Fucking nippers, Gwen gripped her cleaver and brought it down the bitch's head. Brain matter shot off in every direction, painting the blade in gunky black. A particularly huge chuck of decomposing flesh smacked her in the chest. Making a revolting sound as it hit the ground. Snarling, Gwen put her foot into the chest of the nipper and pulled her cleaver from the depths of its head. Reveling in the sound the blade made as it unglued itself from the rotting meat and blackened brains.

A perfectly good rabbit gone to waste, nasty shit had taken more than a few bites out of it. Even if it had been the one bite, she wasn't going to risk that. Kicking the downed nipper aside with her black booted foot, Gwen surveyed the scene; well now she knew the snare worked. She'd been constructing these things based on trial and error. Sneering at the nipper, she pulled the now mangled rabbit from the snare, tossing it aside, while she started to break down the snare, storing it away for later use. At least the guitar strings she scavenged had been worth that life threatening trip to that music store a couple weeks back. Seriously, who'd have thought a trip to a fucking Guitar Center would result in fighting for your life. In the old days, wanting guitar strings wasn't life threatening.

Gwen rested for a second, ignoring the stench of nipper. Out of habit, she ran her thin fingers over her scalp, with the habitual intention to grip her once curly black hair. The hair was no longer there. About a week into the so called apocalypse, she took scissors to it after watching some stupid bitch being taken down simply because her hair had been long enough for the nippers to grab. All that remained were uneven hacks of what had once been. Her hand dropped from her head, hitting the grass dejectedly. A small smile crept into her features, a rare thing these days. She'd had her mother's hair that was how strangers would have figured that she was the daughter of Caroline Murrin. How old were you when mom demanded you take up the violin? I was in the 6th grade, 12 years old. I threw a fit, wanted to play the guitar instead because Carlos Santana was my idol. Perhaps she would have better luck with the other two.

Second snare was a bust, there were nippers though. Another application of camouflage didn't hurt, so not a total loss. The third was actually a success, it was like some glorious holiday, worthy of replacing Christmas or some shit. Gwen smiled as she bagged herself a squirrel, she'd skin it later before she settled in. Tonight she could risk setting a fire. Tonight Gwen intended to eat like royalty, it'd been so long since she'd had anything meat that wasn't beef jerky. Granddad use to tell her all about his hunting trips as a kid, sometimes he would take to grossing Gwen out at the dinner table. Telling her how he'd go about gutting a fresh kill, how he'd cook it. At the time, that crap seemed so useless, but now, Gwen felt she owed the man her life. The set-up of the snares had been drawn from old memories and time spent with the old man when she had been little. True, it took several tries to get it right, but it still caught her some dinner. As she walked, Gwen paused and looked through the branches of the trees, into the skies. It was currently mid-winter, the weather was hinting at snow, or at least that's what it looked like. Gwen knew nothing about Georgia weather; she'd grown up in Oregon, gone to school in New York. Hell, she was only out this way because the family had recently moved to Alabama and she came looking for them…. That trip had not gone well. Mom and Dad turned, Lily, she had gone the easy route. Now, now Gwen was reduced to wandering, Christ, when she drove into Georgia that had been a shock; she didn't think she had been driving for so long (that was about the time when she figured it was best to ditch the car). Time flies when you have nothing left in the world. At least the weather was mild out here, Oregon was either to dry, or it was cold and rained like it was monsoon season. New York was probably drowning in nippers right now.

Her fingers played with the blade of her cleaver. The universe was truly kind in making Granddad die a year before all this happened. Turning her attention front-word, Gwen kept going, calculating her movements over the uneven ground. To fill the quiet accompanied by here and there birds, Gwen verbalized her next question. "What was your Granddad's name? Harold Harper."

Night was on her fast, the very thought of it sent a shiver up Gwen's spine. She could handle the nippers in the daylight, but they could hide in the dark. Sometimes she found herself unable to sleep because her mind kept running over what she would do if those little shits figured out how to climb trees. True, that was highly unlikely, but that didn't stop her from thinking about it. Before she settled in, Gwen hunted for a water source, finding a small brook that ran past her one night campsite. Satisfied Gwen began to make a fire. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a book of matches. Holding them as if they were the most delicate and priceless gems, she struck one and lit some tinder and put it on a collection of sticks that she had managed to gather. Within a couple minutes, she had a fire going. Gwen smiled, grateful that the damn thing caught without the aid of a second match. While the fire grew in size and heat, she pulled out her squirrel and started to gut and clean it. Humming quietly, trying to put her nerves at ease. When the rodent was finally deemed suitable, Gwen pulled a small collection of wild chives out of her bag. She snatched up a clean branch and speared the squirrel, after sprinkling some the cut chives over the meat; she held it over the fire. Probably wasn't going to taste great, but, it was fucking better than beef jerky.


Author's Note: Yes, I've looked around, guitar strings are said to make great snare wire. That aside, tell me what you think?