The Nameless Survivor
TITLE PAGE
The Nameless Survivor
By;
J.K. Hawk
For my wife and kids; let’s see where this takes us.
Copyright © 2014 by J.K. Hawk Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
J.K. Hawk Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1500511876
2nd day, 5th Planting Moon;153
12th day, 5th Thunder Moon;156
17th day, 5th Sturgeon Moon197
29th day, 5th Sturgeon Moon;201
25th Day, 6th Thunder Moon;244
2nd Day, 6th Hunter's Moon;360
3rd Day, 6th Hunter's Moon;365
EXORDIUM
Per the Old Calendar, on December 12th 1899, the first confirmed case of the Bubonic Plague was acknowledged within the borders of the former United States of America. It had been over five hundred years since this same infliction devastated most of Europe and wiped out more than fifty percent of the human population there. And even with all the advancements in medicine following those dark ages, this threat was just as lethal as before.
The outbreak in Hawaii, however, was quickly contained when President William McKinley issued an executive order to The Board of Health. On New Year’s Eve, 1899, Honolulu's China-Town was systematically and without regret burnt to the ground. Tragically this inevitable strike included anyone who had contracted the disease as well as those who had not. The event was mostly unheard of and eventually forgotten, becoming a trivial moment in our history.
Towards the end of the Old Calendar the world was stricken with a different and more sinister contagion, one that would never become lost to history. SPV-3, or what is now referred to as the Valkyrie Virus, quickly became a deadlier enemy than the Black Death or any other disease in history. It was a viral outbreak of biblical proportions which descended upon our world, forging a desolate rift into mankind's existence. Inconceivably, less than thirty percent of the human population survived after the first year.
When SPV-1 was first discovered at a research facility in Antarctica’s Valkyrie Dome, it was a simple one-celled organism, not a virus nor any form of bacteria. A harmless microscopic life-form similar to that of an Amoeba, never before seen by man. It awaited silently for a million years, deep within a cavern beneath two miles of ancient ice. Cradled within the warmth of the earth’s crust it thrived exclusively on other carnivorous microbes, but none of them as unique as Valkyrie itself.
What intrigued scientists most about this new life-form was its unabated metabolism, sinister prowess, and more importantly its genetic flexibilities. To a small degree, Valkyrie was capable of evolving as well as de-evolving at an astonishing rate. It had the means to adjust as needed to the environment around it, to ensure its own survival. This genetic evolution is what scientist recklessly tampered with, giving way to SPV-2 and ultimately SPV-3. By the time they knew what they had, it was too late, and the world suffered because of it.
Most people assume that the infection kills the host, and in some ways it does, but only the person you once were. The organism makes a direct assault into the brain, infecting every blood-cell in its path before latching on to your brain-stem. Swiftly it shuts down any nonessential neural pathways. Motor skills, vision, hearing, smell, and unfortunately hunger and rage are all tapped and enhanced. Meanwhile the infected blood-cells push toxins further into the system as complete assimilation takes hold.
The body, however, remains alive and the heart continues to beat within the chest. Valkyrie uses your everyday body functions to feed and endure. It utilizes living tissue as sustenance to maintain and repair its hijacked vessel, but only fresh uninfected flesh. The infection generally neglects nourishing the skin, causing hair loss and gradually necrosis. In its place a black scar-tissue slowly forms, cracked and scaly, seeping a thick and rancid protective fluid. Other infections which invade the host, either viral or bacterial, are isolated and immediately assimilated.
There is still much that is not understood about this contagion, especially the “How’s” and “Whys” it affects each person or life-form differently. Carnivorous mammals are the most susceptible prey, while other animals are either unaffected or become carriers. Assimilated animals generally are all the same, fast and ferocious, lacking any sign of self-preservation. Humans on the other hand, are affected differently from one person to the next, and it is currently believed that this is because of the evolutionary progression in our brain.
While few are fast and agile, the majority are slow yet congregate into hordes. Most are mindless and soulless fiends, yet others still retain something of their former intelligence, making them highly unpredictable. Worst of all, they are more durable than the living, within the vicinity of invincibility. But The Dead do possess chinks in their infectious armor, however it does not make them any easier to subdue.
The gestation period for this plague, the period of first contamination to complete assimilation, varies wildly. In the beginning days it would take hours of agonizing fever before coma eventually set in, and then hours later before the body would reawaken. The current record of this transformation takes a mere thirty seconds from initial exposure. Thus, providing loved ones limited time to forget their emotional connections, and respond with complete and utter lethality.
The Great Outbreak began during a time when the media and pop-culture fed on biblical tales of The Dead rising from their graves. There was a world-wide hype of Zombie Movies and Television Shows. Some took these fictitious tales to heart and became survivalists. However the similarities to Hollywood's undead are mere coincidence, the tangible undead, are a whole other beast. This is no campfire horror story, it is a true pandemic fed by corrupt science, not by the greed of the entertainment industry nor that of the religions.
Unlike the Black Death, this disease took only sixty days to conquer the world, and neither fire nor nuke could contain it. The governments were the first to fall, collapsing in on themselves as the chains of command rapidly broke down. Most of the world’s military forces went AWOL, others became extermination squads, corrupt militias, or greedy and unjust mercenaries. Money soon had little meaning, however; food, medicine, women and children had quickly become extremely valuable commodities.
Religion as well became lost to this contagion as the Vatican itself crumbled beneath the Demon Plague and within an instant the world cried out in utter anguish. Images on the evening news of that event will forever be burned into our minds. Unholy death and agony at the center of a once divine heart, a moment when we all came to full realization – when we watched the truth unfold on our overpriced television-sets.
One could not imagine what was going through that camera man’s head as he hovered from his helicopter directly above Saint Peter's Square with a perfect birds-eye view. A mob of true believers and desperate recreants, thousands of them flocked to the only place that they felt would be their sanctuary from this curse. The one place that God's light could still protect them, where Jesus would forgive their sins and redeem their souls. However, they repented upon deaf ears, and even the innocent and faithful burned within the Devil's crematorium.
A sea of black and white, fathers and sisters... saviors. A horde one hundred strong, funneled into the square, cornering their faithful followers within the outer walls of the courtyard. All of them fallen from grace's perch and into the arms of hell. The infected were outnumbered ten to one, and yet the living had no chance, no way out. The plague swept through the square like wildfire as God's vengeful teeth sunk in. But the worst had yet to present itself, and the world continued to watch, in both horror and curiosity.
The camera zoomed in on the balcony of Saint Peter's Basilica which overlooked the attack of God's disciples, and there, the Bishop of Rome somberly stepped out. His arms outstretched much like many of his appearances before, only this time he held a vintage pistol firmly in one hand, and his holy vestments were stained with a splattering of blood. His final declaration was inaudible over all the commotion below along with the blustering whirr of the chopper, yet some do claim to have been able to read the words from his divine lips. Of course the translations change slightly from person to person, however the message itself is inherently the same. So it is with their skills that we presume these are in fact his last mournful words.
“Come foglie di autunno, ci e cadranno, ei nostri peccati ci spazzano via come il vento.” Translation; 'Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall, and our sins sweep us away like the wind.' Isaiah 64.6.
His final sermon; man-kinds last blessing, soon followed by a Pope in doubt positioning the barrel up underneath his chin. Gracefully he raised his other hand further into the air, as if reaching out to touch God himself before he pulled the trigger. The cameraman attempted to turn away his lens, yet it was his own dismay that halted his natural reflexes, and it was too late.
A shower of consecrated blood exploded above the City of God and rained down upon the courtyard below, a mass crimson-baptism. The Pope's body fell to the balcony floor before the cameraman lost his grip, and his birds-eye fell to a destructive end on the concrete below. In that calamitous moment the whole of humanity was fractured and laid to waste. Moments later the airwaves went silent and the voice of man was transiently quelled.
The Media is mostly at fault for fueling man's panic, urging the need to seek out others for protection. Mass congregations only spread the infliction faster, and in most cases pitted the living against one another. It became what some referred to as The Rapture or The Wrath of God. Judgment day, a long foretold prophecy. Personally, I saw it as the defining and self-serving testament of our own extinction.
And yet over all the countless and needless deaths and atrocities, the human race has prevailed. Those who chose to flee or hunker down, those who waited out the storm would clear a path for humanities rebirth. Their instinctual ability to adapt and overcome, and their unyielding self-preservation was enough to outlast this dreadful Ten Year Plague. It was the brave and the strong-willed who inherited the earth. Those who panicked, as well as the meek, were the unfortunate to burn.
The survivors in the wake of this madness are now united in a selfless global effort to bring humanity back from the brink. Reunited through the International Emergency Communications Satellite, we have formed the Global Federation of Survivors, or GFS. A world-wide communal organization whose main purpose is humanitarian reconditioning. Hard work, as well as letting go of the old world did not come easily, and still we have our setbacks.
But, communities are slowly being rebuilt, schools have reopened across the world, as well as hospitals and farms. Even electricity is on the rise, abandoned solar farms and windmills, including hydro-dams have all been put to good use. Still, less than one percent of the world has power, but we are hopeful that number will increase to ten percent by the fifteenth year.
The threat itself is all but a dreadful memory that our children will soon look upon as long-lost history, just another page in a boring text-book. Most of them have never woken in The Dead of night, drenched in a sopping sweat from another heart-stopping dream of death and agony. The youngest of our children, the babies, will thankfully have no memory of this period. It is the children – who are the lucky ones.
However, the afflicted do still walk this earth, although their numbers are dwindling rapidly. But every now and again a small herd will re-enter our communities, like drifters solemnly climbing out of our past. Our security forces are effective and lethal, swiftly eliminating the damned before they become a major threat to the general public. Regular hunting parties search abandoned towns and neighboring forests in a preemptive strike to rid them of this world once and for all.
This new world of ours will be constructed from the ashes of all that was good in the old, and desperately we sweep away the corruption. Prejudice and racism is now all but a sad memory. Marriage in its old sense is non-existent, it is currently common for men to take multiple wives. Both, to ensure re-population, and to counterbalance the sexes. For every one man there are now three women. And homosexuality, which has finally become an accepted lifestyle, is rarely practiced. Survival of the species can be a funny thing.
Religion, for the most part, has evolved drastically. The horrors witnessed was the proof in the pudding that the words of our ancestors may be nothing more than a well contrived, archaic poem. So instead we teach our children the most basic and most important verses of the old testaments, the morals. Which we all use to preach, yet rarely did we ever live by them.
“Thou shalt not kill the living,” “Thou shalt not steal, yet shall bequeath that which can be spared.” “Honor thy father and thy mother for they have suffered more than I.” are just some of the old yet redefined teachings that we hold dear. No longer are these the misguided words of corruption, but now the words and laws of an enlightened species. This is a world where we live day-to-day with a new sense of humanity, and will always remember the farces of our past.
Although God has not been forgotten, nor cast out. We have justly let-go of mankind's past construction of him. To those still faithful, God is the bringer of life, but he pulls no strings and reigns no kingdoms. God is the energy within our souls, the drive to become a better person. No longer do we preach man’s assumptions of our creator, but instead we enlightened each other to what is best for the human race. Most feel that if God has set a specific path for man-kind, then it would be he who educates us, not the ancient ramblings of impressionable and fearful men.
My research and the unrelenting efforts of the GFS is what has brought the human race back together again. Six years of hell swept the planet before I was able to weaponize my counter-agent, and in return began our righteous revolution. But, that is a whole other story which is depicted in the Valkyrie: Official Report, now publicly available in most communities. The following pages are not about the GFS, and are not about the plague itself. Those subjects are just the outcome of an evil back-story.
The following pages you are about to read are but a small compilation of ramblings by a hopeless and mysterious survivor in the War of the Dead. His name is never mentioned and he scribed no signature. It is a simple memoir of horror, death, life, and predominately love. You will read about his own personal battles, not just with this disease, but also with God himself. This survivor teeters rapidly, to-and-fro with faith, and in the end gives in to nothingness. It is a battle that most have suffered through, and only a true survivor can claim triumph over.
The entries of this hand written journal, although overflowing with imagery, lack any of the old-world dates or time-periods. Even he himself loses track of the days during extended periods of solitude. In fact the only reference of time itself is the use of simple calendar moon phases. Nicknames from multiple moon calendars that stretched across the world. A few were even created by himself. To give perspective to those outside of the GFS, the first month of his year is the Outbreak Moon which aligns with the old calendar from about mid-March to mid-April, the period that this pandemic had spread worldwide. This man had restarted the clock even after the fires of hell had consumed it. This, amongst other clues, prove that he was well-educated - a man of worldly knowledge. And it is because of him that the GFS came to adopt his calendar, a testament to our rebirth and to his fortitude.
Some of his passages were so vague and illegible that I've had to use my own ingenuity to fill in the gaps and pull his story together. Which of course, I did with as much respect and taste for his words as I possibly could. I do not feel that my additions or revisions are misleading in any way, and I believe that this man would be in no way offended by them. Like with most of written history, the historian’s prerogative filled in the holes based on the evidence that was presented.
This survivor tends to use a variety of nicknames to depict The Dead, which are but a few, compared to those coined across the world. Some funny, however most are frightening. Some were derived from pop-culture, such as Zombies and The Walking Dead. However more commonly they are referred to as; The Hungry, The infected, Slugs, Necrotic's and simply The Dead. All recognizable to even the most naïve, and all with a dreadful purpose.
His accounts of those horrific years are sporadically detailed, from the initial outbreak, to his life after The Fall of society. His encounters with the damned, which were just as horrible as those with some of the living. Some passages are simple biographies of The Dead themselves, depicting a variety of physical and personality traits. Other entries are just random thoughts and ideas, even drunken emotions spilled out on paper.
This book is for humanity to absorb and to learn, to see what it takes to overcome any obstacle and simply ensure our very own survival. It doesn't take a superhero, or even an army to prevail. If this man could do it on his own, then just think of all the things we can accomplish together. Look around at everything we have already accomplished.
I hope these pages will forever be a reminder of the atrocities that have occurred over that decade of misery. A reminder of the easily corrupted human spirit, as well as the perseverance of mankind and it's never yielding will to survive. Learn what you can from this man, so that future generations can avoid another World of the Dead. This book shall become our Bible, a Revised Testament to the continuation of mankind. We shall never again falter, never secede. Life is the universes gift to us which we shall cherish until the sun's light is once and for all extinguished.
This is the inspirational story, of a Nameless Survivor.
Robert S. Zimmerman;
President of the Global Federation of Survivors.
Former Lead Virologist of Division 9.
Survivor.
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14th day, 5th Hunger Moon
14th day, 5th Hunger Moon
There was almost a complete silence amongst the region, definitely too quiet for this sylvan mountain. The only sounds were that of thunderous cracks and prolonged creaks caused by the sway of ancient timber. The bitter cold winds which rip through these valleys and mountain-passes burden almost everything within their path. Except for the cursed, they are burdened only by rage and hunger.
It being The Dead of winter is the only reason I dared to venture so far from the safety of my cabin. The below freezing temperatures slow them down, and it has been weeks since I have come across any stragglers. Aside from constant numbness and icy prickles in my skin, the day is in a state of momentary peace.
Uneasy silence, generally I'd be wary of such calm in the forest, it was as if life itself was hiding from an unforeseen menace. No, the silence must be an unfortunate result of the frigid temperatures, the forest critters were just waiting out this extended snap from within their cozy little dens. Waiting for the suns warmth to release this land from its dead and icy prison. Unlike my stupid ass, trudging through the fresh snow with my aged and worn snow-shoes, looking for food.
I've become ghastly thin, and increasingly anemic over the last few weeks, but the worst of it is the merciless burn within my gut. Living off of fermented rice and lichen soup for the past month has taken a dreadful toll on my body. One might even mistake me for one of the damned, then starvation would be the least of my worries.
Thinking back, it was only five years ago that I willingly paid for heart clogging, inedible food at a greasy diner. Now I find myself foraging and hunting for anything that would ease the sharp pains that rip throughout my grumbling stomach. This has been the worst winter yet, never before have I been this thin, and the lichen soup has now become revolting on my palette.
“Maybe today is my lucky day.” I thought to myself, but doubt loomed over me.
Struggling through the deep and heavy snow I trekked further up my mountain, desperately trying to stay warm underneath my heavy bear-skin coat. The energy that I exerted may in turn be nothing but wasteful idiocy. My small canteen of water had already frozen solid making it all but useless, thus the snow had become my only hydration supplement, dangerous as it was.
A frigid burn throbbed within my fingertips as I managed to hold tight onto my bow. It would be simple fortune that my hands still maintained the strength to pull the string if I ever found a target. I have become less and less reliant on my guns, and with good reason, these mountain ranges breed ghostly echoes that can wake The Dead... Literally.
For a couple of hours I had been following deer tracks throughout the frozen mountainside with little gain. Their trails zigzagged through and around trees and brush, up and down jagged slopes, and then back across itself. It was like I was walking in circles and the deer were hiding not too far off, reveling at my failed attempts to track them.
“Those Bastards!” I cursed.
The fear of starving to death is always on my mind these days, and if sustenance continued to elude me, then my fears most definitely would come true. Luckily the snow fall has been somewhat mild compared to normal winters in these mountains. But unfortunately, Mother Nature has undoubtedly refused to ease up on the frigid temperatures, her incessant abuse has no bounds.
Slow and with minimal noise I moved further up my mountain as not to draw attention to myself or startle my long anticipated meal. However, my attention was soon drawn to an unusual sound off into the distance. Something had broken the monotonous silence that had been pursuing me all day, something obscured amongst the hardwood.
At first I thought it was just the old ghosts of these ancient hills, unusual noises caused by wind and cold against old trees. But, this sound was becoming louder and quite distinct. It was no ghost, there was definitely something up ahead, something I had least expected.
Persistently I pushed myself forward, moving painfully up the slope. I longed for a juicy steak, or perhaps even rabbit stew. Honestly, I would have settled for dried thistle buds and a pile of moose-shit, rather than go back empty handed. Anything would provide me with the confidence to endure this agony another day.
My thighs throbbed and burned as I continued on, my heart pounding hard within my chest like the rapid succession of a boxers fists. Calmly I gasp for air, struggling to feed my weak and overexerted muscles while attempting not to make any excessive noise.
The sound gradually became clearer and definitely more recognizable when I finally stumbled up onto a small crest. It was a soft, yet clearly distinct whimpering. My heart stopped in a sheer moment of fear, I was unsure of what to make of it. Could it be a wayward Necrotic, fumbling through the icy landscape?
The Plagued make quite a large selection of sounds; snarling, growling, hissing, moaning, and even shrieking. However, whimpering as of yet, was not one of them.
My knee sunk down into the bleach-white crust of the small knoll as I knelt down to get a better look around. The area descended abruptly before me, down into a small dell, with the far-side ascending steeply back up again. I gazed about the brilliantly white and green landscape looking for the source of that pathetic whimpering. An injured animal is what I was hoping for, something I can easily take down and sink my teeth into.
However I was soon disappointed at what I had found, yet even more astonished. Towards the opposite side of the glen I could just make out a large, army-green, canvas coat. Tattered and worn, it huddled in behind an ancient hemlock. Snow had slowly begun its drift down from the bare canopy, collecting upon the coat like a dusting of powdered sugar. The constant shivering that resonated beneath the canvas was my clue that this was not one of The Dead - they do not shiver.
Shake, convulse, wobble and weave; yes, but no shivering.
Cautiously I stood back up, ready to make my way towards the shrouded figure below, but stopped abruptly when something – else, had caught my eye. Kneeling again, I peered further on down the valley, where something lingered in a swath of old cedars. Too shaded to get a clear look, yet something sluggishly swayed in the shadows. Quietly I pulled out my old binoculars to get a better look, adjusting the focus until the fuzziness magically became crystal-clear. And, within an instant I had begun to shake uncontrollably.
SLUGS! The partially frozen dead, their skin blackened with frostbite and peeling away like paint on an old barn. Maybe thirty or forty of them, all huddled together in the thickets, undulating in rhythm with the ice-cold wind.
Every winter they congregate together, for which I presume is an instinctual attempt to share what body heat they still produce. They wander for brief distances, sometimes taking only a couple of steps per week. Aside from their lethargic demeanor, the viscous trail of putrid secretions left behind in the snow is the root of why I call them Slugs.
I had first encountered them around my second winter in the wild, and carefully I tracked and observed the herd for about a week. At first I believed them to be of little threat. They appeared too weak and frozen to be capable of giving chase, yet I was dead wrong. Although their eyes were nothing more than cubes of ice within two dark trays, I uncovered that the slightest sound, or smell of fresh blood can awaken their slumber with terrible and ferocious haste. In truth, it is a skillful tactic for any lethal predator, to conserve energy and allow its prey to come to them. Those evil fucking bastards.
Fighting back fears frozen grip, I turned and looked back down towards the shrouded figure below. This time a pair of beautiful green eyes stared up at me from beneath the hooded coat, full of innocence and fear. It was a young girl, maybe even a child, I could not be sure. At first I presumed I was just seeing things, or maybe I had finally taken my final breath and she was my angel guiding me into the great beyond.
However, behind her beautiful yet wind burned face was fears other hand gripping ever so tight. She was frozen in place, afraid of them or of me, I was not sure. But, her apprehension did not last, as she soon sprung from her huddled position like a jack-rabbit and bolted up the opposite side of the dell. Even with mere bundles of cloth for footwear, she never once slipped on those icy slopes. As nimble as an elf.
Swiftly I kicked off my snow-shoes and backed down the way I had come, trudging out around to the other side and staying deep within the trees. As anxious as I was to find her, I made sure to keep out of sight and sound of that slumbering herd. With as much agility I could muster, I leaped over falling logs, and crawled up the steep slopes after her. It took everything in me to ignore the fire that scorched through my legs.
Why did I pursue this girl?
It goes against every rule I've created for myself, self-preserving laws adopted with purpose and upheld by consequence. Currently I maintain a dozen or more truisms, all of which forged from my own failures and close calls. These same decrees, although primarily an inconvenience, have kept me alive for this long.
For all I knew, the girl may have been leading me into the hands of her people. Until now I have not encountered any of the living, she is the first evidence that there are other survivors, which scares me even more than the infected. It is within fear and desperation which lies man's cowardly malice.
Before long I had found her tracks, she had moved further up the mountainside where the terrain quickly inclines and becomes littered with jagged rocks and ledges. Not a safe place for a little girl, let alone myself. It seemed like hours, but probably only twenty minutes, making my way up the treacherous landscape before I began to hear her pathetic whimpering again. The snow was now falling much heavier than before, although the mountain can be dangerous at any time, it is definitely not a refuge during a snow-storm.
“Have to get back to the cabin,” I muttered.
Yet, I made one last push up over a small ledge in hopes to rescue this seemingly lost ward of perdition. For a moment I wondered if she was nothing more than my imagination gone wild. Years of solitude tend to play tricks on one's mind, mere moments of dementia and fallacious grandeur that can drive one completely mad.
But my moment of doubt faded when I spotted her once again, this time huddled behind a large chunk of granite that rested atop the narrow outcrop. Desperately she hugged her knees to her chest in a failed attempt to conceal herself, continuously shivering.
Pausing for a moment, I knelt down onto the ice coated ledge, trying to catch my heavy breath whilst not frightening the precious girl any more than she already was.
“I'm - I'm here to help.” I gasped, but she just cowered back even more, as if trying to hide deeper into her oversized coat.
“I'm not going to hurt you.” I said reassuringly, but as I inched myself closer she began to breathe frantically.
Before I was able to scoop her up, she let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed throughout the mountains like bullets ricocheting off stone. Quickly I covered her mouth hard with my hand and held her to me tightly, however it became apparent that there was no need. Her fear had overcome her and she had passed out, limp and lifeless unlike The Dead-heads that waited anxiously down below.
I cannot even imagine, nor would I want to, what horrors she has endured to develop both a blessed yet faulty disposition.
As gentle as possible, I lifted her up and over my shoulders, and thankfully she did not weigh nearly as much as I had expected. Mere skin and bones, starving just like me. It was apparent that she had been wandering out here alone for quite a while, and she has survived winters onslaught quite well. Her attire though was definitely not suited for these conditions and it surprised me that she had no signs of frost-bite. It was a miracle in the very least.
Carefully I made our way back down the mountain and towards my cabin, watching every step with precision. Within moments though, a familiar and dreadful sound broke through the crisp and cold silence. A heart-stopping and raspy scream, followed by moans and spine-chilling snarls which echoed throughout the forest like a pack of banshees.
The hairs on my neck instantly perked up and without hesitation I began a treacherous and foolishly rapid descent. Dodging boulders and trees, leaping down high ledges, all the while trying desperately to hold my footing. I preferred not to make us an all you can eat buffet strewn across the side of my mountain.
Not too far into the distance, through the now snow-frosted trees, I could just barely make out the ominous flailing of necrotic arms as the herd rapidly stumbled through the rough terrain. My heart pounded rigorously in my chest as I turned away from them, and trotted downward.
The terrain eventually began to level off, aside from small hills and valleys, the rest of the trek would normally be easy sailing. But, the hungry horde was still on my heels, fast and fierce. They gained ground on us with every painful step I took, hell-bent on dining on our stringy flesh.
But, it was of no use, carrying the girl was slowing me down. As frail as she was, she had become far too cumbersome, and every step became harder and harder. The Slugs were closing in so fast that I dared not look back, afraid that I'd find them directly on my ass.
Self-Preservation, my first rule, was all I could think about as I charged through the forest. That rule alone is why, for a brief moment, I considered dumping her as fresh Necro-Bait. But years of death and loneliness were too much for me to bear any longer. She was an uninfected, tangible, live person. Someone I could talk to, someone to keep me company. No, leaving her was not an option, I had to keep moving. WE - had to survive.
However my muscles subsequently gave way and the girl’s weight slammed me down hard onto my ass, sending us veering down a steep embankment. My mind raced with thoughts of The Dead, belly-sliding down right behind us, but luckily they were still a ways off. Large hardwood tree-trunks became my immediate concern as we skimmed passed them by just mere inches.
Eventually we slid to a slow stop as we reached the bottom, and immediately I noticed a small pile of fallen boulders just ahead of us. A dark and cold crevice lay welcoming at its base. The opening was sadly just big enough for one person to slide into, but I had to make it work. We had no choice, and I had no more energy to run any further.
The shrieks continued to become louder as the herd closed in on our position. Frantically I stumbled towards the crevice, dragging the girl through the snow by one foot with what little strength I had left. Even over the stress of the situation, I was able to chuckle at the sight of my current predicament. Reminiscent of poorly drawn cartoons of Cro-Magnon-Man dragging his chosen bride back to his cave. Even in this depressing world, my sick sense of humor tends to keep me going.
My legs were like concrete as I forced them, one step at a time towards the crevice as fast as I possibly could. I dropped down to my knees just as we reached the entrance and released my hold on the girl’s foot. After a quick examination I concluded that there would be just enough room for two - stacked.
Carefully, I slid myself halfway into the crack before grabbing her up to pull in with me. Just then, a pursuing corpse tumbled his way down the same embankment we had just come from, his body bouncing off the trees like a puck on a game-show Plinko game. Then another followed, the crack of his head against the timber was loud enough to echo, but unfortunately not hard enough to kill.
In one swift motion I pulled us both down into the cramped dark hole, holding her tight, and pushing us back as far as I could. The taste of my own blood filled my mouth as I bit down onto my lips, trying to hold back the sound of my breathing. Pain coursed through my muscles as jagged stones pressed hard into my kidneys and spine, it was unbearable, but thankfully I remained silent.
Those eerie moans and ghastly groans were getting closer and closer as my heart raced even faster.
“They can hear me breathing,” I whispered. “Or smell us.”
Fear clawed at my will like a monster under the bed. I pulled my forty-five revolver from my coat and held it up to the innocent girl's head. Tears slowly trickled down my cheek, gradually freezing to my beard and creating instant icicles.
“This is it,” I muttered, “So stupid! You should have left her, now look at you!” I cursed at myself.
I had never killed the living before, Christ, I wasn't even sure I had it in me. The first time I pulled the trigger on one of the infected caused me to gag on my own vomit, but over the years it had become easier. One just needs to look at them simply as a demon sent straight from the depths of hell, and pulling the trigger without remorse becomes instinct.
But, now I held that iron-of-death against an angel’s skin, ready to end her innocence.
My finger tightened on the cold steel of the trigger as I closed my eyes and thought back on my past life. I had been so careful all these years, following my rules at every turn. Now one stupid mistake and this poor girls life, along with my own, was about to end.
“You fucking moron!” I whisper aloud.
Just as I went to squeeze, it became evident that the listless shuffling outside was slowly fading. They were moving on! My slightly frost-bitten finger eased off the trigger, as my hand shook with anxiety. Carefully, as if handling a bomb, I slid the gun back into my coat.
Sighing in relief, I wrapped my arms around the girl, providing us both with much-needed warmth. My eyes remained locked onto the entrance of our arctic tomb, awaiting for a straggler to pop its necrotic head into the opening. But, the only fear to present itself was the swiftly fading light. We couldn't stay there much longer, but I needed to rest, just for a few moments.
Anxiously I waited, forcing my heavy eyelids open, trying hard not to fall asleep. We had to keep moving, but I needed to be sure the hungry mob was long gone, while praying that hypothermia would not take hold first. Time, we just needed a little more time.
“For a moment,” I muttered, “Rest your eyes for just a moment.”
As my body began to relax, my mind began to wander, and that dark cramped space seeded memories from a long forgotten past. My grandfather died when I was just a boy, maybe seven or eight years of age. But I do remember, unlike my father, his son; that he was a bitter and hateful man. Unhappy with both his life and even more disappointed in his family. As his grandson and a goofy kid, I tried on many occasions to make him smile, but failed with every attempt.
Being in his presence was intimidating, one felt both fear and respect for him. Respect for his unwavering fortitude, but fear for his unpredictable temper. Visiting was like marching through a mine-field in some war-torn country. One never knew which step may set off an explosion of rage and hatred.
He lived in a large and old farm-house, a building littered with storage and crawl-spaces hidden behind removable panels in the walls. Those dark, cramped and musty passages were my own personal getaway, a place to seek refuge until the storms had subsided. In those storage spaces I read by flashlight. All kinds of books, classic tales long ago packed away and forgotten. This stone crevice reminded me of those days, but I no longer had Jules Verne to keep me company, only Raggedy Anne.
Just a sliver of gray light broke through my shaded eyes before I came to my senses and forced them back open. It was time to go. Carefully I crawled up and out of the crevice, making a quick scan of the area. Nothing but a trail of footprints, the snow stained with the black infectious goo that seeps from their putrid flesh.
The path led off towards the north into more treacherous landscape, and hopefully into their own demise. Thankfully it would at least take them far past my cabin which sits just a bit further down the face of my mountain.
With what little energy I could muster, I pulled the lifeless girl out of the crevice and threw her back over my shoulders. The rest of the hike, although slow, was smooth and without incident. I smiled in relief as a distinct cloud of smoke became visible through the myriad of trees. Gracefully it rose up through the falling snow like a ghostly-beacon of safety. At last, a sight most welcome in the gray before the dark.
The snowfall had become even heavier and the wind continued with its unwavering onslaught as I stumbled through the yard and into the warm and inviting cabin. Gently I laid the girl down onto my bed and turned to shut the door, but stopped abruptly when something small had caught my eye. It was what I had been searching for all along, a needle in this icy hay-stack.
Perched on a pile of fire wood was a lone and hungry gray squirrel. He too had ventured from the warmth of his den in hopes to find food, a foolish soul just like myself. Yet, he sat unsuspectingly, cleaning his paws as snow pelted his furry little head. For a miniscule second I considered letting him live, but that moment quickly passed.
Foolish indeed, without much thought, my hand sprung up with pistol drawn and the trigger snapped back. The echo that reverberated throughout the woods was of little concern now, the disoriented Slugs would not be able to navigate this storm, nor could they pinpoint our location from the succession of echoes that followed. The bang hadn't even bothered the girl, not even the slightest stir from the bed.
Proudly I made my way across the yard, ignoring the ache in my bones while thinking only of my stomach, and snatched up the unlucky rodent. Blood trickled onto the snow from its severed neck, like droplets of oil, as black as plagued-blood in fading light. In triumph, I carried my bounty back towards the cabin.
“Finally!” I said to myself, “Dinner!”
supplemental;
Silently I stared down at the feeble girl sleeping in my bed, staring for an unperceived amount of time. Disturbed, bewildered, and in complete disbelief. Still I pondered if she was real, or if I had finally lost my mind. What concerned me even more, selfishly I admit, was the drain she would ultimately impose on my supplies.
Needless to say, I am also concerned with my hospitable inadequacies. I never did enjoy social gatherings back in the old world. People, in general, tended to annoy me. So aside from work I generally kept to myself in my small apartment. However, after five years of solitary confinement I am in no way prepared for entertaining guests, I am not even sure what I will say when she awakes... If she wakes.
The girl is maybe only fifteen or sixteen years of age, barely a woman, but not quite a child. Her hair - matted with dirt and God knows what else, and her attire reeked of urine. She was a pathetic mess, however her young beauty was still able to repel all that filth.
Most of the clothing stored about my cabin was unsuitable for her, and her petite form made it all the more difficult to find something. An old Grateful Dead t-shirt and a black pair of sweat-pants is all I was able to scrounge up. The shirt was definitely a little too big, but the sweatpants fit perfectly. Soon, when winter eases up, we will have to take a day to loot and raid for more clothes.
Setting the ragged attire at the foot of the bed I grabbed a large pot from the fireplace and stepped outside to gather snow for boiling. It was falling even harder, large clumps smacked me in the face with one splat after the other. Although I was still chilled to the bone, the icy pelting was quiet refreshing.
Straining my rickety bones, I knelt down and filled the pot before setting it aside for a moment.
Pulling out my pipe I quickly struck a match against my belt-buckle and eagerly began to smoke. Leisurely I puffed away, drawing in the sweet skunky smoke, and then blowing circles up into the air. The snow immediately broke the rings, sending them spiraling out of control and eventually vanishing into the night air. With a sedated grin, I puffed a little more.
It was a perfect winters evening, the crisp air, and the smell of freshly falling snow, the purity and savageness of nature at its best. Although this is the most difficult time of year, it is also one of my favorites. There is an unexplainable tranquility brought on during these months, something that is both cherished and feared.
Off in the distance the unmistakable sound of wolves filled the crisp air, howls and wails like ghosts in the twilight. An eerie sound, almost supernatural, music to my ears. It's been at least fifty years or more since wolves populated this area, driven to extinction by both mans greed and fear. But, since The Fall of man, nature has just now begun to reclaim itself.
The wolf symphony came to an abrupt end with a succession of high pitched yelps and squeals. A botched hunt, mistaking the damned for food. There sacrifice simply ensured another safe night for us.
Nervously I placed the pipe back into my pocket, gave one last look up into the falling snow, and then grabbed the pot before stepping back into the cabin. Without a second thought, and with a quick flip, I latched the door shut behind me. Just in case.
Setting the pot on top of the wood-stove, I turned my attention to my freshly killed feast. The skin peeled off the carcass fairly easily, like stripping wet jeans from my legs. Normally I would discard the entrails of any animal, yet with the lack of food, the guts became a nutritional necessity.
Conveniently a smaller pot of water was already at a rolling boil on the stove, which I took advantage of by tossing the critter within. Allowing the squirrel to stew for a while would help in killing any parasites within while providing me time to tend to the girl. It was obvious that I was in for a long and filthy night.
When the pot had finally melted and began to boil, I carefully lugged it over to my bed, trying desperately not to spill the scalding hot liquid. Setting it down on the night-table, I turned to grab a rag hanging from the wall and tossed it into the water. Gently I began to slip the coat off the sleeping girl, slow as not to startle her, however she was still limp and lifeless.
She wore mostly rags beneath the coat, an old pair of worn out long-johns and an undersized Hannah-Montana t-shirt, which barely covered her belly-button. The only protection for her feet were bundles of old skivvies tied tightly around her ankles and nothing for gloves. How she could have survived alone in the middle of winter was a mystery to me, she was a perfect example of human adaptability.
I removed what was left of her clothing, revealing not much more than a frail skeleton. Her ribs almost tore through the skin, and even her breasts were barely developed, making her seem prepubescent. The site of her naked body sickened me, yet her malnutrition was hardly the worst of it.
With great care I began to rub her down with the rag, attempting to scrub away the dirt and blood that clung to her skin like viscid pine-pitch. As the gunk slowly faded I began to get a glimpse of what kind of life, or lack thereof, this girl had endured. My stomach churned in disgust.
Her frail body had been beaten, cut and scarred. Her life story scrawled upon her skin like an old tome. One particular laceration, now thick with scar tissue, stretched from her neck down over her left breast. A violent knife wound I assume, maybe only a couple years old. Her depressing figure angered me to no end, and I found it hard to bury those emotions, the years have obviously diminished my control of them.
When satisfied with the cleanliness of her front I carefully rolled her over and began to wash her back, only to find a road-map of lashes. These were not as old as some of the other scars, still bearing scabs which loosely hung from fresh scar tissue.
And, what should have been a cute and dimpled derriere was nothing more than a distasteful canvas of fading bruises. Even the smeared dirt and feces was unable to muddle the extent of her abuse. It was quite apparent that she had recently been in the presence of the living, true villains of the new-age. I found it unbearable to look at her, such disgust covering such beauty. There was no wonder why she feared me so.
How could someone, after everything that has happened, do this to an innocent girl?
My sympathy and anger turned to an almost uncontrollable rage. I wanted to hurt them, even kill them. Although I have no emotional bounds to this girl, my temper was still vigorously fueled by my hatred for them. Breathing deep and slow, I attempted to calm myself as I finished cleaning her up. By then, I had collected myself, and gently rolled her back over.
Carefully I lifted her head up and slid the pot of now brown water under it to begin washing the matted hair on top. No matter how hard I scrubbed there were just too many clumps to break free, caked with something thick and sticky. I grabbed some scissors and began to cut the knots free, attempting to even it out so not to ruin her beautiful golden locks.
Sadly though, most of it had to go, leaving her with only a few inches of spiky blond hair. It wasn't a perfect cut, but I was never much of a stylist, trimming my beard is as close as I ever get. Yet, even with my poor cut, she is probably the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon.
With care, I slipped the shirt and sweatpants over her pale body before covering her up with my moose-skin blanket. She immediately rolled onto her side and snuggled into the warmth of the fur. It was the first movement she had made since the mountain, a good sign that her fear induced coma was only temporary. However, when she does come to, she may well again be overcome with fear and anxiety.
Exhaustion was quickly overpowering me as I hauled the pot of once bright and fluffy snow outside to dump. The water that sloshed around had become a muddy mixture which reeked of feces and death. Thankfully though, the aroma of fresh squirrel stew filled my nose and I instantly returned inside for some long anticipated dinner.
Using an old pair of rusted tongs, I removed the carcass from the pot and began to pull the meat from the bones with and old fork. The organs and intestines needed some light chopping to break down the chewiness, luckily though, they were as empty as my own stomach. Waste not want not now has a more significant meaning in a World of the Dead.
Tossing the pulled-squirrel meat into a bowl I dropped the bones back into the pot. The broth already smelled amazing, but a bit more boiling, plus a dash of salt and pepper would make it even more exquisite. A broth like this would have definitely helped to enhance my lichen soup.
There was not much to eat on the little critter, so I only devoured a small fork full plus some left over rice. The rest of the meat I set aside for the girl, she needed it more than I. Besides, tomorrow I may find a few more squirrels, then we can both feast.
The bones will boil down the rest of the night and in the morning I will spread them out in the wood oven and slowly dehydrate them. They will become useful as bone meal for biscuits or flat-bread. Over the years I have developed many methods of using every part of the animal, some more unusual than others.
I added a little squirrel broth to the meat and a spoonful of rice and placed the bowl next to the girl’s bed with a spoon. Stumbling over to my chair I slumped down in exhaustion, while kicking off my boots and stretching out my toes. My spine crackled in release as I arched my back, it felt marvelous. My muscles still ache and twitch as I jot down today's events. I can feel myself beginning to drift off as I write, and I struggle to keep my eyes open. Fatigued, like that after a big turkey dinner. Sleep, the perfect end to a rough day.
supplemental;
Dreams, nightmares, and night-terrors have been common almost every night since The Great Outbreak. Although now they tend to be more vivid with an eerie realism compared to those before the Descent. Yet, last night I dreamt not of the infectious dead, but of the Ghost of Mount Sprague. An old legend my father use to tell me during our many summer fishing trips.
Stories of an old mountain-man who used to live off the land and worked hard to stop developers and logging companies from destroying this peaceful and pristine area. After his death, his efforts fell to deaf ears, and this region quickly began to wither beneath the shadow of mans greed.
Thankfully some of his supporters including my father, petitioned for this mountain - my mountain; to be protected. Thus leading to a federally sanctioned nature-preserve, one that included three other mountains as well, with Mount Sprague rising over the others with grace and superiority. My Mountain.
“His ghost still haunts these very woods, scaring away the cooperate hogs of industry.” My father would say with a smile.
I never really believed his tall-tales about the ghost itself, however since my imposed homesteading, I have heard and witnessed many oddities in these woods. Nothing like the Walking Dead that currently roam these lands, but more obscure and apprehensive coincidences.
Strange voices and dreadful cackling that would echo throughout the valleys and mountain passes. Once I came across a trail of large boot prints in the deep snow. I followed them for what seemed like hours, only to slowly watch them vanish into the blanket of white. Then some nights, when all is silent, faint classical music flows through the trees like echoes raining down from a chorus of seraphs.
However the ghost in this dream was not of the man I had once met as a child before he had died. Although he resembled Bob, this gentleman was much thinner, and was obviously no longer among the living. His skin clung to his cheek bones like dry parchment paper, flaking away in the slightest breeze. And his eyes - entirely white - like two Q-balls set within dark and empty corner pockets.
He carried with him only a crooked walking stick made from a dried out alder-branch. His clothing was torn to mere rags, with a thick layer of dust that seemed to be all that held the garments together. And eerily a cloud of ash billowed out from his lips as he spoke.
“Beware of the flood,” he said in a dry raspy voice. “Flee this land, before she betrays you.” And in an instant he faded into a cloud of dust, drifting back into the forest like the fumes from my chimney. It was a message, a warning, however its significance is all but a mystery to me.
At first I thought that it was just my brain throwing random memories at me all at once, jumbling up unconnected events into one entity. Yet, it was apparent that this was a warning, as to what, I did not know. I just hope it nothing, only the misfiring of neural pathways in the night. I never use to believe in ghosts, or the meanings behind the dreams, however his warning hangs over my head like a pending storm. This was the first time I had ever dreamt of the fabled Ghost of Mount Sprague, it was the first time I had even thought of this man since my long lost childhood. And I hoped for it to be the last, I hope it was nothing but a silly dream.
15th Day, 5th Hunger Moon;
The sun’s rays multiplied as they broke through the dusty windows, casting beams of light through clouds of drifting particles. The sound of singing birds had gently pulled me out of my deep slumber, coaxing me away from that precarious dream. And then, the ache that burned within my muscles vanquished the grogginess and my eyes snapped open.
Before me was the girl, sitting up in bed with her face buried into the bowl of squirrel stew. Greedily she slurped up what was left of the small yet ample bounty that I had provided. She reminded me of a vagrant child eating what she could from some back-alley dumpster.
When she lifted her head from the empty bowl she notice me watching her and abruptly crawled back into the corner of the bed, and up against the wall. Fear had set in again, but thankfully she did not scream. She simply huddled there, unwilling to take her eyes off of me for one second. Smiling, I slowly sat up in my chair.
“Good morning,” I said but she did not respond.
Instead, she pressed herself harder against the wall as if hoping that she could push herself straight through it. It was obvious she has little trust in the living, or more likely it was no trust in men. The scars of man’s exploits will forever be a reminder for her to be wary of them.
“What is your name?” I asked.
But still, I received no response. So I introduced myself, hoping to spark something from her lips. Not even the slightest peep, her head remained bowed, yet her eyes burrowed distrustfully into mine. It was obvious that she would require more time, to adjust and to heal.
Nonchalantly I stood and nervously she pulled her knees closer to her chest. I wasn't sure if she even knew how to speak, or if it was simply fear that prevented her from it. Maybe she is even feral, five years alone in a hostile world would alter any child.
Walking over to the cupboard I pulled down a package of stale crackers and a coffee cup, which I filled with more of the warm broth. Softly I approached her and placed them on the table next to the bed. I flashed a quick smile then turned and began to clean up the mess from last night.
The squirrel fur I set aside to tend to later, I would find use for it at some point, maybe insulation in some boots for the girl. The bones were set to dry in the oven and I rigorously scrub the counter clean from the dried rodent blood. Some might have given up on cleanliness over the years, but in my opinion, it is mankind’s filth that started this cascade of death.
In the corner of my eye I could see she was back on the edge of the bed, stuffing crackers in her mouth and greedily slurping down the broth. Poor little thing. Yet even after my second attempt at hospitality she huddled back into the corner of the bed like an abused and caged animal.
I decided to give her more time and headed outdoors for some winter clean up. It had warmed up drastically from the day before, the snow on the roof was already beginning to melt, dripping off the eaves with a rhythmic pitter-patter. It was a hell of a storm too, a foot or more had fallen during the night. Most of the morning was spent shoveling paths to the wood pile, fire-pit and shed. The sun had turned the fluffy snow into a heavy wet mess, and the warmth of the day was a pleasant sign that spring was not far off. It must be around February, maybe even march, I can't be too sure.
After cutting a narrow path to the privy I sat down on a nearby log to take a break. “I should be hunting.” I muttered as I lit up my pipe and inhaled the soothing aromatic smoke. The herb allowed my mind to wander with much ease, and I would find myself thinking back on all the trivial things I missed of the old world.
Family barbeques in the back yard, or going to the theater to see a cheesy B-Movie. Music I missed the most, sitting back and relaxing to the melodies of Tom Petty and Willie Nelson on my I-Pod. The little things that now live only as a vague memory, lost forever in the back of my mind.
Euphoria had completely washed over me when the door to the cabin slowly crept open and the young girl stepped out cautiously. Looking around to get a lay of the area, she immediately saw me and stopped in her tracks. I just smiled and took another puff of the pipe, trying not to intimidate her.
She did not retreat though, instead she slowly shuffled a few feet down my fresh-cut path into the opposite direction. She soon turned towards me, making sure to keep her gorgeous green eyes locked on mine, and immodestly slid her pants down and squatted.
As she relieved herself, she continued to glare at me, as if condemning me for someone else's crime. So I sat quietly and patiently, allowing her to approach me, on her own terms. No more would she live under brute force, no longer will she live in fear and pain. I will gladly spare my life to ensure her this.
When finished, she casually retrieved her pants, then slowly began to inch her way towards me. Graciously I held up the pipe and motioned her over. She hesitated at my gesture but surprisingly continued anyway. Still cautious she stopped a couple arm lengths away and crouched back down.
“You have nothing to fear,” I said reassuringly, “it’s safe here.”
I took few more puffs from the pipe and began to show off my talented smoke rings. She watched acquisitively as they drifted up into the air, allowing her distrust to slowly subside. Generously I held out the pipe to her as a peace-offering. “What the hell,” I thought to myself, “It just might help calm her nerves.”
Besides, I was about her age when I had my first experience with nature’s medicine. Amateur thievery from my father’s stash, which I naively replaced with a bag of cat-nip. He was not pleased. It took only a moment for the gesture to register with her, and slowly she reached over and snatched the pipe from my hand like a starving peasant snatching up a piece of discarded bread.
She examined it like a toddler finding her parents car keys, caressing the pipe and gazing at its every nook and cranny. I laughed has she sniffed the bowl and her face cringed from the skunky stench of soot. I motioned for her to put it in her mouth and inhale which she did with little hesitation. Immediately she began to hack and cough violently as the smoke-filled her virgin lungs. She flung the pipe angrily to the ground, stomping and spitting at it with distaste. Chuckling, I picked it up and took a few more puffs before placing it back into my pocket.
“Don't go liking it too much, now.” I advised.
The effects did not take long to kick in, with her eyes quickly becoming glassy and blood shot. Her head roamed about, staring up into the barren trees as if discovering new beauty hidden behind the ugliness that has become the world. She slumped down into the cold snow, not a care in the world and just gazed up at the sky. And thankfully, a slight yet noticeable smile cracked her sullen face.
“I will hunt tomorrow.” I thought as I began to finish my chores while allowing her to enjoy the new sensations. Armful after armful I carried split wood into the camp in preparation of another cold night. My wood supplies are beginning to run low, as soon as I have a successful hunt I will begin the hard-labor of tree harvesting.
The girl still refused to say a word throughout the rest of the day, she simply and quietly roamed the camp yard watching me work while checking out the area. She seems almost lost at times, while both curious and cautious. When her attention drifted for too long on odd trinkets lying about, she would whip a nasty glare towards me. As if ensuring I was not getting too close when she wasn't looking.
As the day pushed on and the sun dropped down behind the mountain, we both moseyed on back into the cabin for a nice dinner of rice and squirrel broth. Still, it was no steak dinner, but it was better than that dreadful lichen soup. Oh would I not give for a nice greasy burger and fries.
My attempts at small talk failed to get even the simplest of response. The girl just explored the one room cabin inquisitively, examining all my handy-work. Almost everything in the cabin, from the bed and chairs, to the chess board on the dinner table was handmade.
She became quite infatuated with a fake salmon I had made out of an old bottle and beer can that hung above the fireplace. I crafted it a few years ago, using root-based paint to add color and realism to it. There was no artistic purpose for it, just something to pass the time.
“You can have it,” I offered.
She looked at me puzzled for a moment, like receiving a gift was foreign to her.
“Go ahead and take it.” I offered again.
And she did, pulling it eagerly down from the wall and waving it in the air to mimic an actual fish swimming through a river. The joy in her face, and her adoration of the simple things, made me smile. Content was slowly breaking away that shell of mistrust, and I hope that she will soon end this silent treatment.