You manage to shoot

Status: Uninfected

Your Equipment: Battered sandals, Ragged Panties, Hunting Jacket, Ragged Tank-top, Ragged shorts, Hunting Knife, Pistol (3/7)

Your Inventory: Canned food (7), Bottled Water (15), Flashlight, Batteries (2), Duct Tape (3'), Twine (12' roll, 15' length), Blanket, Tattered Sundresses (2), Ragged Panties (3), Cabin Keys, Pistol Ammo (23), Pistol magazine (7/7), Tarp, Beef Jerkey

Your survival instincts manage to override the icy fingers of fear gripping you, and you stand, stepping back from the window. As you move, the futa abruptly begins moving, too, starting towards the door with an alarming burst of speed.

You step to the side, keeping the futa in view, the pistol awkwardly thrust in front of you, pointed at it. Your finger jerks the trigger back, the large handgun roaring in the confined space, the window spiderwebbing around the hole abruptly punched through it. The futa keeps charging, unhurt, and you swear, backpedaling into the corner of the room as the futa bursts through the door, feet scrabbling as it attempts to cut the ninety-degree turn to get at you.

As it turns towards you, cock pointing towards you like a perverted arrow, the pistol jumps three more times in your hands, the thunderclaps of the shots setting your ears ringing. One round sails over the charging futa, thudding into the far wall, another catches it in the left thigh, causing it to stumble forwards. The last round tears through its' skull, causing a pink mist to erupt from the back of its' head as it abruptly tumbles forward. Its' carcass slams into your legs, sending you sprawling face-first over its' body.

You scramble back to your feet, your mind a blur of thoughts as it struggles to process what just happened. With the pistol aimed at the door in one shaky hand, you manage to shove everything else out of your mind to recognize you need to get out of here fast. You take a brief moment to search the dresser and armoire, yanking drawers open with enough **** to rip them out of the dresser. They're all empty, but as you wrench the armoire door open, you find a small blessing. A heavy hunting jacket hangs there, which you yank off its' hangar. Setting the pistol on the bed, in arms reach, you shuck your pack just long enough to get your arms through the sleeves of the jacket. It's large on you, hanging down to below your ass, and your hands basically disappear into the sleeves, but it's far better than what you had. You don't bother with the zip, just throw your pack on, grab your pistol, and dash out the door.

Thee deep shadows of twilight greet you as you exit the cabin, reminding you of just how treacherous this is going to be. You make it a few steps away from the cabin before the stinging cold in your soles reminds you to grab your sandals, and you double back, stuffing your feet into them, even as you try to decide whether to head towards the lodge or back down the mountain. Another keening wail reminds you of just how close the Infected are, spurring you to action.