The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie)

by Hawk, J. K.

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 wonder, 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 use 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 me
t 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 pulling random memories out all at once. They are coming? Who exactly? Was it one of his old warning about the corporate hogs? Or was he referring to something more sinister? It was probably 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.