Chapter 4: Good Religion

Again, I found myself hidden, aware and prepared, the crumbled closeness of the city around me, rifle in hand. The hounds were our prey-undomesticated dogs who dominated the city. Unlike most other species whose population were harmed by the bombs, the hounds reproduced wildly, and could outnumber and surround anything willing to cross their path. They traveled in swarms, massive packs containing hundreds of the beasts. Rhode stalked silently behind. Somehow, we worked in unison, communicating intentions with nods and body language, despite the years of intense isolation. Hounds were near, their presence was a tangible and loud emotion, a feeling of fear, repulsion, and excitement. The barking and whining squealing from their snouts was obvious as it echoed through the cement. They moved with a fast pace, with the young and healthy in front and the old and frail behind. The latter were our targets. Because of the hounds' extreme metabolism, a wolf would reach maturity at only a year, and die from old age in three. We were moving through an alley, only ten or so feet from the yapping jaws of the hounds. Running quickly while crouched, we observed the dogs by glancing through breaks in the rubble. The dogs turned right, moving into a side-street, an unexpected move that caused the elderly ones to stumble. I slid into the street, naturally aiming the wood case of my rifle towards the closest dogs. After seconds of slow, pure adrenaline I fired, the slug slamming into the dog's thigh. The pack continued unaffected - their lack of empathy was key to survival. We watched and waited. The snarling mass of the pack faded into the rubble and darkness, leaving the lone corpse. Rhode quickly looked to me, then we jogged in a slight crouch, still aware of the remaining danger. Some packs follow behind others, to further glean the benefits of numbers. We crouched by the carcass. Rhode glanced at the bloodied corpse, looking vaguely disgusted. The mannerisms of civilized people were still hard to decipher. One thing was apparent, however. The intoxicating rush of victory. That we had tracked, hunted, and killed a beast was a thing of euphoria. The crackle of a fire by Rhode's shelter was a double edged sword. It was a thing of comfort - to be blinded in the darkness in a city full of predators was a nightmare invoking experience. It also provided warmth, which was welcome in the normal frigid air. The irony, though, was the light. It was a beacon, a flare for malicious animals and the degenerates. Rhode sat across the blaze from me, nibbling with surprising viciousness at a leg of hound. Talking to Rhode was awkward. It had always been something I'd avoided, but for some
reason looked forward to. I was relieved when she finally broke the silence. "Who are you?" I thought on that for awhile. It was never something I really thought myself, rather, I only considered the pressing matters of survival. From the deceptive comfort of the fire, I reflected on myself. I'd never done anything evil, but I hadn't done anything good either . This was simply because I didn't have any opportunities to do so. In all honesty, I didn't know who I was. "I don't really know", I admitted. I suppose she appeared disappointed. "Who are you?", I said. I wanted mainly to shift the focus off of myself. Her response seemed almost prepared. "My name is Alexis Clarisson , and I'm not a degenerate, and..." She swatted her hair, her face suddenly quiet and subtle. Her matted bangs sweeping back over her eyes. It was silent again, and I stared blankly at the fire. I had nothing to say, and neither did she. The silence was so loud.