger massaged the trigger smoothly like baby oil. He had only fired this weapon a few times in the past 6 months; he’s still a little rusty. Makes him wish he had paid attention to what his father was telling him years ago.

He had to consider wind and bullet drop but he has no fucking idea how to even measure those kinds of things. All he has to fire and pray to whatever deity there is left in this world; he doubts there is any caretaker left. The more he looks at it, the more he feels guilty to kill it. Hunting has obviously lowered since everything began and yet this deer is unlucky enough to find itself in the wrong place at the wrong time. It turns and looks in the direction of Clayton. Its dark eyes stared straight through to Clayton’s soul. It’s quite a curious, innocent thing…shame nature must take its course. Flutter went the birds in the area as silence dropped all around. All that was left was the faint galloping of terrified deer that has been blessed with luck in its near-final hours. Clayton cursed as his bullet took a near-miss at the deer. One would think that he was cursing because had lost his chance at some supplies but the truth is, he’s cursing because he still hasn’t improved his shooting skills. He’s got limited ammunition and is not an idiot. Having your own DIY shooting range is one way to attract trouble. He picked his rifle up and placed it back onto his shoulder and started walking through the dim forest. There were so many trees about that even the time of day seemed like an impossible question to ask. 

Clayton had been walking through the desert-green land for a few hours and was starting to become exhausted. The nearest civilization was a little hamlet about 10 miles back but he never goes to the same place twice. He appreciates landscape as art. Once you’ve thoroughly seen and used it then there is no more point to it. In the green-covered distance he can see some sort of white. As he got closer the strange object revealed itself to be a building of some sort. He started to approach it cautiously. As much as he admires this world, it’s full of dangers and not to be taken lightly. Then again so was the world before. It’s only in this one that he feels safer. The building was in a small clearing, so it’s perfect for cover. You could turn on a thousand lights here and only the veil of trees would be enough to cover it. The building was small and had worn out mark on it that said “Texas Park Rangers” on it. It was obviously a park ranger outpost from the world of yesterday. It will be useful as bed for tonight. The windows was boarded up and there’s an abandoned park ranger pick up truck just outside. He’s not the first person who’s had the same idea. He un-holstered his hunting knife and kept it ready. The people today have trouble catching up with the world and it makes them crazy and unhealthy. He’s seen people scrounge up scraps of rotten food like scraps while wearing worn Dolce and Gabbana clothes. A once respected member of society transformed into an animal. The evolution of psyche is amazing. It lays dormant till needed but the spirit has already been institutionalized so in the end, they’re fucked. 

He walks up to one of the small tiles of window that hasn’t been boarded. It was way to dark to see anything but it seems that a struggle was involved. He walks up to the door slowly and carefully. The door wasn’t locked and the metal surrounding was rusty. This place has barely been used but still been used at one point nonetheless. He opens the door very slowly; the only thing he hears is rustling and groaning sounds. He then proceeds to open full force to get ready to defend himself but was greeted with the sight and smell of a strange walker who was hanging by the neck from the ceiling fan. From the sight of his clothes, the walker appeared to be a former park ranger who has just hung himself. There’s no bite marks on him, so he killed himself in emotional pain. Clayton finds it intriguing to just watch the walker struggle. He looks into his black, hollow eyes and he can see nothing but natural savagery. He was watching the basis of nature at it’s finest. Hunger. Need. Life. Death. The whole package rolled into one creature. He marvelled at it, almost respecting it. Clayton closed the door and proceeded to move a nearby desk by it for protection. He places his gun and backpack down, pulling up a chair while doing so. The walker tries to reach for Clayton but was stuck by the rope on his neck. Clayton just lit up a cigarette and just watched him plainly. He wasn’t playing with it; he wasn’t killing it or torturing it. He was just watching it. Art needs to be appreciated and respected but not taken lightly. Art and nature has its own way of ‘biting’ back.