Jaime and Woody - Scavenging Mission

Wednesday, June 1, 2012

The crisp morning air of the junkyard was slowly warming as the sun climbed higher into the sky. It was just past 10 AM when routines began after a communal breakfast. Jaime and Woody, having finished their meal ahead of the rest, moved purposefully towards the armory nestled within the main house's protective walls. The breakfast had been spread out on large folding tables set up outside the RV on the western side of the compound, a space now dotted with empty plates and cups signaling a meal shared and enjoyed.

Exiting the main building, which stood as a bastion to the north of the junkyard, Jaime and Woody observed Kelly, Parker, and Brody diligently clearing the aftermath of the morning's gathering. Jaime, his large frame casting a long shadow, approached with a grateful nod.

"Appreciate y'all takin' care of the cleanup," he said, his voice a deep rumble of sincerity.

Brody, his blond hair catching the sunlight, straightened up, brushing his hands on his shorts. "Where you two headin' off to?"

"We're makin' a run-up to the north side of Sapphire Lake," Jaime replied, patting Woody on the back.

A flicker of longing passed through Brody's eyes. "Mind if I join?"

Parker stopped placing dirty utensils in a plastic bin and chimed in before Jaime could respond. "Remember, Brody, you're on watch duty today," he said, his tone gentle yet firm.

Brody's shoulders slumped momentarily, frustration crossing his face, but it quickly gave way to a grin. "Guess I'll have time to plan my D&D character, then. I'm thinkin' of mixin' a paladin with a druid."

Overhearing the conversation as he shouldered his backpack, Woody couldn't help but scoff. "Those two classes don't mix, Brody. That's just... bizarre."

"It's all fantasy, Woody. It don't really matter," Brody said with a shrug.

Woody bit back a sharper reply, his respect for the game making it hard to hear such cavalier talk about class combinations.

His attention was diverted as Kelly passed by. She was dressed for the day's heat in shorts and a thin tank top. Woody's gaze lingered on her, an admiration etched into his features that she seemed blissfully unaware of. Despite the weeks spent in close quarters, Kelly had never picked up on Woody's growing affection.

Kelly's arms were filled with the last of the dishes, and they offered a bright "Morning!" to Jaime and Woody. "Be careful out there," she added.

"Thanks, Kelly. We will," Jaime replied with a warm smile.

Woody took a deep breath and said, "As the Cherokee say, 'May the Great Spirit bring fortune to your journey.'"

Kelly's smile didn't wane, though her eyes briefly registered the oddity of his words. "Take care, Woody," she said before turning towards the main house, leaving Woody standing there.

Jaime leaned towards his cousin. "Woody, all you gotta do is tell her how you feel," he whispered.

Woody pulled away, a flush creeping up his neck. "I ain't interested, Jaime. Let's just get movin'," he muttered.

---

Jamie and Woody stepped through the rusted northern gate of the junkyard, the clear morning light revealing the expanse between them and the tranquil Sapphire Lake. It was the first day of June, and the air over central Colorado was fresh, carrying the scent of pine and the crisp promise of summer.

The sky above stretched vast and blue, a few wispy clouds meandering lazily across the horizon. The forest that encircled their makeshift fortress was awake with the chatter of wildlife. The trees stood tall and proud, their leaves a vibrant green that whispered of life's persistence even as the world crumbled.

They went down a natural trail, the earth worn from their frequent treks to the water's edge. The lake mirrored the sky, its surface undisturbed by wind or current. Birds flitted through the canopy, and the occasional fish leaped from the lake, catching the sunlight before splashing back into the depths. Wildflowers dotted the banks, their hues a defiant burst of color among the shades of green.

Jamie carried an FN-P90 submachine gun, its presence a necessary burden. A machete hung from his hip, its sheath worn from use. Woody cradled a lever-action Winchester rifle, the wood stock weathered and familiar. At his side, a makeshift club fashioned from welded metal swung lightly.

As they rounded the lake's northern edge, Woody broke the silence that had settled between them.

"Cousin," he began, his voice hesitant but firm, "I've been meaning to talk to you."

Jamie glanced at him, an eyebrow raised in silent invitation to continue.

"It's about you, Jamie. The outbreak, it's... it's taking its toll on you. You don't sleep enough, you barely talk to the others, and you're always on edge. It's like you're carryin' the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Jamie stopped walking and turned to face the lake, watching the ripples chase each other across the surface. He exhaled slowly, the breath he'd been holding released into the Colorado air.

"It's this leadership role, Woody. It's heavy. Everyone's looking to me to keep 'em safe, to make the right call. But what if I don't have the answers? Some folks want to build and fortify this place for the long haul. Others think we should be stockpiling for winter, scavenging more, worrying about the here and now. It's hard to know which way to jump."

Woody nodded, leaning on his rifle. "But you're doin' your best, and that's all anyone can ask for. We're still here, aren't we? Still fightin’, still breathin’."

Jamie gave a rueful smile, his gaze never leaving the water. "Yeah, we're still here. Thanks to you and the others. It's just... it's a lot, you know?"

"I know," Woody replied, clapping a hand on Jamie's massive shoulder. "And we've got your back every step of the way."

Jamie looked down at the hand on his shoulder and then back out across the water, silent gratitude in his eyes.

Jaime and Woody resumed their trek along the lake, the former's broad frame casting a long shadow over the latter. Their steps were silent, the gravelly path underneath their feet the only sign of their passage. Suddenly, the calm was pierced by a deer's distressed cries. Its sharp, panicked shrieks echoed through the forest, slicing through the stillness.

Exchanging a quick, knowing glance, the two men crouched low and moved with purpose toward the source of the noise. The forest around them was alive with the sounds of nature, but the deer's cries stood out.

Creeping through the brush, they covered the thirty yards to the deer in tense silence. They found it with its leg hopelessly ensnared by a rope, the other end secured to a sturdy 2 x 4. The animal had dragged its wooden burden until it could no more, its struggle evident in the torn earth and broken foliage around it.

"We need the meat," Woody whispered, his voice laced with hesitation, "but I can't... I can't just kill it. It's too young, and it doesn't seem right."

Jaime nodded in agreement, his eyes softening at the sight of the frantic creature. "We'll free it. No creature deserves to suffer like this."

As they approached the distressed deer, it became more agitated, its shrieks growing louder, more desperate. Jaime and Woody advanced with caution, aware of the animal's panic.

Without warning, the underbrush exploded with movement. A massive zombie, almost as tall as Jaime but broader, lumbered through the trees. Its flesh was a patchwork of decay, skin sloughing off in places to reveal the sickly grey matter beneath. Its eyes were hollow, devoid of the spark of life, yet filled with an insatiable hunger.

It crashed into Woody, sending him sprawling to the forest floor. The zombie reached down with hands that were more bone than flesh, fingers grasping wildly.

Woody rolled away just in time, but his rifle was wrenched from his grasp, caught between two heavy stones. It was out of reach now, and he was defenseless.

Jaime acted instinctually, his FN-P90 erupting in a burst of noise and muzzle flash. Bullets tore through the zombie's leg and hip, but instead of felling the beast, it only stumbled.

As if to mock Jaime's efforts, the submachine gun choked and jammed. Cursing under his breath, Jaime discarded the useless weapon and drew his machete, the blade gleaming with deadly intent.

"Stay down!" he yelled at Woody as he positioned himself between his cousin and the oncoming horror.

The zombie lurched forward, impervious to pain, focusing solely on the living flesh before it. Jaime steadied himself, machete raised, ready to defend their lives.

With a muted growl, the zombie whipped around, its dead eyes fixed on Jaime. The hulking figure charged, and Jaime, reacting with a survivor's instinct, swung his machete. The blade misjudged its mark and buried itself deep into the zombie's shoulder. Jaime held fast to the handle, the machete becoming an unintended anchor. It was then that he noticed the zombie's throat, previously crushed, and the reason only whispered sounds came from the undead.

The infected's left hand swung toward Jaime, seeking flesh, but Jaime caught its wrist. The zombie's other hand clawed wildly, fingers like talons, aiming for Jaime's face.

From the ground, Woody's gaze locked onto the scene before him. The colossal infected mirrored Jaime's size so closely that it seemed like Jaime was wrestling his doppelgänger. The two spun in a grim dance, Jaime leveraging the machete to keep the snapping jaws at bay. Each attempt to bite sent Jaime's boots skidding back, the earth struggling to hold him.

Regaining his senses, Woody scrambled for his rifle. His fingers closed around the stock, and he took aim. The rifle roared to life, and bullets thudded into the zombie's expansive back. With Jaime and the zombie twirling in their deadly embrace, aiming was a gamble, each shot a hope more than an intention.

"Keep him steady!" Woody shouted, the tension in his voice slicing through the growls and grunts.

"I'm tryin'!" Jaime bellowed back, his strength waning against the relentless force of the infected.

The struggle veered toward an old oak, its trunk wide and gnarled. The zombie pressed on, its decayed face inching closer to Jaime's.

Woody steadied his aim, his breath a mist in the crisp air. Another gunshot rang out, this time finding its mark. The bullet pierced through the side of the zombie's head, a spray of dark ichor marking the path. The monster staggered, its movements halting, and then it crumpled to the side, its mass thudding against the ground.

Woody rushed to Jaime's side, the barrel of his rifle still warm. "You okay?" he said, eyes searching Jaime's for injury.

A smile cracked Jaime's worn face, and he clapped a hand onto Woody's shoulder, his relief tangible. "Thanks, cuz. Good shootin'."

A soft, plaintive cry returned their attention to where the deer had been trapped. The rope lay limp on the ground, the young creature nowhere in sight. From the dense cover of the trees, they heard it—the sound of the deer's freedom, its fear finally giving way to escape.

Jaime and Woody exchanged a look of weary satisfaction as the deer's fading cries mingled with the rustle of leaves.

---

They ventured onwards, their steps carrying them along the lake's secluded northern edge. They stumbled upon a string of cabins, desolate and silent, doors ajar as if the occupants had fled at a moment's notice. Inside, they scavenged what remained: a few cans of beans, peaches preserved in syrup, and a precious box of matches; the labels faded, but the contents were still dry and intact.

Perched on a small ridge, they paused, the lake sprawling before them, a serene audience to their quiet respite. Woody unpacked sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, the bread slightly stale, but the filling—a hastily made chicken salad—still flavorful. They ate in silence, each lost in thought, the vastness of the water reflecting their solitude.

As the day waned, they retraced their path, the shadows growing long and the light turning the world to gold and amber. Woody, his spirits lifted by their successful forage, began to collect wildflowers along the way. He carefully chose the brightest Colorado Blue Columbines, the fieriest Indian Paintbrushes, and the cheerful yellow Western Wallflowers. He arranged them with a forager's care, creating a wild bouquet that spoke of beauty's persistence.

They approached the front of the junkyard as the sun touched the horizon, its descent painting the sky in strokes of purple and orange.