The others broke into the building. It’s been two weeks. The door couldn’t stand their constant pushing. I already moved the two dead prey into a room upstairs, butchered and salted them too. I was setting up the hooks to hang the meat to smoke when the others got in, trudging around downstairs. Others can’t climb. But they can walk up stairs. It’s odd. They’re waiting outside the room. The smell of meat must’ve attracted them, that or the smell of dried blood.

I’m going to kill them. It’s a waste. But there’s no other way outside. I’m not going to wait in this room for two weeks until the food is done preserving. I already searched the building during the time it took the meat to salt. There’s nothing else to do here. But there’s a lot of others outside the room, five or six of them. I can tell by the number of groans coming from the door. When I open it, they’ll flood in. I choose a bad room; there’s two doors to enter it instead of one. More than one other can come in at a time. But this room was the only one with beams at the top. Without the beams, I can’t hang the hooks up, can’t smoke the prey.

Luckily, there’s an easy way to kill the others. When I hunted the prey with the injured arm, it ran to a room with a trap. It was a simple trap, a rope tied to the walls, suspended above the floor. It’d trip any prey that didn’t know it was there. It almost tripped me too. If I was in a rush to catch the prey, I’d have fallen for it. But I slowly followed it with my bow and arrow, not giving it a chance to fix its injury. When it hid behind a door, locking it, I cut away the doorknob with the wood-cutting tool. The prey died to an arrow. But that doesn’t mean I can’t copy it. I’ll tie a rope across the room to trip the others when they try to eat the meat hanging in the air. Then I’ll smash their heads with the metal stick while they’re on the ground. Unlike the prey that I hunted, there’s no other with a bow trying to kill me.

There was enough rope for me to use. I brought a lot for the hooks to hang the meat. I had to move some furniture around, create a good spot to tie the rope. It didn’t take that long despite me being weak. Not only did my injured shoulder get a wider range of motion, it’s stronger too. I can pull, lift heavier things with the previously injured arm. Should I injure myself on purpose? Become stronger after I heal? No, I don’t know if that’ll happen every time. What if this was a strange occurrence? What if the next injury weakens me instead? It’s too risky. I’ve checked outside the window. There are still some others lying down on the slope, unable to move after their legs broke from the rolling trees.

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Just in case the others’ blood would splatter, I raised the meat hooks higher. I moved the fire away too. I kept it in one of the metal pots, afraid the fire was going to burn down the building. Then, I opened the doors, letting the others come in. There were seven of them. I went behind the rope, careful to step over it. The others followed, their shins bumping into the rope. When they moved forward, they fell down. I smashed their heads. But there was a problem. Only two others were caught on the rope. But their weight was enough to bring the rope down, enough to prevent the others behind them from tripping.

Instead of using the metal stick, I dropped it, switching to a spear. The spear can kill in one hit if I aim properly. The metal stick takes two or three. The others don’t care about their lives. They don’t try to attack me even though I kill them. The food hanging in the air is all they care about. But they can’t reach it, standing in place underneath the meat with their arms stretched up towards the ceiling. It was easy to kill them then. Their blood should mask the smell of meat. No others will be interested in this room anymore. But as a precaution, I dragged their bodies out, pushed them down the stairs, creating a barricade at the bottom. The others can climb up stairs. But they can’t climb over a pile of bodies.

I have two weeks before the meat is done smoking. Then I can move on to another place. I already explored the building. There isn’t anything of interest outside. But I can find more others. I lost a lot attacking this place. There wasn’t a fence. But the rolling trees did a lot of damage, rendering over a hundred others useless. They might not have died. But they can’t move either. They’re useless to me like that. If I lose a hundred others at every place prey live, I can attack three more places. Maybe two. Finding more others is a necessity.

I repositioned the fire, making sure the meat was getting a lot of smoke. Then I left the room, closing the door behind me. I wiped my hands on the door, leaving black smears of blood. They smelled like rot. Perfect. At the bottom of the stairs, I readjusted the others that I threw down, making the pile even harder for the others to pass. There was a lot of others milling about downstairs. They’ve been pushing the door for two weeks. But once they got in, there wasn’t any prey to be found. They must be confused. But that doesn’t matter. All the prey belong to me. Sharing the prey is a waste. They’ll eat. But their brains are already consumed by hunger. Eating doesn’t make them smarter. Eating doesn’t do anything for them. I need food more than they do. I’m the only one that matters.