Sam took the bandage off his foot, and examined the scar tissue that formed over his big toe. It was clean, healing and thankfully pain-free. Spilling some water over it, he scrubbed away the loose dried blood and strips of bandaging glue. Wiping it dry, he wiggled it and put a fresh sock on before putting on both boots, lacing them up tight.
The month since he had been to Bravo the first time had been a long one. It had been years since he had been around his kind - both in terms of strain and in community. He was anxious and excited to start preparations to head back for the trade meet. Slapping his boots, knocking away some of the dried mud off, he rose to his full height, puffed out his chest and started walking.
Sam had spent most of his life walking, hell he was a Baywalker - it was in his strain! Usually walking away from something, someone, or sometimes from time itself. So, to be walking towards something was different for him. A zombie lurched out behind a tree and Sam pulled his pistol and shot it directly between the eyes, barely even looking up as he did so.
Was this what is was like to find a home he wondered. Pulling off his boonie hat to wipe sweat from his forehead, he fondled the small rectangular whitish pin with an ancient anchor inscribed on it afterwards. It marked him as a member of a Baywalker community - or better put perhaps - a trusted acquaintance of such. The first to ever accept him for his size.
“You’re too tall. You’re too fat. You’re too noisy. You’re too ugly” he mimicked the criticisms he has heard most of his life.
The voices in his head raised to a screech. “You don’t belong. You’re too old. You’re too quiet. You have RBF! No one likes you.” The voices kept him company as he hiked along.
Ahead in the grass and weed-strewn black tarred road was the makeshift sign pointing to the northwest. “Shut the fuck up. I deserve to be in a better place. I’d rather be in Bravo.”
For now, the voices stopped and Sam continued towards his future.
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