CRUNCH

The figure quickly took aim at the target. Finger on trigger, hammer cocked back, dull silver barrel pointed at the intended meal.

BOOM

The fluffy rabbit pounced away on its springy feet, seemingly taunting Kestral as it did. He sighed to himself as he flicked the revolver's release, presenting him with a set of six three-fifty-seven magnum bullets, one having a clean warp in the back.

He pulled out the used shell and placed it in one of the many pockets held within his electric grey, heavy, mildly battered trench coat, then proceeded to pull a fresh round out another. He groaned softly as he holstered his six-shooter onto his right thigh.

Well, guess I'm not having rabbit stew tonight.

What he was frustrated over was the fact that he failed to walk silently, something he practiced so often. Some days, after washing away his scent with unsavory methods, he managed to sneak up on game and take it by surprise, with a knife. Today, he chose his revolver. He knew well that the magnum round was quite large for such small game, but Kestral didn't care. To him, food was food, with or without its head being turned into a pile of strings.

But now that he had used a gun, the animals near this area were in hiding, so he was off the hunt for a while. He decided to keep moving north, towards Alberta, just like he had planned.

As his steel-toed boots shifted forward systematically, he began to ponder his next move. He needed to decide how to move through the next city, Wichita. Moving straight through the city itself has proven to be the fastest way, but also the most dangerous. Cops watched someone dressed like him as if they were hawks, and pocket-picking wouldn't very lucrative when he was caught and arrested. Sometimes they even harassed him, asking what his name was, where he was going, why he acted like a hermit. It annoys him, but it was pretty straight forward; Just answer in a timely manner and they left none the wiser. If they catch him with, not one, but three guns on him, without his carry permit, it was game over.

The other thing was the gangs. They harassed him sometimes as well. The trench coat and hood made him look like a dealer of sorts, to some of them at least. The would-be buyers asked what he had, while the thugs asked why someone from another gang is on their territory. No one had pulled a gun on Kestral yet, but that was often because he had something to offer.

Those were the main problems. Another would be the fact that he can't get away with hunting while in the city, forcing him to use his stolen money to simply eat.

One good thing about the gangs, though, was the opportunity of quick cash, even with the harassment that comes with it. Taking wallets didn't always prove any great use; Not everyone kept a hundred dollar bill in their stash. Kestral, instead, tended to profit a bit more from trading off fresh credit cards to a local gang. He took a small stack of plastic to a ring leader, and struck a deal. They got the cards for free, to see if they work still, and he got a small cut of whatever they managed to pull out of any ATM, or retrieve from cashiers. Not all the gangs were willing to work out with him like that. Mostly it was only the more organized ones, but they nearly all at least considered it.

Moving about the city was a problem in itself.

Cabs were the fastest and easiest way to move about, when he had cash on him, which wasn't often. Trains and subways were bad because of security, so those were no-go's. Hitch-hiking wasn't a fond experience, the last time he did it. Not that he did it more than once, thus far. He swore he can smell that stench of alcohol and Cheetos on that truck driver... Walking was the usual way for him to move. Slow, sure. But no one asked for his life story, and he can take any route he wanted.

Of course, he could always just walk around the city. Going the long way proved better in some instances. Moving through wilderness, or plains, got him off beaten paths and out of sight of others. The longer he stayed in view of locals, the more chance one might recognize him from some paper, news station, or other mainstream media, and report him.

I have enough supplies for now, I think I'll just go around this time.

Kestral took in his surroundings once again. The sun was just beginning to set off to his left, in the west. Dry twigs and branches from trees overhead looked like roots in the leaf-matted floor of earth. The patches without vegetation were thick with mud that refused to dry, as a result of the cold air that whisked on by him every so often. If one took a picture, one would say it looks quite desolate, and lonely, but the square mile of woodland around him was well alive at that hour. The crickets sounded out in an army of trumpets, and the spying crows would send out a cry through the air from time to time. The night-stalking species weren't aroused quite yet, but they would be soon.

He was still walking, even in this cold air, trying to find one of two things: A cabin, without it being occupied, or some firewood, to keep him warm at night. Sleeping in the cold wasn't too great on one's body temperature, and waking up with purple fingers wasn't really considered all that healthy.

Kestral scoured his surroundings with every step. Twigs and branches could be seen, scattered across the earth, becoming nearly as common as the old and rotted leaves they covered. As he passed a thicket of trees by the wayside, he saw something beautiful, something every renegade like him would praise god for, or luck, if one believed in it.

In front of him, as he stepped closer, was a completely toppled pine tree, broken at the diseased and rotted trunk. The unfortunate foliage was smashed up and broken along a non-linear mess of shattered wood and scattered pine needles and cones. He felt along the jagged wood, causing him to get a small splinter in his exposed index finger on his left hand.

Dry as bones. Perfect.

He took his muddied boot and scraped along the forest floor, moving deadened leaves, and left a patch of dry dirt large enough to have a fire and not catch the leaves to flame as well. Before his escape, he hadn't camped in half of a decade. It was a wonder that he still remembered all of the tricks his paranoid friend had taught him in his teenage years.

Hope that's good enough. Rocks seem to be scarce and I don't want to be burned in my sleep.

He proceeded to mull around, picking up all the little dead pine needles he could find, along with the leaves from the other trees. When he had a good arm-full, he placed it all in a pile in the center of the patch. After doing that he carried out the same action with twigs and branches, working his way to the large blocks of shattered and splintered wood. When the pyre was complete, he took out a small silver lighter, and flicked the flint piece.

And flicked it again. And again.

"Almost out on this one."

Flick....Flick....

Flick. There we go. The silver piece spat out a weak flame, one that flickered momentarily, but stayed nonetheless. He set it down into the edge of the dirt, lighting the needles first. The flame worked it's way in and around, until the smaller fuels were all lit. It was all catching fire before long. Kestral went ahead and tossed the near empty lighter into the center, hoping it would burst into a large blaze, but the metal protecting the fluid kept his dream from being reality.

He found a good block of wood next to him, and took a seat. He took off his black, external frame backpack, to ease the weight on his shoulders. Next, he took off his brown satchel bag from over his shoulder. With the fire now in full blaze, Kestral decided it was a good time for dinner. He opened the satchel to reveal a sandwich that had only four inches left before it's cease of existence, a reasonably large pile of Beef Jerkey, and two water bottles, one half empty.

He removed the meal, along with the previously used bottle, and began his evening meal. It wasn't much, but it would last him the night at least. He tossed the paper wrapper and plastic bottle into the fire when he was done, since he felt there was no point for him to carry trash on his person.

When he was done, Kestral searched through the inside of his backpack until he found a small bottle of oil, a copper brush, and a few thin cloth pads. When those were secured, he pulled out the holstered pistol on his thigh, and began unloading it. When the bullets were all out, he took the oil and put four drops on a cloth pad. He attached it to the reverse end of the brush and stuck it straight into the barrel of the revolver. A couple swipes later, the barrel was nice and lubricated, so he took it out and put the cylindrical copper brush all the way through, and all the way back, making sure not to change direction in the middle, lest he damage it somehow.

With that part over, he put the cloth back in and wiped away. He pulled it out covered in black gunk, and tossed it into the fire. Normally he would use cloths until the black stopped coming out, but he was running out of them, so he had to ration. He placed the six-shooter back into its home on his thigh.

Well crap. He thought.

Kestral was about to commit to an action that he had done a hundred times by now. Something that many men before and after him did and will do for ages. Something many live through but few spoke of. Something no man should have to go through no matter the circumstance. Something so very horrid that it often leaves men crying in their beds as they seek shelter from this tragedy.

He was about to bore himself to sleep, because he had absolutely nothing else to do.

He slid off the makeshift seat and onto the dirt, then placed his backpack onto the ground as a pillow and laid on his back. He buttoned up his trench coat so that when the fire ran out, he wouldn't be left in the cold.

With his mind drifting into the dark depths of slumber, Kestral took note of the slowly regressing crackle of the fire, before everything went silent in his rest.