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Weekly Contest #90
The wind whipped unforgivingly against Marcus' cloak. He pulled it tighter around himself and trudged through the snow on his makeshift snowshoes, searching through the storm for any signs of shelter. This was the forty seventh day, fifteenth hour, twenty first minute- roughly - since he had seen another live human being. He had killed the last one. It was tragic, but done in self-defense. She had wanted his supplies in his pack. Or perhaps the meat on his bones, if she was desperate enough. Marcus tried not to think about her, because wh...
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