Simon’s fingers were beginning to blister from the day-to-day work he did for the colony of survivors. He had grown up on a farm, so he was used to hauling and toting heavy things, or getting a little dirty for whatever needed doing, but it had been a long time since his hands had formed fresh callouses. The time he’d spent outside of the compound hadn’t required a lot of heavy things to be carried. You traveled light, only took with you what you needed to survive. Now that he was part of the colony, it was back to the grind. Simon supposed he didn’t mind so much. It was work that his body was used to. He was tall and gangling—not one you’d expect to be a good worker—but it was where he could stop thinking and do something productive for a while. It was like an escape.
He was currently carrying a jug of contaminated water toward the edges of the compound. It had been tainted somehow, and a couple of people had gotten sick from it, so they couldn’t afford to keep it around. Rather than risk leaving the contaminant (which they had no idea what it was) in the compound, it was Simon’s job to dump it out over the other side. He set it down beside him, unscrewed the top of the jug, and hefted it against the edge. He didn’t bother looking where the water was landing. In fact, he was hardly paying attention. Today wasn’t a day where he wanted to see the Walkers.