Hunted || Wesari

Chapter Eight: Run

For the first time in two nights, Wes woke up with a roof over his head. Sure, it wasn't the prettiest roof, but the sight was still reassuring. 

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and crawled out of his shelter. His eyes adjusted to the sunlight quickly, and he stretched, brushing leaves off himself. His fire was still smoking, so he snuffed it out with his jacket.

He took a drink of water, ate some berries, and planned out his day. First order of business; catch fish. The berries didn't contain enough protein to keep him going, and seeing as he was right near a river, fish would be the most reliable source of meat he could find.

He assumed it would take him all day to properly catch, gut, and cook a fish, but if he did somehow miraculously finish early, then he'd start working on defenses. One of his biggest threats right now was infecteds; if they stumbled across him at night, they'd eat him alive. He'd need a wall, preferably with spikes on the bottoms, to adequately defend himself; especially if he was going to be staying here for awhile. Which, from what he could tell, he would be.

Wes tested out his leg, which he was sure was fully healed, much to his relief. The last thing he needed was to fall in the river, and crack his head open on some rock. He removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, grabbed his spear, and made his way to the river.

The current wasn't too strong, and the water was cool, not freezing. It was refreshing, in a way. He hadn't taken a bath for awhile, and the water felt soothing on his skin. He stood still, watching the water for any signs of movement. It was early spring, which he was sure was some salmon species spawning time, so there should be something.

Eventually, he saw one; a sleek red salmon, swimming right towards him. Wes had always loved animals, and felt a little guilty about taking one's life, but he didn't have a choice. It was either the fish or him, and he was going to pick himself.

He raised his spear and brought it down... right into a rock. The salmon swam away, unaware of how close it had been too death.

After that attempt, the salmon seemed to not stop coming, turning the water red in their movements. Despite the quantity of fish in the river, Wes, in his ineptitude, didn't catch a single one. This was a lot harder than he'd thought it would be, and it was infuriating.

In his anger, he jabbed at one fish with a lot more force than he needed. Like always, he missed, but this time, the spear cracked in half when it hit the rock. 

He stood there for a second, watching the sharp end of his spear flow down the river, before throwing the other half into the water. He climbed out of the river, burying his head in his hands. Not only had he come out of that fishless, but he'd also lost his spear. If he didn't figure this out, he'd starve. Failure wasn't an option. Not for this.

He took a few deep breaths. He had to stay optimistic. Moral was important in survival situations, and giving up was as dangerous as starvation. He'd learned that in boys scouts, when his group had grown so frustrated while trying to build a shelter that they'd given up. They'd been forced to sleep under the stars, and had been rained on. If that had happened in the real world, they would've died of 

He slipped on his shoes, and headed out into the woods, trying to give himself hope. He needed to find a new stick he could fashion into a spear, so he could try again.

It didn't take him too long to find one, a stick about as long as his shoulder to the end of his opposite arm. He started making his way back, feeling a bit better about himself. He could make this work. All he needed to do was be a bit more patient, think about his jabs before he performed them. He'd be fine.