Dean grabbed his handgun and holstered it at his thigh. His waistband held the wood-handled knife he had found the past year, and his bag contained the supplies he would need over the next two days. After grabbing the shotgun and checking for ammunition, he ducked into the main room.
"I'm heading out."
John grunted. "Got everything?"
"Yes, sir."
"Check again. You get stuck, ain't a soul in the world who'll help you. And I'm not crawling down the mountain to drag your ass back up."
Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."
John grunted once more, raising his hand in dismissal before turning back to the maps taped to the wall. Every border was filled with notes, and the notebooks lying underneath held dates, coordinates, and important events.
More specifically, when towns had fallen and rebuilt. Many had never emerged from the apocalyptic rubble.
Dean checked his supplies once more before leaving the cabin, holding his gun and prepared to fire. After casting a wary eye around the area, he pulled the fake wall in front of the door, locking it in place.
The mountain path was steep. One side, against which the cabin was settled, was all but insurmountable. It was a rocky face, nearly vertical plummeting from the cliff-like peak to the patch upon which they had built. Surrounding the building site, trees provided thick cover, and a steep slope gave the advantage. There was, of course, the well and river to rely on nearby. John had chosen the site with great care.
Dean selected his steps with precision, avoiding the traps set up along the trail. Taking certain paths could lead to pits, snares, and, to Dean's ill conscience, massive bear traps. None of these were meant for wildlife, although they never lacked in game.
He hiked for several hours, waiting for the sun to reach high noon before taking a sharp right and walking towards the river. It took a few minutes searching to find the hollow tree that had been carved out three summers prior. He settled himself into the trunk and pulled out his lunch, leaning against the back of the tree. It was barely big enough to sit cross-legged, and his head was inches from the top. He took an hour to sit, eating strips of dried meat slowly and watching leaves drift lazily by on the river.
Eventually, he forced himself to his feet outside of the tree trunk and dropped the dingy brown canvas from the inside to cover the entrance. He dropped to his knees beside the river to splash his face. The icy droplets slowly carving down his back underneath the flannel shirt he wore made him shiver as he stood, adjusted his pack, and made the short trek back to the trail. He very carefully weaved around the pit that he had fallen into when he was about fifteen. John had finally come looking for him four days later. He had yelled at him for a while, telling him to find his own way out. When Dean couldn't, he had helped him out hours later. The hike back was held in a disgusted silence that had carried on for the rest of the week.
As he moved farther down the mountain, he increased his pace, long past the majority of booby traps John insisted upon.
At dusk, Dean reached the usual campsite where several trees and low shrubbery gave good cover, while still near the town's limits. He decided to settle his sleeping bag in the midst of the brush rather than climbing a tree as he knew would have were John with him. He actually preferred the trips without the ex-Marine: John would pitch an absolute fit to know that Dean would do something as foolhardy as sleeping on the ground without a watchman. Even so, Dean would rather face what went bump in the night than spend the night worried about falling out of a tree in his sleep. He used the pack as his pillow, grasping the knife in his right hand as he pulled branches to shape a canopy over himself. Ears primed for the smallest sounds, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off.