The loud hum of a v8 engine agitated the rifleman. He became more alert and on edge, a different person than the involuntary victim trying to die.

"I'll go check—"

"There's no time!" His firm grip on my good arm and the urgency in his voice held my attention. "Listen to me. We're not going to stand a chance at survival unless you follow my orders to the letter, do you understand? First, we need a place to hide."

He snatched up a pathetic brown bag I hadn't noticed before and his rifle, then limped to the entrance. I stuffed as much medicine and bandages as I could get into my pack, slung it over my shoulder, and snatched my bow and quiver on my way after him. Barely within view, a massive vehicle sped our direction from the east. I mentally summoned my interface to check the map. The vehicle was designated as a big, red dot: enemies.

"What the hell is that?"

The rifleman stared at the interface, shaken to his core.

"It's the interface. You—"

"No time!" He pointed across the highway, "Let's get to that copse of trees over yonder."

The GUI disappeared. We sprinted across the highway and the open field at a staggered pace due to his limp. The vehicle pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store just as we reached the treeline. Even from two hundred yards away, tucked deep into the shadows of the forest, we heard swearing and hollering from the convenience store. A gunshot went off and I suddenly remembered that I'd had a tag-along: the Sabelynx! I scrambled to get up to see around the tree, but he stopped me.

"We need to move. This is the best place to hide nearby which means they'll come looking for us."

"But—"

"You said you'd follow my orders."

Our situation was too dire for me to correct him or argue. He stood up and limped at a brisk pace further into the woods. I wanted to whistle for the Sabelynx, but it would signal our presence to the enemy. I hoped their gunshot missed the Metamon. As I followed him, I did everything I could not to let the guilt nauseate me. Vomit might lead them to us, too. We wandered further and further away from the convenience store until, at last, he stopped in a small open glade surrounded by bushes, trees, and tall grass. The rifleman pointed to a felled tree a hundred feet ahead, one overgrown with plenty of moss and entangled with stickyweed.

"We'll set up camp there."

"Why not here?"

"Just trust me." He took a moment to review the area where we stood. "No fires, no loud noises. I'll hunt us down some food."

"Should you be doing that? Half an hour ago, you were—"

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah. Foraging." I reached into my pecan pouch to show him a handful.

He gaped at the pecans as though they were some exotic food. "You've survived on that? For this long?"

"I..."

The rifleman shook his head. "We need game. Even small game will work. I'll get us something."

"Wait!"

"What now?"

"If...if you see a Sabelynx, don't kill it. It might be the one that followed me."

"What did you say?"

"I said don't kill the Sabelynx!"

"No, after that."

"It...followed me?"

He looked at me with renewed suspicion.

"What?" I asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Those things—whatever you call them, they're not friendly. I've seen them hunt down people and turn on their own kind. Why would it follow you?"

I became defensive, though at the time I had no idea why. "I dunno! Why did I find you as the sole survivor of a mass shooting?"

He stormed off with a dark scowl. I settled down on the far side of the log where he said to set up camp and finished wrapping my arm in bandages. My thoughts might have returned to the Sabelynx, but the taxing day finally took its toll on my body. To stay awake, I sipped on water from my canteen. It didn't work. Within minutes, exhaustion and the serenity of the forest lulled me towards sleep.

The stomping of thick boots into the clearing tapped at the edge of my consciousness. I meant to say something smart-ass to the rifleman upon his return, but when I turned to peek between the log and the tangle of stickyweed I felt my heart leap into my throat.

Stolen story; please report.

Within the clearing, five men and a mean-looking badger of a woman accessorized by orange bandanas searched the area. I waited with held breath for them to come towards me or at least spot me.

"Hank," the burly man closest to me called, "you said they were shot with a 17 right?"

"Yeah. 17 Hornet. Nasty buggers."

The woman's gaze passed right over me and the log as she looked around. "Ain't much here. We're goin' back, Willy."

"The bastards that did this are still out here, Ginny!"

"We can't know that! Ed here said he lost the trail at the edge of the for'st!"

"Edward," corrected the lanky man indicated as Ed. "It's growing dark, anyway. We need to return to the convenience store before the monsters come out."

"I'm not leaving here until we find the fuckers who killed our crew!"

I did not realize how accurate the adjective 'badger' was until Ginny lunged forward and knocked her comrade to the ground with a shotgun punch. He dropped instantly. The others in the group turned away from the uncomfortable scene.

"Don't you sass me, Will'am Skinner. I said we're going back. We need to help Terr'nce 'n' them bury our dead with the respect they deserve, y'hear? The culprits can't get too far. One of 'em is bound to be wounded. Who could've last in a fight against half-a-dozen veteran soldiers? We'll restock on the supplies we brought and organize a few huntin' parties to search 'em out. We'll get 'em, on my word as a Skinner: we'll skin them bastards alive!"

Ginny waddled off back the way the group came, some of the men following her. Hank was the only one who stayed behind to offer a hand to the victim. Willy (or William) spit blood out and shoved himself to his feet. I covered my ears when he let out an enraged roar.

"That bitch! I lost a tooth!"

Hank lowered his hand and kicked at the dirt. "She's just as pissed as you are, Willy. Took her a long time to find a beau like Beau."

"That's the only motherfucker I'm happy to see dead. Just wish I'd shot 'im myself."

"We should hurry up. Like Eddie said, it's gettin' dark."

"Don't tell me what to do, Hank!"

Willy barged after the group with the slimmer, younger Hank trailing behind him. The oppressive atmosphere vanished and I felt I could breathe again. My hyper-vigilance did not lessen until minutes later. Just when the tightness in my chest and taut muscles relaxed, I heard the brush rustle at the edge of the clearing. The rifleman stepped out of the brush with his rifle, his eyes locked on where the group disappeared. He came to where I huddled behind the log, empty-handed.

"You didn't go hunting, did you?"

He shrugged. "It's still hunting, even if it's people."

"That's horrible..."

"That's warfare, kid."

I corrected him with a half-hearted tone, "Penny."

"Penny," he repeated.

The rifleman sat down next to me, his back also propped up against the felled tree and one knee pulled up towards his chest. We sat there in silence for a few minutes to decompress.

"Name's Remington."

"I know."

"How?"

The GUI appeared before us and I showed him the information his profile conveyed to me:

Remington Wilkinson UIN: 225-68-7322-902

Health: — (11/250) Class: Sniper

"How—No, what is going on? You seem to know more about this shit than me."

"You didn't know about the interface?"

"Not a damn thing!"

Now I experienced what I assumed was the same shock he did when I showed him the pecans. It seemed we had more in common than we thought, chiefly that we survived despite having large gaps of essential knowledge.

"I can teach you what I know, but it'll cost you."

"I'll teach you how to hunt."

"That's not what I was going to—"

"Too bad. It's a priority for survival."

"So is what I'm going to teach you."

"Tch. I doubt it..."

I took the bait and showed him the Metapedia, the map, and its new functional markers. I'd expected him to grow more impressed; it seemed to have the opposite effect. He glowered at the interface.

"Have you ever played a video game?" I asked.

"No," he grouched.

"Well, I did. Professionally. You're going to have to learn the basics if you want to—"

"Not interested."

Remington tried to get up, probably to escape the unfamiliar aspect of reality staring him in the face, but he couldn't move. No matter how much he grumbled, swore, and struggled, his body did not have the energy to stand up.

"If you think about the interface, you can see your stats."

"I said no!"

"Look, this is reality now! I'm sorry! I can't do anything about it, but you have to learn how to do this to survive!"

"I didn't want to survive in the first place!" He shouted in my face. "You should have just let me die!"

I had no idea what he was really mad about: the fact he was still alive, the apocalypse and this new reality, or something else. Reflected in his eyes and rageful expression were the repressed emotions I'd seen in the militaristic factions that staged the coups of Elkwood Fort, OK. The apocalypse had broken him. It broke everyone. For the first time, I thought doing the right thing had been the wrong thing... Maybe I really should have let him die.

"Sorry," I mumbled, "my mistake."

I choked back tears, forced myself to stand, and started at a brisk walk off into the forest.

"Where are you going?" he asked tersely.

"To find us something to eat."

"Don't go far."

Losing my temper with him would not help the situation. During my walk through the forest to clear my head, I realized how domineering he was. I'd avoided people as though they were the plague up until now, but I wanted to save his life?

"How stupid can you get, Penny?"

I sat on a stump to cry my eyes out. Nobody had shouted at me like that in such a long time, I'd forgotten how it felt to be powerless. It wasn't just that he shouted me. I had done something fundamentally wrong: I'd helped someone to ease my own conscience, thereby robbing him of his free will. Before the apocalypse, such thoughts would be far too philosophical for me to consider. What I hated most about this new reality wasn't the monsters, the System, or even the wretchedness of humanity: it was myself.

I had never been sure of who I was, just the kind of person I never wanted to be. Now, I was forced daily to test new boundaries, challenge my own moral compass and make unclear choices and suffer the consequences. I had no idea who I was or whether or not I was a good person, and I was frustrated and exhausted from the effort of constantly reforming my opinion of myself.

"I'm sorry."

His voice startled me out of my sobbing fit. Remington towered over me, his jaw clenched. He looked deeply sorry, but there was a bitterness etched in the hard lines of his face which I interpreted to mean that he was a man who didn't apologize often.

"It's... fine."

"Is it?" He pressed.

"Well... No, not really, but... I understand. I really am sorry for—"

"Don't be. You did what you thought was right. I'd have done the same."

"Really?"

He nodded and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. "Failing to save a life... It weighs on you. You did the right thing."

Remington came to say what he needed to and promptly returned back to where we agreed to camp. I gave myself more space and time to let my emotions and thoughts settle before I foraged for food.