The echoes of his desperate battle faded, replaced by the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the ragged, burning rasp of his breath. Ethan lay at the foot of the large oak, the world a dizzying, swaying blur for several long moments. Pain, sharp and insistent, radiated from his torn arm and a dozen other bruises and strains. He had survived. The thought was a small, flickering ember in the vast darkness of his exhaustion.
Slowly, painstakingly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his back against the rough bark. The forest was quiet again, deceptively peaceful. He looked down at his arm. The gashes from the walker's nails were bleeding sluggishly, the fabric of his sleeve dark and sticky. It wasn't life-threatening, but infection was a serious risk in this world without medicine. His Basic First Aid knowledge, an innate skill now, reminded him of the urgent need to clean and cover it.
He fumbled for the small, multi-purpose knife he always kept sheathed on his belt, a habit from his System days that had carried over. He used it to carefully cut away the torn, blood-soaked fabric of his shirt sleeve, then tore a cleaner strip from the hem of his undershirt. It was a crude bandage, but it was better than nothing. He pressed it tightly against the wounds, wincing as the pressure sent fresh jolts of pain up his arm.
Taking stock of his situation was a grim affair. Machete, still clutched in his hand, stained and nicked. Belt knife. Lighter. The clothes on his back. No food. No water. No communication with the others. He was utterly alone, deep in unfamiliar woods, with countless walkers still roaming. The fight had drained a significant portion of his Endurance (E:9), leaving him feeling hollowed out, his muscles trembling with fatigue.
He couldn't stay here. He needed to find Rick and Daryl, or at the very least, get back to the relative safety of the RV and the larger group. But which way? In his desperate flight from the ravine and the subsequent battle, he had lost his bearings.
With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the tree for support. His Perception (P:11) was still sharp, despite his exhaustion. He scanned his surroundings, looking for any familiar landmark, any sign. The sun was beginning its slow descent in the west, casting long, distorted shadows through the trees. He had perhaps a few hours of daylight left.
He decided his best option was to try and retrace his steps, or at least head in the general direction he thought he'd come from, back towards the game trail and the ravine. From there, he might be able to pick up the trail of Rick and Daryl again, or even Sophia's. He moved with caution, his innate Basic Stealth Movement and Featherfoot skills helping him navigate the uneven, debris-strewn forest floor with a measure of quietness, though his weariness made every step an effort.
His Danger Sense remained a low thrum, a constant reminder of the perils surrounding him. Twice, he had to freeze, melting into the shadows of dense undergrowth as small groups of walkers three or four at a time, shuffled past, their moans echoing eerily. He had no desire for another confrontation in his current state; avoidance was paramount.
After nearly an hour of careful, painstaking backtracking, his Enhanced Awareness picked up on something, not a sound, but a subtle disturbance in the leaf litter, a series of faint impressions in the damp earth. Footprints. Too small to be an adult's. And fresh. Hope, sharp and painful, lanced through him. Could it be Sophia?
He knelt, examining them closely. They were light, hurried, heading roughly parallel to the direction he thought Rick and Daryl had initially been taking, but veering slightly deeper into the woods. This was further than he'd expected her to get. He made a decision. Rick and Daryl were experienced survivors; they could take care of themselves. Sophia was a child, alone and terrified. His earlier attempt to save her by investigating the ravine had led to his own desperate fight. Now, he had a direct, albeit faint, trail.
He began to follow the footprints, his focus absolute. The trail was difficult, often disappearing on patches of hard ground or dense pine needles, but his heightened perception helped him find it again, a bent blade of grass, a tiny scuff mark on a root. The path led him steadily downhill, towards a small, gurgling creek bed, choked with smooth stones and fallen leaves. This matched the landmark Rick had mentioned to the group earlier, the place he had told Sophia to wait.
He scanned the creek bed frantically. Nothing. No sign of her. His heart sank. Had he been too late? Had she panicked again and run from here too?
Then, nestled amongst the roots of a large, exposed tree stump near the water's edge, he saw it. A splash of faded pink and yellow against the dark earth. He moved closer, his breath catching in his throat. It was a doll. A small, cloth doll with yarn hair and button eyes, damp from the moist ground, one arm slightly torn. He recognized it. He'd seen Sophia clutching it in the RV.
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over him: a surge of hope that he was on the right track, quickly followed by a deeper dread. She had been here. She had lost her doll here. Why had she left it? Was she taken? Or did she drop it in her fright and run further?
He picked up the doll, its button eyes staring blankly up at him. The woods around him suddenly felt colder, more menacing. He looked around, his Enhanced Awareness straining. He could hear the gentle murmur of the creek, the rustle of leaves, the distant caw of a bird. And something else. Faint. Intermittent. A sound that could be an animal. Or a child's whimper.
It was coming from further downstream, deeper into the shadowed woods.
Clutching the doll in one hand, his machete tight in the other, Ethan set off again, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a grim, desperate resolve. The light was fading fast. He had to find her.