The snow was thinner today.
Patches of brown earth showed between clumps of dirty white, and the cold didn't cut quite as deep as it had last week. Jake's breath still misted in the air, but his fingers didn't go numb as quickly. He could feel the handle of the knife in his palm now, not just a dead weight.
Small mercies.
He left camp at dawn. The fire was down to warm coals, and his lean-to held against the night's wind. Two of the snares near the stream were still undisturbed, but one — near a thicket of thornbush — was gone. Wire snapped. No blood, no fur. Either a rabbit wriggled free, or something bigger had tripped it.
Either way, he wasn't getting it back.
Jake didn't waste time swearing about it. It was how things went.
The woods didn't care.
He moved uphill, where the light bled through the trees in narrow shafts. A new patch of dry kindling caught his eye — brittle twigs, some dry leaves huddled beneath a fallen log. He gathered them without thinking, stuffing them into his pack.
His stomach growled. A low, curling ache that'd settled into something familiar now. It didn't panic him anymore. It was just there. A thing to ignore. Like cold wind, or the weight of the bow on his back.
As he crossed a narrow clearing, the snow turned red.
Jake froze, every muscle locking tight.
A thin smear, trailing across the crusted surface.
Fresh.
He crouched, fingers brushing the stain. It hadn't frozen yet.
Not an animal.
Too steady.
Tracks led away through the patchy snow. Heavy boot prints. Staggered, one dragging slightly. Not two sets. Just one.
Jake's gut tightened.
A walker.
He rose, bow in hand, and followed.
The trail wasn't hard to read. Broken branches. Scuffed earth. A faint, rotten smell in the air. The sun climbed higher, and the snow glare made his eyes ache.
He found it near a tangle of old branches.
A man — what had once been a man.
His skin hung in patches, teeth bared in a crooked, dead grin. One leg bent wrong, twisted where the flesh was torn. It limped forward, dragging its foot with a wet shuffle.
Jake's hands didn't shake this time.
The first time he'd seen a walker alone out here, he'd hidden. Crawled under roots and pressed his face into the dirt while it passed, too terrified to move.
Now, he just watched.
The thing hadn't noticed him yet. The wind was in Jake's favor.
He raised the bow, nocked an arrow.
The string felt tighter, the wood firmer in his grip. He didn't breathe hard. Didn't hesitate.
The world narrowed to the hollow behind the thing's ear — the soft, wet spot.
He let the arrow fly.
A clean shot.
The arrow struck with a wet, cracking sound, piercing through the skull. The walker dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Jake lowered the bow.
His stomach didn't lurch. No rush of nausea or tremble in his hands. No voice in his head screaming about what it used to be. Just a corpse.
He approached carefully, drawing the knife.
The walker's face was sunken, one eye missing. Its mouth twitched once, then stilled.
Jake knelt and pulled the arrow free. The shaft was slick, the tip splintered slightly but usable.
A year ago, he wouldn't have believed it.
A kid like him, alone in the woods, taking down a walker without a word. Without fear.
But this wasn't a year ago.
This was now.
He wiped the arrow on the snow, cleaned his knife on the walker's coat, and moved on.
---
He found a rabbit trail nearby, faint tracks leading toward a thicket. No snare this time. He set up one of his good wires there, anchoring it to a bent sapling.
It was easier now.
His fingers knew the motions. The knots held firm. He checked the tension twice before moving on.
At midday, he drank from the stream. The water had cleared after last night's frost. Still tasted of earth and ice, but it didn't burn his throat. He filled the old tin can, stashed it in his pack.
By afternoon, the fire in camp sparked to life with half the effort it used to take. The kindling caught fast, the twigs burning clean.
Jake sat by it, chewing on a strip of half-dried rabbit meat from the day before. It was tough, stringy, and tasted like charred bark.
Best thing he'd had in weeks.
The walker kill stayed with him — not in the way the first one had.
No nightmares.
No guilt.
It wasn't a thing anymore. Just another danger. Like the cold. Like hunger.
Another thing to watch for. Another problem to solve.
He poked the fire with a stick, watching the flames dance.
Getting better.
He didn't say it out loud. Didn't need to.
But he knew.
The traps were holding.
The bow was steady.
The water wasn't making him sick as often.
And walkers weren't the end of the world anymore.
He leaned back against the hollow wall, the fire's warmth licking at his hands.
It wasn't safe.
It wasn't good.
But it was his.
Tomorrow, he'd stretch the trapline farther.
Maybe test a deadfall trap.
Carve new arrow shafts.
Check the ridgeline for clearer streams.
He was surviving.
And for now — that was enough.