There was one sick advantage to all of the chaos; everything had flipped on its head. Even as far as an advantage went, this wasn't a great one. It only benefited some of the survivors, but Rhonwen was one like that. This was truly a survival of the fittest kind of world- the fittest, and the luckiest. The fittest didn't mean just the kid who could run the fastest, though, or look the best, or make the most people laugh; the most fit was the person who could take what they needed without remorse. The person who could kill because it served them best- as a distraction to the feral dogs that had overrun the town, as a way to gain resources- that was who survived. The ruthless. And Rhonwen thrived here.
At least, she thrived more than she felt she had before the fall. Before, Rhonwen wasn't well liked. She was too mean, she was petty, she had an endless anger. The Irish girl could be sociable enough, sure, but she wasn't any Barbie. But after? Afterwords, Rhonwen had been the one to survive. She wasn't sure if anyone else in her class had made it, but she could name several who hadn't. They might have been popular and well liked, but they were weak, and Rhonwen would have laughed in their faces.
But they were all gone, and the once-fair skinned woman was making her way out of the town as things got dark. The dogs were more awake at night, for whatever reason- probably less energy used when the sun was down, and more nocturnal prey to chase. At the very least, Rhonwen's green eyes worked better in the day and she had come out of every scuffle so far alive, so she'd assumed that the dogs were more wild at night.
Rhonwen sighed. Her jeans were torn, her grey shirt and sweater were dirty and stained, and her backpack was definitively not full of food. Or ammo. Rhonwen's grandfather had taught her to shoot guns, as he'd been in the Irish army, and she was grateful for that skill now. While some had managed to get by without the skill in this brutal new world, those who knew how to use a bun as anything more than a glorified club had a marked advantage... When they had ammunition for their guns. Rhonwen's pistols, however, had never experienced a full cartridge while in her possession, and she wondered if it was worth hanging on to the two. Currently, they rested in her black backpack with a small, but heavy, hammer, and the woman wondered if there was really anything to miss while she'd been foraging. But in the ruined town was just ruble and bones- not so much as a corpse to tempt her.
While she walked, Rhonwen shook her greasy hair out of its previous braid, and redid it. What she wouldn't give for a shower! Anything to clean this persistant grime off of her skin, or to brush the knots out of her hair- vanity, and hope of refuge, had prevented Rhonwen from cutting it all off when things first went to hell. Now, she reasoned, she no longer had a knife to cut it with, but when she was frustrated with it she swore that as soon as she had so much as a sharp piece of glass again she'd cut it all off. When Rhonwen finished the braid, she rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead, and streaked the dirt around her face. She may have been thriving socially in this landscape, but she would kill for a bath right now.
Up ahead, there was a spark of light. Something had to have made it, which meant another person, which meant resources. A potential ally. Or shop. She paused to pull the hammer out of her bag- an effective threat- and approached the fire, seeing a dog and a sleeping bag as she got closer. A sleeping bag would have been smart to grab. Maybe I can take theirs. Or not- Rhonwen was lonely and wanted to hear someone else, at least for a little while. This person had more potential to be an ally than many.