Franka was already confident of her bearings again, and to her satisfaction and relief, her hearing had adjusted, too. She had found her rhythm in running, and could not detect any signs of stinkers following them. It must have worked, Utem's diversion, his trap, the freaks had either been blown up or were so distracted by the source of noise and light they had lost sight - and recollection, prolly - of the small group of runners. They couldn't hear the muffled pounding of feet on gravel, either, and as the path lead into the one direction from where not a single stinker had appeared, they might just be lucky from now on.<br/><br/>Even better, as the trees thinned, she could distinguish some of her surroundings, shapes only, but a fairer blue tinged the horizon, there was a greyish hint to the darkness, it was no longer nearly impenetrable, and once outside the wood, it got even better. She slowed to a halt and checked her surroundings. She knew the others were close, it would not do to have them leave the cover of the trees only to run into a bunch of stinkers. She heard or smelled no sign of any, though, but something alerted her, a sense of not being alone. Of course, she could not know what the others had been told, nor see the crouching Hackett.<br/><br/>She crossed the stretch of wet grass between the path and the riverbed, machete in one hand, gun in the other, peering into either direction, sniffing in the fresh, cool air. Once more, she became a noiseless, slowly moving shape of solid darkness. She saw a red dot of light dance over some leaves, too small to do harm if infected were around. But there were none, not a hint of their scent, not a sound, not a single ominously swaying shadow. She lowered her gun and began to stretch her muscles. She looked like a cross between a strangely armed Tai Chi practitioner and a weird athlete after a run, but she cared not, and besides, she thought nobody saw her.<br/><br/>If anyone knew just how important it was to keep your muscles smooth and warm, flexible, ready to go, it was Franka, habitually paranoid and halfway obsessed with everything that rendered her survival more likely. The chill night air, heavy with dew, could cool you off too quickly, something that ended in stiff muscles, at best. All it took from there was one sudden or false movement, one slip or stumble, and your chances in any fight or flight were diminished. Franka had an entire litany of must and mustn't do, it was her catechism of survival, and she was a walking encyclopedia of all the small, stupid, absurd or unimportant seeming things that had gotten people killed.