A rattling cough could be heard coming from one of the many scattered tents around the small survivor's camp. It was nothing special, ripped at least a bit like all the others and stained, but the grouping of them held a cozy quality in light of horrific memories of former homes and abandoned cities. A bit of smoke could be seen disappearing into the sweltering Georgia heat above the tent. Inside it, curled with his legs tucked up to his chest, was a young man with a small metal pipe cupped near his face. His lighter clicked and his lips pursed over the mouthpiece, sucking the smoke in deep. He let go of the lighter's plunger, continued to inhale for a moment, and then lowered the pipe and covered the bowl with his hand (to keep it from burning and wasting the precious smoke) while simultaneously gasping in a quick mouthful of fresher oxygen. His mouth stayed screwed closed for a moment before he exhaled and a cloud billowed from him. That time, he didn't cough. 
A few more minutes of the same routine followed until the limber man unfurled from the small opening. Just before he exited he gathered his things together and put them in his bag, and then arranged it and his rifle for easy retrieval. His long arms stretched to the sky and he yawned loudly before took a few uneven steps forward. The pungent smell of weed smoke clung to his clothes and hair, but it was dissipating. His eyes were pink and bloodshot, but most eyes were due to stress nowadays.  His arms rested at his sides casually as he walked into the center of the camp.

A small depression lined with stones was the cornerstone. A few misplaced chairs were scattered around, as were cut logs intended for the same purpose. Most of the seating was in shade near the treeline of the forest, and that was where he flopped down as if exhausted. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The girl with the red hair had left earlier. Heloise, as he remembered her name in the next thought, would come back with something if they were lucky. He looked to the pit, and figured that she was going to need a fire to take care of anything she brought back. He sighed and heaved forward toward the pit. A few half-burnt logs were already in it, and he knew one of the nearby cars held a stash of newspaper gathered from supply trips to the city. He stroleld over and gathered some in lightly crumbled balls, and then he went the treeline and picked up some small twigs. He went back to the fire pit and sat cross legged on the ground. He arranged the logs into a pyramid, and piled the tinder he had gathered underneath it.