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Echoes of the townsfolk rang true through the streets of Monroe as the gates lethargically opened, their mortal keepers greeting a tired, wounded wanderer and his horse, marvelling at the prize he had brought back - a deer. It was eerily quiet as the wanderer lead Stonewall through the streets, the natural chirp of the thinning bird population scantily heard in the distance as the gruff wanderer reached his destination, a dilapidated shanty on the outer ring of town - the place this man called home. Stonewall relished as he was once again hitched to the post in front of the shoddy building, the wanderer heaving a pained sigh as he cut the ropes holding the deer to the horse's back, barely managing to sling the creature over his shoulders as he headed for the door. He took a moment to revel in the splendor of the sunrise, a moment cut short by a searing pain in his left side - no doubt caused by the stab wound he had sustained the night before. The door swung open, and the inside was just as disappointing as the out. The rank smell of tobacco and stale smoke permeated through the musty air as he carried his quarry inside, leaving the beast on the table in the front room. He looked over his kill with a small measure of satisfaction coming over him, carefully pulling his tattered jacket off, having been patched on numerous occasions - the recent stab wound just being another one he'd have to sew up, he thought. Curses followed as the pain returned, the bandage under his flannel shirt having been bled through, though he was no stranger to the pain. He stuck through it as he pulled his knife from it's sheathe, preparing to skin the beast on the table.
He set the knife down, collecting a bucket from the corner. He set it below the table before picking his knife back up, jamming it into the deer's pelt under the belly. He dragged it along in a sawing motion, slicing it's hide open from neck to hind legs, getting a tight hold of the top half of it's skin before ripping it off roughly, circling the table as he used the knife to slice the fur off of the flesh like a piece of tape, tearing the sinew holding it down before ripping it right out from under the beast. He rolled the pelt up, tossing it on the sofa in the dirty shack - one of the rare luxuries he had been afforded. He grabbed the deer by it's ears, pulling it's head over the edge of the table. He slit it's throat, warm blood rushing out into the bucket below - filling it quickly, the blood stopping shortly after, leaving a small mess on the floor. The wanderer didn't mind. The pelt and blood, he would keep, but the meat went to the town. He slid his knife back into it's sheathe, slinging the now naked deer over his shoulders once more - some of it's residual blood staining into his shirt and hair, but he didn't mind. Stepping out into the early morning of Monroe, the wanderer felt a strange tranquility wash over him. Maybe it was the time of year, the crisp autumn air or the relative safety the walls offered, he didn't know. Either way, his route was clear. He passed Stonewall on his way down the street, holding the deer over his shoulder as he passed Job's blacksmith shop. "Jeremy." Job greeted as the wanderer passed, causing him to stop in his tracks. Job got back to working, identifying the wanderer as Jeremy Sykes, a man who had washed up in Monroe a year or so before - shortly after the town's founding, known to like his privacy - but he had a soft spot for the guy, they got along. "Morning." Jeremy responded in counter, carrying on his journey - Job didn't want conversation past a greeting, and neither did Jeremy.
Jeremy's destination was the butcher shop a few streets over from his place, carrying the deer through the early morning, the streets were quiet and traffic was low. He passed a few people on the way, exchanging idle pleasantries and brushing past any attempt at extended conversation, simply intent on getting to the butcher shop and depositing the quarry he had worked so hard for. The walk wasn't long, but the pain was getting worse and worse every step taken with the heavy deer he was carrying. As he flopped the beast down on the butcher's table, he dug his hand into his satchel, pulling a journal and a pencil. He scrawled 'From Jeremy. For forgetting your birthday.' into the book, tearing a page out and leaving it next to the carcass before pocketing the leather-bound book and it's writing device, making his way back down the street, making his way back home. He took the time to pet Stonewall as he arrived back home, carefully undoing the saddle's clasps as he did so, lifting it from the back of the horse. He carried it inside, leaving it saddled on the arm of the couch. He pulled the sawn off pump action shotgun from it's confines, looking the weapon over for a brief moment before tucking it behind the couch. He made his way into the 'kitchen', filling a basin up with some rain water from a bucket before setting it on the counter. He dunked his hands in it, washing them off in the metallic pail before washing the dried blood of the bandits he had ran into the night before from his face, rubbing the water across the back of his neck and under his armpits. Unbuttoning his flannel shirt, he winced in pain once more - slowly pulling it off along with the sweat-stained grey t-shirt underneath. He made his way over to his bed, looking himself over in the standing mirror next to it. He lifted his arm, holding it up with the other as he looked over the blood-soaked bandage with a sour look on his face. He didn't want to see the doctor.
Dry blood peeled from the wound as he pulled the bandage from around his chest ever so slowly, wincing in pain as it did. He discarded it in the wash bucket he had used previously, pulling his hip flask from the satchel on the couch. Unscrewing it's lid, he took a few sips of the Georgia moonshine inside before splashing some on a fresh bandage. He wrapped it around his chest once more, securing it tighter than last time - using the dirty bandage in the bucket to wipe away the blood that had ran down his side in the process. He left it to soak in the bucket as he put his jacket back on, grabbing his satchel before stepping outside once more. The sun had rose quickly, already looking to be about eight or nine in the morning as he sat down in the chair just outside his door, enjoying the peace and quiet now that the dust from the night before's combat had settled. He pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his satchel before leaving it on the ground next to him along with his book, lighting the cigarette and taking a few hours to himself - reading.
By the evening, Jeremy had scribbled a new entry into his journal detailing the events of the night, set the deer's pelt on his bed to be used as a warmer blanket come winter, and started bleeding again. He cursed under his breath before biting his tongue and heading to the town doctor's office. He exchanged pleasantries with the butcher on his way past, taking a pack of no shit cigarettes in thanks, relishing the opportunity for good tobacco. Doctors were always a source of displeasure for Jeremy, even before all this when they had the proper tools and equipment, but he needed stitches, and he didn't really have anyone else to ask. So he stepped in, got looked at, sent home with some stitches and 'strict orders' for bed rest. Jeremy was told human beings weren't supposed to just shrug off stab wounds, but he had a supply cache to steal.
When he got home, he started his preparations - looking over his map diligently, he got ready for the raid. He wasn't impressed by how the first two of their gang had fought, but knew not to under prepare for a job of this size. Underestimation had got many of his 'friends' killed in the decade since the apocalypse begun, and he wasn't about to just become another statistic. He took the sawn off pump action from behind the couch, laying it on the table alongside his bandolier - containing three or so extra twelve gauge shells, willing to take no chances and running the cost to reward ratio for the ammunition in his head a thousand times. Nonetheless, the cache was at least a day's ride from Monroe, not counting for variables, and he'd need rest before he headed out.
This was all strictly off the books, of course.
Continued in part three.
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