Light from the mid-morning autumn sun dapples through the flame-colored leaves of the overhanging branches above me, the pollen and dust dancing through the sunbeams. Quiet and still, the forest around me is disturbed only by the gentle breeze that blows through, lifting the leaves from their perch and making the evergreens dance. The fragrance of fresh pine overpowers my sense of smell, and the music of dancing leaves masks the faint twang of my arrow being knocked. 

Before me, in a small clearing, stands the young doe that has been eluding me all week, grazing quietly under the shade of an oak tree. Her body is slightly gaunt, but she's plump enough to feed my brother and sister back at camp, at least for a day or two. The meat on her bones will have a much warmer welcome than the trio of squirrels in my pack and will set me on the road to fixing 'irritated sibling syndrome' while we continue our journey. 

Her thick, soft pelt is marred only on the hindquarters, where an ugly, jagged scar rakes the supple pink flesh. The scar looks angry and fresh like someone else had difficulty catching their quarry recently. 

Or something else had a hard time catching her. 

The inner debate on the origin of the doe's freshly healed wound sends my mind reeling as I begin to wonder whether or not it would be worth the risk of eating possibly tainted meat. Hours over a steady flame may be enough to burn off the virus and make it safe to eat, though on the other hand, if we end up eating it and the virus is still very much active, we might as well chew cyanide pills and throw away the past four years. 

The thought of having venison for breakfast is enough to make my stomach growl, catching the attention of my target as her head snaps up, her ears perked, and her eyes wide. Frozen with my bow half-drawn, I pray that the foliage is enough to hide me from her gaze. With luck on my side, the wind keeps my scent downwind of her, and I remain undetected, though if I keep hesitating, it won't last much longer. The doe flicks her tail as she stares in my direction, her eyes unblinking, and I silently pray to whatever God may be listening that my family will get a reprieve at last and won't have to survive on rodent meat for much longer. Somewhere behind me, the rustling of the leaves sounds off, as though something my size is sneaking around in the trees. 

'Great,' I think to myself. 'Now I'm the one being hunted.'

As the doe's head swivels, scanning the area for danger, I pull my bow back and perfect my aim, steadying my hunger-panged arms. My fingers gradually slacken as I zero in on the doe's heart, though without warning, a shadow drops from the tree it had taken refuge under and takes it to the ground with a sickening crunch, likely breaking the doe's spine as the figure lands. The distressed shriek of the doe dies in its throat as the figure sinks a knife into its neck, and gradually, its body slackens. 

A cold, sharp sensation prickles at the side of my neck as I glare at the figure who stole the key to a peaceful morning with my siblings. Following the threatening sensation is the body heat of another individual pressing themselves against my back, securing me as well as they can in the crouched position I have been slumped into. 

"Drop the bow," a firm, regal, and smooth woman's voice growls into my ear. 

My disappointment at the loss of breakfast far outweighs the goosebumps rising on my arms and the butterflies in my otherwise empty stomach, though I freeze under the woman's threat, assessing the situation. 

Before me, the figure who had taken my kill had now stood up, revealing himself to be a slender young man no older than myself, a sharp look to his face reminiscent of a model. His sandy hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, looks as clean and well-kept as his outfit. The cold sweats start as it becomes evident these two are likely from an established camp nearby. 

Behind me, the woman presses the knife further into my skin, the sting of its blade being trickled away as blood begins to ooze from the nick in my flesh. "Drop the bow," the woman repeats, "or I'm dropping you. I will not repeat it."

She's pressed relatively close behind me, and I am surprised that she didn't try cutting the string on my bow first, especially considering that shooting the man in front of me is beginning to sound like a wonderful way of escaping the situation. Her breath is hot in my ear and gives me an idea of where to plant my elbow. 

The man before me begins to walk over, a look of concern on his face as he steps over my stolen breakfast and raises his bloody knife. I release my arrow, jerking my elbow back and cracking the woman behind me squarely in the nose with a dull crack, earning a pained yelp and muffled swearing as she falls backward. Her knife slices into my flesh as I bolt to my feet, slinging my bow over my shoulder and tear off into the woods like a rocket, not bothering to chance a glance behind me to see whether or not my arrow buried itself into the body of the man who stole my food. 

The rush of crunching leaves behind me informs me that I was not as successful in my getaway as I had hoped. Bitterly, I depart with the last of breakfast as I fling the sack of squirrel carcasses as hard as I can into the face of my assailant, awkwardly spinning as I do so. As my luck would have it, my hunger-ridden body slows, and my pursuer catches up, bodily tackling my legs out from under me and taking us both to the ground. Catching sight of wild golden hair, the woman from before attempts to constrain my legs. 

What little of my self-preservation instincts kick into high gear, and I kick as hard as I can, catching her fingers with my boots while earning more swearing from her. Before I can plant my boot directly into her freshly bloodied face, she rears back enough to allow me to scramble out from under her as she pops a broken finger back into place with a sickening crack, casting a murderous look my way as I clamber back to my feet. Behind her, the young man has caught up to us, holding his hands out as though he's trying to calm a wild animal, though, at this point, we dove straight past peaceful conversations the moment his muscular companion put a knife to my throat. 

"Whoa, hey, let's just calm down a bit, yeah?" The man tries, casting a meaningful look towards his companion as she stands. 

I demand, "Leave me alone, and we'll be fine,"

The woman spits out some blood as she rolls her shoulders and straightens up. "Sorry, we can't do that." 

Turning heel, I bolt again, not too keen on getting captured, and behind me, I hear the woman swearing. Once more, the sound of crunching leaves follows closely behind me, and I slow just enough to let them think they've caught up before planting my feet in the dirt and sliding to a crouch. Unable to stop, the woman trips over my back as I stand, launching her over my shoulders and sending her straight into the dirt, wheezing. 

With no time to celebrate my victory over the woman, the slender young man sprints directly towards me now, much faster than the woman I just tossed. Lunging to the side, I jut my foot out as he passes me, his boots catching my own and sending him tumbling into the leaves. In an unfair show of agility, he deftly rolls to his feet and begins his charge again. Now ready for his sudden speed, I plant my boots in the grass and wait until he's just within reach before I strike out with my foot, pushing off with my body weight as my boot crashes into his sternum. Stumbling back, he wheezes out in pain before collapsing, grasping his chest. 

There is only a slight twinge of guilt until I am violently reminded of the woman I had thrown just moments ago. Spinning a moment too late, she crashes into me with all her weight, knocking me aside. In a desperate attempt to catch myself on something, anything, my face takes the brunt of the fall as it cracks into the trunk of a nearby tree. 

The dull throbbing in my head is what brings me back to wakefulness, and save for the fact that dried blood is preventing me from opening my left eye, I am distinctly aware of the fact that my hands are tied behind my back, and I am on the cool ground, leaned up against the trunk of a tree. The left side of my face feels wet, and the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. Already half-starved, the nausea kicks in and nearly overwhelms me as I raise my head to look my attackers in the face. 

"You can have the damn deer," I grumble, the vision in my right eye blurry. I notice rather painfully that I had also split my lip in the fall, which only serves to irritate me further. 

There's a scoff somewhere before me, and the blurry visage of the woman appears crouched before me. "We don't want your damn deer, lady." 

Above her, the man quickly swoops in with a less aggressive, "We just want to talk to you, ask a couple of questions." 

Now, it's my turn to scoff. "Oh, well, why didn't you say so sooner? By all means, it's not like I'm going anywhere." 

Rolling her eyes, the woman scoots to my side and roughly shoves me forward as she pushes up the sleeves of my bomber and turns my arms over. 

"You guys must be new here if you're looking for a bite," I grumble, attempting to blow away a leaf stuck to the bloody side of my face to no avail. The woman drags me back into a seated position and throws aside my sense of dignity as she throws open my bomber and yanks the collar of my shirt down to inspect my upper chest. "Hey, what the fuck are you doing?!" I make a vain attempt to push myself away from her as she examines my neck, forcing my head one way and another before she finally stops, sighing as she stands. 

"She's clean," she states to her companion, who carefully stands, rubbing his chest as he coughs. 

"I figured she would be; Widow's usually fight to kill," the man replies, observing me. 

'Oh, fantastic,' I think with an inward groan. 'Those assholes are here, too.'

"Well, if you aren't one of them," the woman says, glaring down at me as she crosses her arms, "then who the Hell are you?" 

As my vision clears, I can finally get a better view of my antagonists. The woman before me is tall, much taller than I am, and built like she chops wood for a living. In an ironic stroke of luck, she even wears a clean red flannel, her sleeves rolled up and showcasing her firm arms where small scars dot her flesh. She doesn't look much older than me, either. Her golden hair, fluffy and looking as though she cut it herself with a knife and no mirror, has twigs and leaves poking out of it that she has yet to shake out from our scuffle. Her nose, now heavily bruised though looking like it had been set back in place, is mostly clean of blood, though traces of it are still smeared on her face. Save for the smears of dirt and splash of blood from our fight, her clothes are just as clean as the young man's, which is a red flag on its own, though the most startling aspect of her appearance is the cold, silvery eyes. Looking like a pair of angry storm clouds capable of holding a squall that could level a city and burst with lightning, she directs them straight through my soul as her unanswered question lingers. 

Were it not for being half-starved and angry, I would likely be intimidated by the death glare she sends me when I don't promptly answer her question. 

Behind her, the man looks like he could be her brother, though he's much lankier than she is, and his blonde hair is slightly darker. His pointed face reminds me of an impish little pixie with a sharp eyebrow raised in my direction. His bright eyes flick over to his companion briefly, and it's all I need to know that she is likely the one in charge of the pair. Two long scars span the side of the young man's face, from the point of his jaw to the edge of his eyebrow, and they are the only features that mar his face, save for the splatters of dirt. 

For better or worse, I believe it would be safe to say that these two are not with the Widows, considering that they have yet to shoot me in the face and that they checked my arms for the mark of the spider their cluster tends to favor. Judging from how clean they are and how little gear they're carrying, it is safe to assume that they come from an established camp well-off on supplies and are likely expected back sometime soon. 

Crouching with her eyebrows knit, the woman lifts my chin with her finger and thumb, forcing me to look her in the eye. "I asked you a question," she growls. "Who are you?" 

"Bozo the clown." 

A snort of barely contained laughter erupts from the young man before he clamps his hand over his mouth, coughing slightly in a weak attempt to mask the fact he just laughed at my joke. 

Taking exception to my answer, the woman frowns as she leans closer, her voice low and even. "I'm not in a particularly good mood if you couldn't tell, so I believe it would be in your best interest to answer my question in earnest. Who are you?" 

Her breath, smelling oddly of mint toothpaste and coffee, wafts over my face as she speaks, and I blink, pressing the back of my head against the tree as I attempt to escape the 'kiss or kill' zone this woman created. "Jesus, lady, I'm just a hunter! What does it matter what my name is, I'm just trying to get some breakfast!"

Rolling her eyes, she leans back, still crouched before me.