<strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Germany, June 2019, Survivor's settlement in the former nature-sanctuary Siebengebirge (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siebengebirge) near Bonn (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonn) </span></strong><br/><br/><div align="center">(http://i50.tinypic.com/2istnyf.jpg)</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>Preparation, the first thing on your list if you've got a chance to plan ahead. Franka lived by this rule, had made it her routine long before the outbreak. From climbing and Le Parkour, she knew that a small, seemingly negligible detail could prove crucial. Pack everything you need and nothing you don't, check your gear, choose your clothes wisely, and your shoes.<br/><br/>It was hot for June, the early sun glared over the trees like an angry, unblinking eye. With no weather forecast, she relied on instinct, observation and old Willi, who, like her, said this weather would hold for another week. It would be dreadfully hot under the clothes she'd be wearing for protection, her skin would scream to be allowed a breath of wind. Best not put on the jacket right away, only after leaving the safe territory. Well, what they called safe nowadays.<br/><br/>Instead, she began to wrap soft suede vambraces around her lower arms, once, twice, then laced and tied them and stuffed the ends between the two layers of leather. With a sigh, she repeated the procedure with a collar made from the same leather, covering her neck in two layers of suede that would hold off a bite. She must look weirdly kinky, she thought, wearing only underwear, a collar and vambraces. She put on leather trousers, pulled up her socks, then her boots, and fastened them.<br/><br/>With their thick soles, they were heavier and less flexible than she would have liked, but with her last tetanus shot ancient history, and after seeing what trouble stepping into a nail could end you in, it was better to put up with the boots and the noise they'd make. She slipped into her tank top, the one concession to her comfort she could risk making, for now, took the belt, checked the knife, a slingshot, a garotte, a ball of chalk in its leather pouch, a microfiber hammock in another, light, so small she could fit it into her fist.<br/><br/>Then she examined her rucksack, the machete fastened along the side, the provisions, the rope, the gun with ammunition, the picklock she had so conveniently found last year, the hat, most hated of all items, in the summer. Long hair was an invitation to be seized by it, too short hair offered no protection against the sun, but as soon as it was long again for that, it could be grabbed. Alternative: A hat that would come off when clutched at. Hot, itching, but unavoidable in the city, ruled Franka, grimacing.<br/><br/><div class="floatright">  (http://i50.tinypic.com/2eev61z.jpg)</div>Her next occasion to pull a face came when she stepped out into the sun, blinking, to be greeted with a pad on the shoulders and a cheerful. "Look, there she is, our apocalyptic Strider." All these Lord of the Ring references, that Klaus never grew tired of them. In terms of Tolkien, he looked like a king size Hobbit, but she suspected he rather fancied himself a Rohirrim. He'd never learn the last thing she wanted when setting out was being distracted, held up, talked rubbish to in an attempt to cheer her up. As proved his next comment. "Robinia Hood - wait, where's the cap, fair maid?"<br/><br/>"You'll find it in your mouth if you don't shut up, oh valiant Sir Marian." She grinned, pushing past him. Along with Klaus' chuckle, a girl's giggle was heard, only to be stifled immediately. Jasmine, of course. Now, there was a clever one, an orphaned child the community had taken in some years ago, she wanted protection and affection, and she knew exactly how to get it, even from Franka. About ten years of age and the only child here, she'd pursue Franka with the fierce, single minded loyalty and admiration a child would sometimes develop for the most unlikely candidate.<br/><br/>From the beginning, she had completely ignored Franka's unwillingness to talk, soon read her expressions and postures like a book, reacted to her every mood like one of these colour-changing rings. Once she had fathomed the depths of Franka's well-hidden but profound goodnaturedness, she might as well have been glued to her. Franka could push her away as far as possible, she'd only bounce back to her, grinning, sly, adorable. Just as she was now, when her repressed giggle resulted in Franka's hand being held out for her.<br/><br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://i49.tinypic.com/v832i0.jpg)    </div>This meant Jasmine could come along up to the second ringfort. Her hand was clammy, and Franka peered down into that small serious face. How small she was for her age, malnutrition did that. Of the few children who had made it through, most were small, light boned, with eyes that could have belonged to someone ten times their age. Franka knew what was wrong. Five years ago, maybe three, even, and she would have said something along the lines of 'I'll be fine, don't worry.' or 'I'll be back.'. Such nonsense, even small kids knew whoever left their sight might never come back.<br/><br/>With less luck, someone would die right in front of them, and it might be their turn next. Or they might not die at all, but turn into a monster and try to eat the kiddie. So, both thinking much the same, they went on in silence, avoiding to let dry branches or bones snap under their feet. They kept their eyes and ears open, but were relaxed, reading the signs that assured them they were safe. With the bright morning sun twinkling in dew covered spiderwebs, listening to birds singing and bees humming, in the forest that slowly became a wilderness, it was easy to believe they might be.