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Lost in Chernarus..

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  Garbed in the new to him pants he had just acquired he climbed into a hunting tower just north of Stary...As he sat down and mulled his situation over a can of cold beans his eyes were drawn to the holes in the pants knees that could certainly stand some needle and thread. He glanced around once with his naked eyes, then once in the fading light with the scope of his hunting rifle. No one was about so he set to work, threading the needle while biting his tongue in concentration. He wondered if he looked like his grandma had, darning socks by the woodstove. The thought of her, gone so many years before brought a rare smile. It would not do to be killed with his pants off so he made his makeshift repairs fast in the fading light, sure would not be pretty, and he would have caught hell from his Gran but they would hold up a few more days. Down in Stary someone started shooting up the town. Killing Infected by the sound of it, all one rifle with no answering fire. A couple shots at first, then many more in rapid succession as the screamers flocked to the noise no doubt. A couple of years ago he would have spent the night in terror over who or what was shooting, how close they were to him and the fate of the shooter or shooters with the infected. Now he did not think on it much, either the shooter was alive or dead, not much of a difference to him. If the shooter was alive, he was clearing out the town to loot it, some little hunting stand half a mile away in the darkness was not going to matter, and the infected hadn't taken to wandering to far out of the towns. His Pack would serve as a rough pillow, belly full, body exhausted from the days labors as he drifted off to sleep he talked softly to himself as was his new habit, the sound of his drawling voice a small comfort, having no one else to talk with.

 "How in the hell did I come to this? Can't read no damn signs, can't speak no damn local talk. I am an absolute idgit fer lettin Skeets talk me into this.." It was not really a question, more of the reiteration of the facts of his situation, oft repeated before sleep took him.

 "Been lots of angry voices on the radio...half of what they are saying I can't make out..when I do understand it, sounds more an more like a sound track to them Taliban video's...the ones where they got hold of sem T.V. feller and and they get him to read some B.S. afore they commence to hacking on em." 

 What he had made out had compelled him to travel south, since it seemed the activity was centered in the north. He had followed the coast until he hit the Nizhnoye/Berezino area, he only recognized them because of the large orchards he and his interpreter had gone buying at so long ago now it seemed. He could remember the farmers, tanned leathery men, eager to talk about their crops with pride or complain about the weather like all men of the earth. There had been no one there now except a few infected near what may have been a hospital once, a dead town whose buildings groaned in the wind. There he had turned west, hoping for better pickings. He had come to a town so full of the infected he had skirted it. Only checking secluded outer buildings for whatever other scavengers had left. A trail head map stand had later identified the place as Gorka. As the light was failing he judged by the trail map that he may have enough time to reach a place called Stary Sobor by nightfall. He had determined to make the journey cross country by compass and was pretty pleased with himself when he came out where he had expected. The hunters pants to replaced his tattered jeans had been the find of the day, and with the closest thing to satisfaction he ever came to these days he let sleep come to dream fitfully of better times...


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