Things have gotten worse. The weather has been getting colder, and I have been hearing noises I recognize less and less.

There isn't a single soul out here, not even a ranger or an Indian. Half the fruit I find now is rotten, and I've turned towards fishing yet even that opened its own can of worms. All that's left is my wallet, a pen, this notebook, my shirt and the upper half of my sweatpants.

I miss going to have a drink. I don't think I'll find a way home, so I just hope that I can find some help or die.

I don't even know how much time have passe it's been since my last entry. I've just begun to reflect on how much my life sucks now, even though I used to say I hate my life back in the day. Now I wish I could have someone to say that to, but everything is either a plant, a fish or it's trying to kill me.

Is this what deployment would've been like?

The man heard a bang in the distance, swiftly retracted his pen, and flipped back through the few pages of his sketchbook the moisture hadn't yet smudged: some were desert sketches, fewer were empty left for him to write down his coming days.

After a few moments of staring, he closed his torn-up notebook, and hid it in a rickety moisture-covered drawer, sliding it right under a small pocket knife he'd brought with him from times more familiar. Paper, he'd learned the hard way, didn't take too kindly to water; and when raindrops could seep from the seams in a roof of haphazardly gathered pieces of scrap metal and gadgets found lying around, that was a problem. He braced himself, turned to his side, and tucked himself under a bed of leaves.

I don't even need to cry...not that I can anymore.

"Oh crap.. it's that damn sound again."

A mechanical buzz resonated across the meager space of the shelter, depriving him of any rest he may have been hoping for. He wrestled his heavy eyelids open, stood up, and started shaking in the cold. This wasn't the first time he had heard that sound; and apparently, wouldn't be the last for a long time.

He quietly snuck towards the hole that barely reached his height that he had for an entrance, pushed out the discolored block of wood that served as his door, and searched the rainy forest ahead of him to find the source of that infernal noise. After a quick moment of reflection, the man had made out the culprit through the mist to be what appeared to be a small hunk of metal drawing increasingly closer to him.

It was identical to many he had seen before. Short stubby body, tiny legs, large feet, spherical head, no neck. They oddly resembled clockwork toys. Oddly enough, he could tell, its face was directed away from him. The moment its head turned around, however, its eyes went from green to red as it leapt at the man. A wave of fear and irritation thicker than the rain washed over his grimacing face, and he slowly retreated to the door.

He was already feeling tired enough as it is; he thought to himself, "Ah, great. Killer toys: now with a chance of.. shit, I forgot the phrase." and snuck off to his side with the cold wind blowing in his ear to find the nearest pebble, and threw it in the machine's general direction.

With a cramp, he tripped and his arm wobbled. The pebble shot past its target, and slammed into a tree branch. Hands on the ground and cold rain on his face, the man kept staring at the mass of steel and copper that drew closer and closer to him, and raved with a scowl. "The fuck did I-ha-ha-kah," he coughed, "the fuck did I to you this time?!"

The mechanical trespasser leapt within a few yards of him, splashing mud over his ear. The man, drawing one breath after the other, grabbed the next rock he could find, stood himself up, and yelped as he slammed the machine's face in from the side with a loud thwack. The recoil sent him spinning, and he'd slid off to the side just in time to hear the machine's metal fist whizzing through the air, close to dislocating his shoulder.

The trees and the ground faded around him, and his head weighed like an anchor pulling the rest of his body down as he powered through a stretch of mud and puddles. His breath drew short, and his joints ached as if his bones had been run through a meat grinder. He turned back to look at his enemy, charging at him once more.

What is this angry Chef Boyardee can fucking doing here? Looking for a group shower?

Lungs tight with fright, the lone man lifted his rock one last time, barely able to hear the rain and the machine's whir over his delirious panting, and threw it. "Hail fuckin' Mary." he quietly whispered, and clenched his teeth, holding his hands up.

The pebble hit the machine's artificial eye, and broke through its glass with a shatter. Its joints quickly began to spasm, and it started shaking. The machine's head banged against the wet loam and rolled on its side, sinking into a puddle. Sparks flew in the air, and a loud zap sounded from the now deactivated hunk of metal. Straight to the liquid, wait...

...the phrase I forgot was 'liquid sunshine'. Goddamn it.

The cold tightness in the man's chest finally vanished. He cleaned his ear with rainwater, returned to his shelter for comfort from the storm, and put the makeshift door back to its place. He returned to sleep, lying down on his damp bed, hoping to not be distracted -or threatened- again. Or at least, not in his sleep.