This far out, separated by distance, by the curve of the land and the things that grew on it, you couldn't really see the city, or hear it. If you strained your eyes, maybe there was a glow; if you strained your ears, maybe the sounds of civilization. But mostly, it was light of the moon, and the sounds of nature.
They'd heard the siren, though. It had carried. The reminder that if she strained her ears and tried to hear the city, she wouldn't be listening for the sounds of civilization. It would be the sounds of the other thing. More like home. She hoped everyone she knew still there was safe. She hoped anyone -- hunters, she thought of them, the old language of before -- taking advantage of the Purge would find this place too far out of the way. Wouldn't find it at all.
But hope was a small protection and she knew better than to rely on it, which was why she'd wired nail bombs to the windows of every room they weren't in. Why she was carrying a rifle as she prowled from back of the house to front, why she had her bow and quiver slung across her back, pistol in her belt. Switchblade at her side. All her old tricks, bar the molotovs, because she didn't want to burn Harley's house down, or the forest by accident.
(But she had bottles of alchohol and she had rags, ready to go. Good for wounds, and if it came to it, if it got really bad, that old trick would come out, too.)
She'd thought of doing something in the surrounding woods. More traps, maybe, or just motion sensitive lights. But she didn't want animals wandering through and hurting themselves, or constantly lighting up the place, drawing attention. Better to leave it quiet, and keep the lights to a minimum. Preserve night vision. And project the image: this is just nature. Nothing to see here.
Usually she liked the peace of nature. That had been the same back in her time, her world. Being out in it, away from the trappings of humanity, from the ruins, empty or otherwise.
But part of it, then and tonight, was that it was easier to hear and see anyone coming. So she stalked, and she listened, and she watched.
They'd heard the siren, though. It had carried. The reminder that if she strained her ears and tried to hear the city, she wouldn't be listening for the sounds of civilization. It would be the sounds of the other thing. More like home. She hoped everyone she knew still there was safe. She hoped anyone -- hunters, she thought of them, the old language of before -- taking advantage of the Purge would find this place too far out of the way. Wouldn't find it at all.
But hope was a small protection and she knew better than to rely on it, which was why she'd wired nail bombs to the windows of every room they weren't in. Why she was carrying a rifle as she prowled from back of the house to front, why she had her bow and quiver slung across her back, pistol in her belt. Switchblade at her side. All her old tricks, bar the molotovs, because she didn't want to burn Harley's house down, or the forest by accident.
(But she had bottles of alchohol and she had rags, ready to go. Good for wounds, and if it came to it, if it got really bad, that old trick would come out, too.)
She'd thought of doing something in the surrounding woods. More traps, maybe, or just motion sensitive lights. But she didn't want animals wandering through and hurting themselves, or constantly lighting up the place, drawing attention. Better to leave it quiet, and keep the lights to a minimum. Preserve night vision. And project the image: this is just nature. Nothing to see here.
Usually she liked the peace of nature. That had been the same back in her time, her world. Being out in it, away from the trappings of humanity, from the ruins, empty or otherwise.
But part of it, then and tonight, was that it was easier to hear and see anyone coming. So she stalked, and she listened, and she watched.