The sound of yet more blasts made the bluebird and the squirrel struggle in their snares before Irene snatched them up and broke their necks with a flick of the wrists. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath as she salvaged the cordage and placed the still-warm animals in her pocket. A soft rustle in the bushes nearby announced the presence of an infected--apparently downwind of her--and she scrambled for the shovel, which she'd put on the ground to attend to the traps. A spray of foul, aged blood spattered the scrub oak when she swung the heavy tool into the creature's soft, festering abdomen. 

Time to run, now. Irene took off. The weight of her shovel, combined with her unfortunate lack of cardiovascular endurance, slowed her. She could hear a whole horde farther off, and prayed they couldn't hear her breathing. She hopped the gate rather than opening it, set the shovel against her wall, and went inside her house. It was time to do what she did best: Stand her ground. 

She grabbed all of the glass points she'd made and hafted onto twigs as spears. She couldn't throw very well, but if any followed her and got close, they'd be much more precise than her shovel. Irene went back outside and leaned on the wall. She doubted whoever set off the gun was still alive, but it occurred to her that perhaps she would have to fight them as well. [i]That[/i] would be the hard part: Infected are vicious, but stupid. Real people? They're cunning.