The clearing was alive with activity, the survivors huddled around a makeshift fire, their hands busy as they boiled the mushrooms and berries they'd scavenged, trying to create some kind of soup.
The air was thick with the scent of earth, smoke, and desperation, the steam rising from the pot mixing with the acrid smell of burning wood. Their faces were smudged with dirt, their clothes stained, but their eyes burned with a fragile triumph—as if they'd conquered the forest itself.
And then there were the looks. The arrogant, smug glances thrown my way, as if they'd won something. As if they'd proven something.
Some of them even came closer, holding their bowls of mushroom broth like trophies, flaunting it in our faces. One of the men—a burly guy with a scruffy beard and greasy hair—grinned at Angela and Lisa, his eyes raking over them in a way that made their skin crawl.
