Free Ash: Book One in the Rising Ash Saga by R.G. Westerman

One
                 
     
                  Tension burns in my arm as I take aim, lowering my gaze into the scope. I have been waiting up in this tree for about an hour and finally something edible crosses my sights. Across from me on the far tree branch, the squirrel pauses, twitching its tail as if to taunt me. I take a slow breath, careful to keep my balance.   
                  Seconds pass and the arrow flies from the crossbow hitting the mark, sending it tumbling into the underbrush. Small black birds erupt in a flurry from the brambles. I sit up straddling the branch and adjust the bow around to my back before I swing down, my feet finding the rocky ground.
                  The grass-grown gravel road curves through the field up ahead, dotted with a smattering of wet red leaves. I take a few labored steps towards the shadowed brick shelter up ahead, my legs sore from sitting in the tree for so long. Ivy and vines drape the trees in a chaotic tangle, grown over and filling the air with the scent of rotting wood.
                  I estimate there to be only a few hours of sunlight left. There is not much to accomplish for the day except to prepare and eat the parcel which I have just won. The meat will go a small way towards filling my stomach, but it is better than nothing. At least, the shelter up ahead would make a good place to settle in for the night. Careful of my steps I skirt around the edges of the swamp, doing my best to stay undercover.
                  I have not seen a zombie in several hours. Even in my mind, I feel silly calling them that. The word sounds like something out of a story told long ago, a fairy tale from childhood, but these things, these creatures, living while yet dead and rotting, are all too real. I saw one a few miles back, crouching over the carcass of the yearling deer at the side of the road. That was a real shame. There would have been a lot of good meat on that deer.
                  I break through the underbrush, grab the arrow containing my night's meal and head towards the shelter. Having a means of hunting in which I could retrieve my ammo made life a great deal simpler in this world. Bullets, with their awkward explosive noise, always drew unwanted attention.
                  The storm clouds threaten to take over the sky, and fat rain drops begin to splatter against the ground. I pick up my pace, quickly ducking into the wooden door of my shelter. Once inside I can relax my senses, something I still find difficult even after all these years. I do not expect to see any more of them for a while, as they tend to disappear when it rains. I leave the wooden door open, glad that I already have wood for a fire gathered on the dirt floor, at least enough to warm the small space and cook my food.
                  I nudge one of the branches with the black leather toe of my boot, before crouching to start the fire. Before long I have the squirrel stripped and roasting on the spit leaning into the flickering yellow flames. I glance around, taking another quick assessment of the surroundings.
                  The shelter perches at the end of a row of brick houses alongside the back yard area of a much larger house, which possesses white columns and tall glass windows. I settle in at the doorway watching the storm clouds roll by overhead. Better to wait it out than to get caught in the rain closer into the city where shelter would be hard to come by. Here I can remain clear of any intrusions.
                  The scent of roasted meat fills the small space and my mouth waters in response. I tend to the fire and turn the makeshift spit, glad of the small amount of warmth generating from the source. I still have a small pouch of beef jerky left over from the last supply run, but that is the last of it. The yellow flames illuminate the space enough to cast shadows of the