The fire died sometime in the night.
Jake woke to the cold pressing in around him, the embers no more than a faint red glow in the ash. His body ached — back stiff from sleeping on hard-packed dirt, fingers swollen and split. He flexed them slowly, wincing at the cracks.
He didn't move for a while.
It was easier not to.
Easier to pretend it was just a cold morning at home, that his dad would holler from outside the tent any minute.
"Come on, kiddo. Time to get the fire going."
But no voice came.
Just the sound of the wind dragging through bare branches, and the dull ache in his gut. A gnawing, empty kind of hunger that felt like it was hollowing him out piece by piece.
And thirst.
That was worse.
His tongue felt like sandpaper. Lips cracked. Every breath scraped his throat raw.
He reached for the rusted tin can he'd been using to gather water. There was a shallow pool left in it from last night's storm. Muddy, with flecks of ash from the fire.
He sniffed it. Smelled like dirt and wet wood.
Didn't matter.
Jake tilted it back and drank it down in one long swallow. The water was cold and gritty. Bits of dirt slid down his throat with it. He coughed once, wiped his mouth, then set the can aside.
It was better than nothing.
He knew drinking unboiled water was a risk. His dad had warned him about it on camping trips. Parasites. Sickness.
But what choice did he have?
No time for fires most days.
No time for caution.
And dying of thirst was faster.
His stomach cramped again. Sharp and deep, like someone had stuck a fist under his ribs and was squeezing.
He was out of food.
No berries left.
No mushrooms.
No protein bar.
That meant hunting.
Real hunting.
No more pretending. No more half-made arrows and practice shots. If he didn't kill something today, tomorrow wasn't happening.
Jake sat up and grabbed the bow from where it rested against the wall. The new arrows lay beside it. Crude, sharp sticks with no feathers, but straight enough. He ran his thumb along one point. It drew a thin bead of blood.
Good.
He stuffed the arrows into the canvas quiver, slung the bow over his shoulder, pocketed the knife, and stepped into the cold.
The forest was soaked from the storm. Water clung to every branch. Puddles pooled under fallen logs. His boots squelched in the mud.
He moved slow, keeping low, listening.
There weren't many walkers around lately.
Too cold. Too much storm damage.
It made the silence worse.
Like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting to swallow him whole.
He followed the stream uphill, where the ground firmed up into better hunting ground. The mud sucked at his boots, but he pushed on.
Every so often, he'd crouch beside the stream and drink.
The water was cloudy, dark from runoff and silt. A thin film of ash drifted on the surface in places. He scooped it with his hand, drank anyway. Swallowed dirt with it. His stomach lurched, but it dulled the ache for a while.
His head ached too. A sharp, dry throb behind his eyes. Dehydration. He recognized it from the last time. From when his parents got lost on a trail in summer, and they'd run out of clean water.
But there was nothing else.
Somewhere nearby, a branch cracked.
Jake dropped instinctively, crouching low behind a fallen log.
The sound came again.
Small.
Rhythmic.
Not a walker.
Too fast.
He crept forward, bow in hand, peering through a tangle of wet leaves.
And saw it.
A rabbit.
Thin. Patchy fur. Half its ear missing. Nosing at the base of a rotten stump.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
This was it.
He reached slowly over his shoulder, pulled one of the new arrows free. Nocked it against the bowstring, raising the weapon with trembling fingers. The string groaned under the strain. His breath caught.
Dad would've shown me how to do this.
But no one was here now.
He let the string go.
The arrow veered a little, but struck.
Not clean.
It hit the rabbit's side, pinning it against the stump.
The thing screamed.
A shrill, high-pitched sound Jake wasn't ready for.
Worse than any walker.
He scrambled forward, heart pounding, grabbing the knife from his belt.
The rabbit kicked, one foot smacking his wrist. Its eyes wide, white with terror.
Jake gritted his teeth and drove the blade down.
Once.
Twice.
The animal twitched, then went still.
His hands were shaking.
His stomach roiled.
The warmth of the small body made his skin crawl.
For a second he thought he might vomit.
Then the smell of blood hit him.
And he realized — it smelled like food.
Jake wiped the blade on the grass, yanked the arrow free. Splintered tip. Still usable.
He picked up the rabbit by its hind legs. Light. Barely a meal.
But it was something.
He made it back to the hollow before midday, feet dragging, head swimming. The rabbit hung from his belt. His throat was dry again. Lips cracked.
Before anything else, he knelt by the stream nearby. Scooped another handful of muddy water into his mouth. It tasted worse now. Like ash and decay. He didn't care.
His stomach cramped hard after, but he swallowed it down.
He built a small fire, coaxing the flames with dry moss and twigs.
The rabbit was skinned clumsily. Fur came off in strips. The meat underneath was pale, almost gray.
Didn't matter.
He spit-roasted it over the fire.
When the first piece was done, he let it cool, then chewed slowly. The meat was stringy. Tasted of smoke and copper. But it dulled the hollow in his gut.
His stomach cramped again.
Probably the water.
He forced down another bite.
It was food.
It was survival.
Jake stared into the fire's weak glow, bones smoldering in the ash.
His head pounded.
"Dad would've shown me the right way," Jake rasped to no one.
And when sleep came, it was fitful.
Full of sickness.
The rabbit's scream.
And the thick, bitter taste of dirty water.