[Stanton POV]

Though he had no chew, Stanton habitually spit to the side of the trail. It’d been decades since the last time he’d gone so long without, but he'd gone through the last of his can the day he was put here. Whatever the hell it was, he hated it. At least there was good hunting around.

It hadn’t taken him long to get to the cabin, and it was well-stocked. Plenty of canned and dehydrated food, but not so much that he thought it was one of those apocalypse believers… Though he supposed he could be called one too, now. Just unprepared. None of his guns had come with him from home, and the break barrel shotgun over the mantle was empty and rusted. His concealed carry 9mm had been securely in its holster, though, so she hadn’t been left behind.

Whatever. The world had gone to hell in a handbasket, and Stanton was just looking to survive it. Those magic words or whatever were a pain in the ass, but Stanton knew how to read the writing on the wall. The world was ending, and he had an instruction manual, so he’d quickly found a half dozen coyotes and a deer. His eyes weren’t as good as they once were, but he could still pick out a sneaking scavenger in the bushes. Had to let ‘em get pretty close, too, but they were small enough a single bullet was all it took. Weird how they lunged at him though.

He hated killing without reason, but coyote meat was stringy, unappetizing stuff at the best of times. If he managed to give himself a killer parasite at 68, then Stanton would wish he was dead, if nothing else. After five, he did get that new Class, Acolyte, and his bum knee was feeling better than it had in decades. Still wanted the chew, though. Spitting again, he left the meat for the other creatures to find, but the deer had been his latest catch. Again, weird to see so many coyotes with so few deer and elk. There were hundreds of ‘em, and the only thing keeping them from being hunted to extinction was the law. Since now there was no law, Stanton looked forward to the venison.

A couple of elk had passed by, but with his personal protection, Stanton wasn’t ready for something so big. He’d set a half dozen traps for the rabbits around, but his hope was tied to the hangline snare right near the cabin. Then, it’d be a lot easier to drag the thing to be butchered. Instead, he’d found a single buck all alone almost half a mile away from his new home. It was a perfect shot, though, and Stanton couldn’t help himself. One shot to the chest, and though it stumbled away with the crack of his shot going off, the deer fell quickly.

Since he’d gained some of these levels, Stanton overextended himself and slung the deer across his back, just to tweak it. After his God-given time to curse and sweat it out, he’d stood up gingerly before grabbing his prey by one of its feet. Dragging it on, Stanton felt the influence of his new levels as his body actually recovered. After a minute or two, he very carefully hoisted it onto his shoulders and let the weight settle there before slowly walking along the game trail he’d followed here.

The faint smell of a fire led him back to the cabin, and Stanton wished his Marva was still there. She’d have the fire roaring, with a can of beans all ready to accompany his first steak, and though she’d complain, she was the best at cooking liver and heart. Yeah, she’d–

Stanton was actually smelling fire, not just in his trip down memory lane. He’d cleaned every ember out before he’d left, but the fire was fresh and strong. There was no hesitation as he let the deer fall off his shoulders and he jogged towards the cabin. He wanted to sprint, but after hurting his back so easily, he’d have to take it easy.

The yards passed quickly, and Stanton again revelled in his healthy body. If all he needed to feel like this was to kill a couple varmints and a deer, he’d be out there as soon as he found some more bullets! He’d gotten some “Skill” that let him create a bow, but he wasn’t much of a shot with it. Even more important, his cabin was more important right now, he was a guest and would have it burning down on his watch. A faint trail of smoke peeked through the trees, and, even though he’d cautioned himself to take it easy, Stanton found his steps lengthening and his pace picking up. Even though his knees twinged and his chest burned, he was running! An involuntary chuckle began to build in his chest, and Stanton kept his eyes up to see whatever was happening.

And that was how he saw the kid step on his hangline. The cord snapped around his ankle and foisted him up into the air. Before he rose all the way, though, his head smashed with a heavy thunk against the rock beside the trail. He dazedly looked around, and Stanton’s laugh continued to build. The kid would survive, Stanton was sure, even though his eyes were rolling around his head like a pinball.

Then, Stanton realized that the kid had stolen the backpack in the cabin. Humor left him as quickly as it had come, and he began to level his sidearm at the cheeky kid and put the fear of God into him. Before he could speak, though, the boy shifted from being a human to an awful, giant snake. His ankle became a tail and slipped right out the trap. The backpack fell from the air and bashed the snake’s chin into the ground again, though it didn’t seem to care now. Stanton raised his gun, about to fire, when the boy again stood before him, rubbing his head and looking all angry like up at the snare.

He was a pretty normal looking kid, and now that Stanton could really look at him, he wasn’t a kid. The man in front of him had the beginnings of a patchy beard, and his tanned skin showed someone who was willing to be outside. Tangled dark hair, but not too long, and wasn’t a bad-looking guy, Stanton supposed. He was wearing too-big clothes, and that’d had Stanton thinking the stranger was shorter than he really was, but was half a foot or so shorter than Stanton’s own six feet. When the kid’s eyes met Stanton’s, though, he could see something that so many younguns like him lacked. A depth of experience. Stanton lowered the gun as the stranger raised his hands.

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“Well. Thanks for not shooting me, I guess.”

[TJ POV]

TJ’s vision was still a little cloudy, but he could still recognize a gun being pointed at him. Before he could say anything, though, the older man lowered it. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and denim pants, a large buckle holding his belt on his waist. Under his Stetson hat was a shoulder length gray ponytail, and the man’s craggy face sported a thick handlebar mustache.

“Well. Thanks for not shooting me, I guess.” The old man cocked his head at TJ’s words. “I mean, you could have shot, and didn’t. And I appreciate that. Can we put the gun away?”

“Eh.” Grunted the man. “Why’re you robbing my cabin?”

“Ahh shit. I’m sorry. I just made my way here and thought there was nobody there, so I took what I could manage. We need to get to Pine in the next week or so.”

“Huh. So if there’s nobody there, you can take whatever you want?” The old man began to raise his gun again, and TJ watched as his left hand inched towards a 10 inch bowie knife on his hip.

“Um… the end of the world must have permanently damaged my politeness, I suppose.” TJ answered, getting more nervous by the second. “I mean, I didn’t think anyone would be here until spring, at least. I mean, how would someone come, anyways?”

The old man scoffed. “You think that’ll trick me? A house in winter with nobody in it, but the water’s still on and the pipes haven’t burst? Obviously someone’s there.”

TJ frowned. “I’m not sure what that means. And I’m sorry,” He said, extending a hand, slowly. “I’m TJ Harris. I’m from Tempe.”

“Eh.” The man seemed to like grunting instead of talking. “Stanton Burgess.”

“Great to meet you. I would offer to shake your hand, but I don’t want to threaten you or anything.”

“Eh. Couldn’t really threaten me anyways. Except with that snake. How you do that?”

“You know the System?”

Grunt. Maybe of acknowledgement? “Yeah, well, I got one of the Classes, Neophyte. Cause of my Bloodline, I turn in the coatl. Er, snake.” TJ amended his statement as he saw Stanton’s confusion. “You get a Class?”

Grunt.

“Would you please tell me? I’m just trying to get back to my son, and I’d prefer if you either get on with trying to kill me or stop it.”

Another grunt, then the gun got put in a holster under the jacket. “Acolyte. Lets me make a bow.” Stanton reached an arm out and a simple bow appeared in his hand. “I’m better with the gun.” Then, without another word, the old man stepped past TJ and towards the cabin. “You put out your fire?” He demanded, and TJ nodded.

“Of course! If nobody’s there, you need to put it out. If you don’t you’ll come home to a much larger fire than you planned.”

Grunt. “Come with me.” Stanton demanded before turning on his heel and striding back towards where he came from. TJ had half a mind to just walk the opposite way, but he saw something of his cantankerous grandpa in the old coot, so he halfheartedly followed along. They walked in uncomfortable silence for a couple minutes. Stanton broke it.

“His name?”

“What?”

“Your kid’s name?”

“Oh. Call him Junior, but his name is Thiago Jorge Harris V.”

“Teea what?”

“Tee-AH-go Jorge.”

“Junior it is.” The old man grunted as if that settled it. “How old?”

“Almost three! If my phone was working, I’d show you some pictures. Looks a lot like his mom did, actually.”

“Where’s she?”

“Um… died, about a year ago. Got hit by a drunk semi truck driver when she was on her bike.”

“Shit. Sorry, kid. Losing your heart’s hard.”

“You lost yours?”

“Yeah. Cancer. Melanoma.”

“Shit. My mom died of cancer. Breast.”

“You competing?” Though gruff, TJ could tell Stanton was making a joke. He scoffed a little.

“Just bad luck.” He fought to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “You have any kids?”

“Nope. Never could.”

The silence returned, though not nearly so uncomfortable. The brief sharing of pain drew both into their own musings, and when Stanton stopped, TJ nearly plowed into the taller man. A dead deer lay on the ground, a bloody wound on its side slowly leaking crimson to the dusty earth.

“Want me to carry it for you?” TJ asked, sizing the older man up. If a little labor was what Stanton wanted to make up and be friends, TJ could do that. The only response he got was a grunt, and TJ sighed as he leaned down to pick up the deer. It probably weighed about 150 pounds, so with the probably overfilled backpack, it’d be a sucky walk back. Before TJ could heft it up onto his back, though, the old man grunted and smacked his shoulder.

“What?”

“The backpack.” Stanton insisted, and after thinking for just a brief moment, TJ removed the pack and handed it over. Then, with a grunt of his own, he tossed the deer over his shoulder. Before he could begin his journey back to the cabin, though, Stanton’s disbelieving voice cut him to the core.

“What the hell is that?”