Henry stared out at the empty road, his eyes peeled for any form of danger. He’d been one of the few that survived the many downfalls of their small community, he’d been part of the original group. If he could go back and meet himself back then, he doubted he’d recognize himself. He’d been barely a kid, age be damned. He’d been immature, terrified, weak. The moment he saw those he considered his friends die around him, he’d purged himself of those weaknesses, became a useful tool for the surviving inhabitants.<br/><br/>The day had been slow, which was a blessing and a curse. Slow meant safe, he knew that. Boring was good. But he’d been sitting in the same place, same position, gripping the same gun, for almost six hours by then. He was freezing. If he did see any zombies, he wasn’t sure he could unclench his limbs to shoot it. That was generally a sign that he should surrender his post to someone else, which is exactly what he didn’t do. They had no room for weakness anymore. He couldn’t risk leaving his post even for a moment.<br/><br/>Eliza’s morning was rather different than any of the guard’s. She was one of the few people in town with any form of medical knowledge, albeit one learned through experience, not schooling, so she spent most days patching wounds, fixing dislocated shoulders, setting broken ribs. It was the one use she really had. She couldn’t shoot a gun worth a damn, and had yet to find someone who would teach her how to, she couldn’t cook, couldn’t build the wall. What she could do was stitch wounds, so that was what she did.<br/><br/>It didn’t help that there had been an accident that morning with the builders. The men could be severely annoying when it came to wounds, they all wanted to play it tough to ‘conserve medical supplies,’ which would be a kind gesture. Instead, their wounds got worse or infected, and she had to use the rarer supplies to keep them from dying. Male pride was killing her.<br/><br/>The moment she was finished dealing with the stubborn idiots, she left the infirmary, which was actually her living room, and walked toward one of the posts in search of fresh air. Besides, if nobody would teach her to shoot, it wouldn’t hurt to watch someone do it. Wielding only a hunting knife, she’d be dead in moments if she was attacked, no matter how good she was with the blade.