by Hawk, J. K.
A mid twentieth century half-ton truck, stranded in time below a densely covered mountain and aside the slow winding flow of the Dead River. Its hood left open as if the mechanic was on an extended lunch break, but the myriad of weathered bullet shells was the confirmation I needed to bring a smile to my face. It was undoubtedly Big Paul’s rust bucket, a defeated adversary of the survivor. We had reached our destination, and my stomach churned with anticipation.
The sight of this marker brought thoughts of pessimism to run rampant in my mind. For all we knew, somewhere up on that mountain, we would only find and empty dwelling riddled with the signs of chaos and destruction. The Nameless Survivor may have chosen a different area to call home, or quite possibly fell before reaching his home. The only assumption I could make is that his own pride for this land was enough to push for his return.
Still, as I stared into the dense forest that rose above the old road, and I found myself hesitant on entering the thickets. Apprehensive, anxious, and fearful. I was like a long lost orphan about to meet his birth mother for the very first time. Many thoughts raced through my mind, like, what would I say to him? Would I be welcomed or shot dead? Would I only find emptiness on the mountain top above?
“Why did we stop?” Steph asked, and I turned from my gaze and smiled.
“This is it.”
“We made it?”
“Yes,” I paused to brush her hair back away from her face,
revealing her own smile of satisfaction. “We made it.” With a deep breath, we plunged together into the underbrush and one step at a time we made our way up the mountain. How far I would need to travel was unclear, and I just prayed that I would reach the old tote road spoken of in his journal, the only direct path to his front yard. But, as I pushed my burning muscles further up, there was no sign of it, or so I thought.
I knew we were on the right track, off in the distance I could hear the muddled trickle of a brook, and if memory serves me correctly then it should pass right by his cabin. And then, like coming out of an exhaustive morning haze, the road I had been searching for presented itself. We had been following alongside it all along, obscured by the regrowth of trees and brush, only visible by the ancient tire ruts that were nearly buried in dead vegetation. This was it, we were close, and my heart pounded with excitement.
Before long we came to a barely noticeable fork in the road, and once again I was faced with a clueless question. Pulling the survivors journal from my back I thumbed through the pages, searching for the answer of which path to take. The effort, however, was in vain. I had his journals almost memorized, and I knew there was no mention of this divide.
“What now?” Steph asked.
“Now we take a guess.”
“Guess? We chose wrong and we could walk into a horde!” She
protested.
“Either path could present its own obstacles, what choice do we
have?”
The path to the right, however, was obviously the one least
traveled, the ruts that had guided us thus far were no longer visible
in that direction. The only sign that it was once a road were the
younger trees beneath the ancient ones to either side. On the other
hand, the path to the left was much more visible, yet darkly shrouded
by a thick canopy. It resembled a tunnel into the pits of hell,
foreboding and almost free of regrowth. It was the most logical of
choices, but its presence seemed to force me away.
“This way.” I said, pointing to the clear choice.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Without waiting for a response, I took the first step into the
shadowy path, Steph hesitantly following behind. We trekked on,
ignoring our aching legs, and within an hour or so I began to see
signs that most would have missed. Moss covered bones, animal or
man, I did not take the time to check. Then, barbed-wire fencing,
stretching between small clumps of tree to either side of the road
with narrow gaps here and there. It was no old pasture, but a barrier
for the Infected. And soon, even more promising and yet horrific
warnings were exposed.
Human carcasses, whole bodies mounted on stakes, much like we
saw back in Rangeley, but more commonly it was just the heads
resting ghastly upon pikes. The road and forest was scattered with
them, not just as camouflage for the Infected but as a warning to
those who may try to lay claim to this land. A warning to turn away,
before it is too late. A warning I was all too eager to abide, but I
buried my misgivings and force my legs to move.
Directly in the middle of our path was one of the head adorned
pikes, the hair and flesh had mostly fallen away, and the blackened
scar tissues was all that identified this being as the Infected. Sadly,
though, it had not been dispatch. Its mouth shuttered with hunger at
the sight of me, and its eyes nothing more than dense fog shifting
from left to right. It can take a couple of months for the Infected to
starve to death, so although ghastly, this was the sign I was looking
for, of a recent human presence. I just hoped it was the work of the
survivor, and not squatting raiders.
Further up the road a distinct smell entered my nose, and it was
not the stench of rotting flesh, but instead the potent and oaky scent
of a burning fireplace. Someone was ahead, and my pace quickened
as I ignored the pops and aches within my knees, and Steph
desperately tried to keep up. Moments later I could see the smoke
billowing throughout the trees, and then the peak of a cedar-shingled
roof. I was here, I had made it, but before my excitement exploded,
everything fell painfully black.
* * * * *
My head pounded in agony as my eyes struggled to open, and a thick fluid caked the hair in the back of my head like half-set glue. I reached back and touched it, bringing my hand before my eyes and straining to get a look at the dark blood that coated my fingertips. I was still in a haze, not completely sure of where I was or what had happened. But within minutes my mind began to clear, and the wooden cage that imprisoned me came into reality.
As I gazed about this fabled area, familiar in many ways, but foreign in so many others. It is not the refuge I had imagined from the survivors description, in fact it appears that the place has fallen apart over the years. Aside from the rotted out bullet holes strewed across the outer walls, the cabin itself was in a deep state of neglect. The sagging and tilted supports beneath the hut seemed ready to give way which would lead to the sudden demolition of this man’s home.
The yard itself was a disaster, trash littered the area like a beggar’s home under a bridge, along with the remains of an assortment of bones. Deer carcasses, squirrel pelts, and many other critters, thrown out for nature to feast. Surprisingly though there was some life strutting about, chickens roamed freely, and behind the cabin lay a row of rabbit hutches along with a small penned in dairy goat.
The vegetable garden he proudly spoke of many times in his pages was nowhere to be seen, as if he had given up on his survivalist dream and let the land reclaim itself. None of this made any sense, it would appear that he had never returned, and what lay before me is nothing more than the claimed refuge of someone else. Who, was the question, and I dreaded the answer.
Although the area seemed empty of human life, and Steph was nowhere to be found, it was obvious that I was not alone. Smoke still billowed from the chimney and a thunderous racket resonated from within the cabin itself. I feared that my entrapment may have more sinister purpose than just containment, and the idea of being held as cattle played
heavily on my nerves. Carefully I studied my prison, looking for a weakness, examining the cedar poles that surrounded me like a shark-cage. But, before I could even attempt an escape, the cabin door flung open with a loud bang.
Who exited the domicile surprised me and put all my premature assumptions to rest. It was not a raider nor a troll, and it was not the survivor himself, but instead, a young boy. Adorn in dingy and tattered animal pelts and stalking across the yard like a wild chimpanzee or gorilla, mumbling and grunting along the way. So human, and yet so beastly. He paid me no attention at first, instead he sauntered over to one of the many deer carcasses and with ease snapped away one of its ribs. He had an animalistic hunger as he crouched down and began to tear away putrid meat and fat from the bone with his teeth, swallowing with a satisfying gulp.
“Hey, boy, come here.” I gently called, and was rudely ignored. “Are you alone? Is your father here?” I called again. The boy looked out into the forest, his back facing me, as if unable to pinpoint the voice that called to him. After a few moments he sunk his teeth back into the maggotyflesh, feastingas if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. But, it was obvious that he had, he was not frail from starvation, but yet a healthy and robust young boy. Very young, I might add, just the right age to be the offspring of Mia and the Survivor. With that realization, my concern turned to ecstatic pride.
“Mia,” I called. “Do you know that name, Mia?” The boy swung around, furiously chucking the rib bone at me which bounced of my cage with a loud clatter before he ferociously stormed towards me with a menacing growl. It was then, when we were finally face to face, that I saw the reason for his odd behavior. His eyes, not the bright green of his mothers, or any other natural human color. Instead they were a dull gray, and the veins that surrounded them an unnaturally dark purple… The boy seemed almost infected, a prowler – no. This was unlike anything I’d seen before. His skin was still pink and he displayed no signs of decay, as well as his anger being more of a human emotion rather than viral instinct. But, he still possessed Valkyrie’s strength as he reached through the bars, snatching a clump of my fading hair and slamming my face into the cage door.
“At yo ay?” He said fiercely, staring into my eyes. “Ow yo now, Mia?”
My heart pounded rigorously, scared and intrigued that he could speak. Another Valkyrie mystery for me to uncover. Although the language was so foreign, it was obvious that he understood me, or at the very least understood his own mother’s name. I was baffled, it was obvious that the infection teemed in his blood, but it did not control him, he was of his own mind. If immune, he would not show any sign, so how?
“Yes, Mia.” I stuttered. But this only fueled his anger as he released my hair and kicked the cage.
“Yo o pek fo Mama!” He screeched as he snatched up random objects; sticks, bones, and rocks to hurl towards me in contempt.
I huddled back within my confines, my arms covering my head from the feral boy’s barrage. His tantrum went on for a few minutes before he angrily stormed back into the cabin, muttering furiously in his own cryptic language. Before long, he came back out, carrying a large hand crafted blade, and with that I assumed my mission was finally at an end.
“WAIT!” Steph’s voice rung out as she exited the leaning outhouse, desperately trying to pull up her pants. “Don’t you hurt him!” She scorned.
“Eh no bong ere!” The boy cried.
But he did not approach me, instead he approached the hutches and snagged a rabbit by the ears before carrying it off into the forest as it struggled to free itself. Before long he faded behind the cover of foliage, but the heart-piercing shrieks of the pained creature echoed throughout the trees. I was still in awe by the encounter, unsure of what to make of it, but unwilling to make any more assumptions.
“He’s a very testy child.” Steph said as she approached my prison.
“Get me out of here.” I said.
“I wouldn’t suggest that, sir.” She said with a smile. “He really does not like you, and escaping would surely piss him off.”
“Steph!”
My brave assistant chuckled for a few seconds before untying the crude knot that held the cage shut. Eager to get out, I still did not miss the fact that the girl was laughing, a sight I have not seen in days. Something must have happened when I was unconscious, something that shattered that depressive shell she had been stuck in, something has enlightened her.
“He’s infected, you know.” She said as I stepped out.
“I noticed.”
“He thinks you are the devil.”
“You understand him?” I asked.
“No, but the way dragged you into the cage by your feet, spat on you, and kept repeating Devil over and over was a sure sign.”
“So he speaks some English.”
“I think it’s all English. Slang or something.”
“Did you catch his name?”
“No, not yet.” She said. “Hewouldn’t even let me into the cabin.”
“Why did he not cage you as well?” I asked, and she smirked.
“I kind of freaked out. Panicked after he jumped out of the trees. I thought I had grabbed your gun, and pointed it at him.”
“And?” I asked.
“It was one of those Power-Bars Garrison gave us. He really seemed to like it. And I believe he has a crush on me now.”
“Good, you’re officially a diplomat. I am relying on you making sure that he does not kill me.”
“I’ll try.” She said with a chuckle, but I didn’t find the humor.
Scouring the forest I searched for signs of his return as I breathed deeply to calm my nerves. Where he was going with the rabbit was unclear, and although curious, I was not stupid enough to follow. When I was confident he was not returning, we made way for the cabin to recover my pack, and hopefully my gun. What I found inside was even more ghastly than I would have ever assumed.
The one room fortress was adorned with more carcasses and pelts, and reeked of the plague. As with the yard, the floors were littered with random trash and bones. But within all of those horrors were the clues of a shattered past, evidence of the survivors life before he fled, as well as clues of his return. I hoped the young boy was on his way to find his father, to bring him back and show off his prisoner.
My eyes shifted down to my feet which stood upon a large dark brown stain, dried blood, and slowly I knelt down and traced a finger around a single bullet hole in the floor board. Tugger’s demise, left in place as a memorial to a dear friend. And for a moment, I was choked up. Those pages that I’ve read over and over again werenow more real than ever. It was like walking the grounds of Gettysburg, or sitting in the balcony of Ford’s Theatre, history within arm’s reach.
Then my eyes turned towards the single bed in the corner with that same moose blanket spoken of in his journal, now a mass of mangy and worn skin. But my attention quickly fell upon the shrine at the foot of the bed. A small table, cluttered with candles, and other odds and ends. Slowly I walked over to get a better look, and my heart sank. Among the assortment of trinkets there were few things that were recognizable to me. A lock of blonde hair, Mia’s, lay at rest beneath a picture of another young blonde. Although the photo was not of the child’s late mother, the similarities were uncanny. I assume it was procured from some abandoned home so that the young boy would have an idea of who his mother was. Also resting in front of the picture was a blood stained knife, obviously the same blade that ended that sweet girl’s life.
Intrigued, I did not touch anything upon that shrine, for I knew if caught, my demise would surely follow. So quickly I turned to gather up my things, which I found to be strewn about the place with my empty pack laying upon the floor. I feared my instruments were damaged from the boy’s unknowing curiosity, however everything appeared to be intact. Even the portable electron microscope and thermo-cycler were unharmed. Although most of my equipment is unsuitable for such working environment, they were adapted before my departure in hopes that a
makeshift lab could be constructed.
“Look at this.” Steph said, pointing at the window.
Upon the sill, a handmade book, bound in fur, and its pages made of tanned animal skin. Quickly I opened the cover and thumbed through it, surprised at what she had discovered. It was another journal with an all too familiar handwriting, and the first page opening with an amazingly significant title. We were losing the sunlight, so quickly we stepped outside and I began to read that first entry out loud.
A Ruse in Rockland Do not fall victim to the dead, nor the living, for both are seeded by the same evil that plagues this world. Your mother and I sought sanctuary by the promises of man, a place to raise you, a place to protect you. But their promises were but a ruse, a trick, which condemned my beautiful Mia, your mom, into the pits of hell. For that, I will cut down the living, just as I do the dead. They declared this war, and as you grow, I will show you the path of your mother’s heart within the spilling of mortal blood.
Although she never had the chance, your mother dreamed only of the moment that she could hold you, to kiss your lips, to nurse your hungry belly. She was a woman full of love and forgiveness, even for those who would hurt her, and they did. And it is I who will carry the hate and vengeance that she could not convey.
As I hold you tightly in my arms, I exude all of the love I have for you, and commit all the love that my dearest Mia was unable to bestow. You were the sparkle in her eyes, the sweetness of her heart, and all that was good in her is now yours. She gave you your life, and she is the Goddess for which you will worship. When my time comes, take comfort that she is always with you, and will guide you to safety and happiness.
Follow this path, and survival is yours. Do not fall prey to the living, fear them more than the dead. Seclusion is key, but only temporary. Inflict no sympathy on those that would take from you. Survive at all costs, for this world is yours, and yours alone.
“Is it too late to resign my position?” Steph asked with a nervous snicker.