The Aftermath of Genesis

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With the gang growin' to a temporary group of five, Callahan knew it was time to start stockpilin' for the comin' spring. He had been keepin' the camp stocked with smaller game and the occasional fish he'd catch when scountin' but he knew it was time to bring a real meal home.

Cal had wanted to bring along Miss Bunny to teach her to hunt, but weren't sure if it were the right time. While he didn't want to expose the woman to some of the brutality that hunting entailed, it were a survival skill everyone should know. He hoped Tobias and Boone knew how to hunt or at least gather edible berries. Cal weren't one to assume someone's skills, but God he hoped they'd be useful.

The man had taken to trailin' a lone pronghorn through the meadow, the sickly sweet scent of illness leadin' him on a leash. He was growin' familiar with the lay of the land, feet tracin' the paths he'd take through the meadow to the lake and up the mountains. It were gettin' easier as the days crept on, and he only hoped it were the same for the others.

The soft breeze tickled the fur on his ears, making them twitch and rustle the tall grass he was waitin' in. A scent carried by the breeze came to settle in the area, and Cal just hoped it wouldn't alert the buck drinkin' from the creek.

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another aw for those wanting to join the gang ! and current members can hop in if they'd like <3

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strong language

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His body was failing. Rotting away from the inside out. Like his stomach had grown teeth and blindly ate and ripped at whatever was nearest. Flesh and muscle like paper mache on bone. Mouth and throat dry as dust. His brain rattled about in his skull, desperate to find a better body to survive in.

Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision and held him like the mother he wished he had. He thought of his sister, dead, dying, or worse. Or tried to. There was not an ounce of concentration left.

But he really meant to. Tried to. Think about her. One last thought.

His consciousness withered away like the husk his corpse had become.

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Remort blinked and found himself standing in the shade of a tree. Legs splayed like a foal that had finally found its feet. Shaky, too.

He was so fucking hungry.

The organ growled restlessly and the shadow was spurred onward. Feverishly, his freckled nose worked. There was the scent of wolves—off-putting, but he had bigger fish to fry (at least, he hoped he would)—and then, finally, venison. Spider-like, he crept quickly along after the scent.

Eventually, the strong, fresh scent of a wolf nearby hit him like a truck and he faltered. He bit his tongue; ears pinned to his skull before flicking up to listen around. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing. He was weak and hungry. A hunting partner was likely just what he needed.

That was how hungry he was—optimism slipped in like a mistress. Nearly every wolf Remort met was a fucking asshole.

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