It wasn’t her job to save anyone. Fawn wanted to get up, walk away, and return to her squirrel dinner. But as she watched the man's blood continue to seep into the dirt, she knew the image would gnaw at the back of her mind. With an exasperated sigh, she poked him again, harder this time, hoping for some kind of reaction. His only response was the shallow rhythm of his labored breathing.
She clicked her tongue in frustration, muttering under her breath, before stepping over to hover above him. Her boot nudged his shoulder with a little more force. "Bruh. You alive?" she whispered loudly. Still no response. She growled softly to herself, bending down to assess how best to adjust his body. The guy easily had a few inches on her, and moving him was going to be no small feat.
Just as her fingers brushed the fabric of his jacket, the sharp crack of twigs nearby snapped her into alertness. She shot up, arrow nocked and bow raised in one smooth motion, her breath stilled. The rustling continued for a few tense seconds before a zombie dragged itself out from behind a tree. Its mottled, decaying skin stretched taut over sunken, milky eyes. The creature hadn’t noticed her yet, lurching toward them, likely drawn by the scent of blood. Without hesitation, Fawn loosed the arrow, the sharp “thwip” cutting through the silence. It buried deep into the zombie’s skull with a satisfying thud, sending the creature crumpling to the ground.
Fawn exhaled, lowering her bow, but she knew better than to relax. More rustling echoed from the trees. Moments later, another zombie staggered into view—a freshly turned one, judging by its less decayed appearance. It was a middle-aged woman, her pink dress clinging awkwardly to her larger frame, smeared with dirt and blood. Her mouth hung open in a grotesque, frozen scream. Gritting her teeth, Fawn moved swiftly to retrieve her arrow from the previous kill, yanking it free from the skull. With fluid precision, she notched it again, aimed, and fired. Another bullseye—the woman dropped with a heavy thud.
Fawn quickly retrieved the arrow and stood poised, listening for any more signs of danger. The night air soon returned to its natural rhythm—the soft chirping of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. Letting out a long breath, she finally relaxed, her arms falling to her sides. For now, it seemed clear. She walked back over to the injured man and rolled him onto his back, letting out a quiet grunt as his weight shifted. His face was pale, brown hair matted against his forehead with sweat and dirt, and the depth of the gash on his side became alarmingly clear. Fawn gently patted him down, searching for any kind of weapon—no gun, no knife, no tools. Nothing. "Of course," she muttered under her breath. With no other option, she circled to his feet, grabbed his legs, and began the difficult task of dragging him back to her camp.
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As Fawn hauled the man’s limp body across the uneven forest floor, his breathing remained shallow. Every now and then, a low groan escaped his lips, his head lolling to the side, smearing more dirt across his face. His fingers twitched occasionally, but there was no sign of real consciousness. Every few feet, Fawn was forced to pause, her teeth gritted as his dead weight set her shoulders on fire and made her legs ache. “Couldn’t you be a little lighter?” she growled under her breath. Naturally, the man offered no response.
What felt like an eternity later, she finally managed to drag him close enough to her camp, laying him near the fire. She dropped his legs with a thud and wiped the sweat from her brow before standing over him, hands on her hips, watching. His face was twisted in pain, but there were still no signs of him waking. Fawn moved quickly, heading into her tent and digging through her backpack. From it, she retrieved a small first aid kit—rubbing alcohol, bandages, needle, and thread. She was no stranger to wounds, and without wasting any more time, she returned to the man’s side, preparing to do what she could to patch him up.
Fawn knelt beside the man, tugging off his jacket and lifting his shirt to assess the damage. The wound was brutal, as if someone had jammed a knife into his side and twisted it for good measure. His flesh was torn and raw, but as she studied it more closely, a small sigh of relief slipped out. No bite marks. He was in bad shape, but at least he wasn’t infected. Quickly, she scanned his torso and neck for any other signs of a bite. Satisfied that everything seemed clear, she set to work.
Grabbing the bandages, she dampened them with rubbing alcohol and carefully wiped away the excess blood, taking extra care around the jagged wound. Next, she held the needle over the campfire to sterilize it, let it cool, and threaded it. Steadying the wound with one hand, she gently pressed the needle into his flesh. It slid through with little resistance, and still, the man didn’t flinch.
Fawn worked slowly, focusing intently as she stitched the wound shut, pulling the thread tight once she was done. It wasn’t pretty, but the wound was closed.