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Most days, it felt like fury was the only fucking thing keeping him going.
Rage was a hell of a drug - helped one push through pain, and fear, and heartache. It could make you stupid, but it could make you smart, too. And for Porter, it was the latter. What some called brooding, he called plotting. Pouring over what maps the community he lived in had available. Pulling favours from the group's scouts and trackers to get them to keep an eye out for the movements of the Cutters. There was scarcely an hour where he wasn't thinking - wracking his damn brain for any minuscule scrap of information that could help him find Raleigh.
The only good fucking thing left in this shithole of a world.
Porter's wrath had ever been as the chilling blizzard itself - cold, creeping, and permeating down to the bone. It was not explosive, nor fiery, nor full of passion - it was insidiously focused, and unnerving. It did not abate when fuelled by frigid winds - and, in this case, those arctic zephyrs were the unrelenting batter of his own thoughts. He didn't dare allow them to stray into morbid territory - he had to believe Raleigh was alive. He wasn't a kid anymore, he was a man - and he was intelligent. Resourceful. There was no way in hell some deranged shitheels had put him down. He was tougher than that.
Trudging through the forest, the man's pale blue gaze flicked ahead as his long strides saw thick snow crunching under his boots. Cheeks pinkened by biting winds and eyes heavy with bags, he looked exhausted - and he was, on some level. But that ever-present prickle of anger kept him going. He could rest when he was dead, or Raleigh was home safe. He'd dug up some leads - by way of application of knife to gut and fist to face to survivors who looked the sort to deal with the freaks. The Cutters were elusive bastards, and their compound was extremely well hidden. They did most of their business external to where the hornets nest lay. He knew they were North, and that their territory wasn't far from the outskirts of the ruins of Austin. But that wasn't enough. Still a wild fuckin' goose chase.
The snap of a twig nearby saw Porter whirling around, his rifle's stock braced against his shoulder and levelled square - ready to fire. Lips drawn to a taut line, the man took a few stalking, careful steps forward - had he been followed? No, surely not. He was more careful than that. Porter had to suppress the growl rising in his throat as he spotted the peek of a coat sleeve behind a tree.
Faintly, Porter could make out laboured breaths - spotted the cloud of condensation as hot air exhaled met the ambient chill. Just as he was about to bark out an order to come out, a marking on the woman's hand caught his eye... the Cutter's mark. Low simmering wrath built to boiling - this motherfucker must know something. His ticket to finding Raleigh. In a blur of practiced movement, Porter was at the tree; seizing the person by the scruff of the coat, back pressed to his chest with his hunting knife at the fucker's throat.
"You. You've got the Cutter's mark." He snarled against her ear, his voice dangerously cold. The sharp edge of the blade dug deeper into the soft flesh of the marked person's throat. A part of him was tempted just to slice - to let the hot spray of blood spatter the snow. Anything that bore that mark was one of them - had to be. But his higher mind stilled his hand *for now* - he needed information. "Where are they located? You're going to tell me *everything* you know, or I'll split your fucking belly open and leave your insides hanging out for the crows."
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