by Hawk, J. K.
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 eves 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, then she slowly reach over and snatch 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 treatme
nt.
18th day, 5th Hunger Moon;
A pink hue scarcely broke over the horizon when I opened my eyes from another dream infested night. The vibrant sky foreshadowed that warm weather was again on its way, which would make for a perfect day to hunt. Quickly I came to the decision that I would allow the girl to rest for the day. This made it the first time that I have left her alone since her liberation from the mountains icy prison.
After stretching my tense muscles for a moment, I stood at the foot of the bed, staring in awe at the sleeping girl before me. Such a tenacious and adept survivor, yet with so much purity as she slept with her thumb gently nestled within her mouth like a toddler. Still, I worry, she has yet to mutter a single word and it has been days. If only she would tell me her name, just enough to ease my concern for her, and to finally hear a voice other than my own.
Delicately I pulled the covers back over her shoulders and gave a soft, comforting kiss on her forehead. She smiled slightly but did not wake, only snuggled deeper into her blanket. So I turned away to begin prepping for the days hunt, we could not wait any longer. The pains within our bellies began resurfacing as soon as the last drop of squirrel broth was gone.
Optimistic that the warm weather would make hunting easier, my pessimistic side created a deeper fear. The warm weather would soon awaken the wandering slugs that currently roam my hunting grounds. The past four months of hard winter has caused them to be significantly hungry, more than usual. I hoped that they had moved further north, maybe even crossing the Canadian border, but deep down I knew the truth. They would have to be dealt with, and soon, a task that would become most disagreeable.
I gathered only the essentials; my knife, forty-five revolver, and bow with a dozen arrows. In my haversack I packed an assortment of other items such as fishing line and hooks, stale crackers and an old first-aid kit. Almost everything needed if I were to be stranded on my mountain for the night.
As I opened the door, the girl stirred cozily from beneath the fur covers, mumbling inaudibly in her sleep. For a moment I stood motionless, holding my breath, hoping for just one word. But nothing, gracefully she turned herself over as a petite and single snore escaped her nose. Thus, in disappointment, I quietly stepped out and latched the door behind me.
The frigid morning air caught me off guard as it filled my lungs, instantly chilling them and provoking me to gasp. I could already feel the skin on my face tauten and could see the tip of my nose promptly flush with red. Yet, the icy pins and needles that bombarded my body were as invigorating as a cold brook swim on a hot day.
With my snowshoes abandoned, I had only my thick and heavy boots to trek through the deep snow, which definitely slowed me down. Yet, with my bow in hand and ready for anything, I confidently made my way through the thickets and slowly up the mountainside. My eyes darted between every boulder and brush, hoping to glimpse the hind end of a deer, yet heedful of the obscured dead.
My legs were still weak from our treacherous ordeal a few days prior, but nonetheless I pushed on and with purpose. The air was crisp with the sure scent of spring, and every breath that escaped my lips was like faint smoke billowing out. Chipmunks and squirrels jumped from tree to tree with such grace and agility, and occasionally they tossed down twigs and acorns as a warning. They were a good sign that I'd soon find food, but these critters would simply be a waste of an arrow, I needed bigger game.
The strain in my legs was persistent, making the first twenty minutes of hiking feel like hours. Every muscle and joint ached and burned, as my bones themselves felt like brittle glass that was imminent of shattering. After years of living in this manner I would surmise that my legs would be much stronger, but maybe I am just getting too old for this shit.
After a while, the forest opened up into small clearing, an almost perfect circle shrouded by dense alpine. Amazement washed over me at the surreal visage that had been previously masked before now. Although I'm acquainted with almost every nook and cranny of my mountain, until now I have never before stumbled through this area.
The sun cast its rays over the horizon and showered the area with a spectacle of light. A shimmering and heavenly rift trapped within a vale. And the snow and ice sparkled and danced about the area like something out of a mystical fairy-tale.
However, this fairyland had been recently stripped of its purity. At the far end of the clearing lay a path of necrotic, blood-soaked snow that trailed off back into the forest. In fact, the entire area was covered with tracks, but not just those of slugs. Dog-like prints too - Wolves. Before me was the remnants of their unfortunate fate. Scarier still, there were no carcasses and obviously the infected do not carry food with them.
Deciding to rest a moment, I sat down on a rock near the middle of the clearing and lit an old cigarette from my coat. The carton I stowed away long ago has lasted quite well, a smoke here and there, maybe a pack every few moons. Marlboro menthol, not the best tasting habit, but in those cold morning hikes it definitely hits the spot.
Sitting quietly, I puffed on the stick and listened intently to my surroundings. Listening for anything, the sound of a deer tromping through the landscape, or the sounds of the dead shuffling towards me, and hopefully not the fast dash of a pack of Zombie Wolves. Outrunning a wretch is hard enough, however an undead wolf? It would be of no use.
Over the years I have come across a few infected animals, and unlike infected humans, they do not become sluggish in the bitter cold of winter. They are highly agile and aggressive, and no longer fear man. In some ways, I would rather deal with slugs, then the horrific infections of Mother Nature.
The few undead animals I've encountered before; bears, bobcats, and even an opossum all struck fear into my heart. But as of yet, I have come across no wolves, and I pray that I never will. Wolves never use to be a worry in these parts, but now a fiercer predator wanders their hunting grounds. And they are being pushed and scattered further into uncharted terrain.
When I finished my smoke I flicked it into the snow and watched as the cherry quickly sputtered out. The sun had completely cleared the horizon and it was now time to move on. Slowly and quietly I headed into the same direction of the blood trail.
The trail ascended the mountain side for a ways and as I followed it the blood-stains became thicker and fresher. The snow had yet to absorb and dilute the contagious fluid - I was getting close. And in return, anxiety built up from within, the one thing that plagues me every time I encounter the damned.
Their trail of blood followed below a steep rocky ridge, a better vantage point for me, of which I struggled to shuffle up onto. The cliff ascended up about fifty feet, but still within sight of the blood-path below. Beneath a swath of trees the ledge jutted, and carefully I navigated its slick slope.
Regrettably, just as I reached the peak, my footing gave way to a patch of slushy snow and ice. Slamming down hard onto my side, the wind knocked out of me, and I began to slide. I wanted to scream, and would of if I hadn't been gasping for air while trying to grab hold of something, anything.
My fingers clawed into the ice coated rocks and the sensation of needles instantly shot up into my hands as a couple of nails snapped like a dry twig on the forest floor. It was like a slow motion scene of a dramatic movie as I watched a trail of blood, just a couple thin streaks, extend from my finger-tips and back up the rise.
At last my left hand firmly grabbed hold of an old exposed root, just as my legs swung off the edge. I came to a painful and sharp halt, as my body dangled feebly over the brim. A thunderous pop resonated in my shoulder just as my lungs were finally able to fill. I released a small yelp, and pain shot down my arm like a rocket.
Biting my lips hard I could taste the irony blood wash over my tongue as I reopened my barely healed wounds. Only this time they bled profusely and it took a moment to realize that I had bit the tip of my tongue clean off. Breathing heavily though my nose, I tried like hell not to yell again, fearing I may alert the nearby herd.
The pai
n continued to shoot like a gun up and down my arm, weakening my steadfast grip on the root. Lunging up with my other arm I reached to get a better hold onto the root as I tried to swing my legs back onto the ledge. It took a few agonizingly failed attempts before my feet finally landed and I slowly and painfully pulled the rest of my bruised body to safety.
Silently I laid there, catching my breath, forcefully clenching my teeth while trying to take the pain. My mind raced with thoughts that I actually may die out here today, leaving that girl alone to fend for herself once again. It took a few minutes of berating myself before I regained self-control and sat up along the ledge, contemplating my next move.
Should I continue on? Or Should I return to the cabin in demoralizing defeat? Questions without answers, a mere throw of the dice. For a moment, I felt my eyes well up in humiliation, but swiftly I buried those emotions.
No, there was no giving up, I would not surrender to a little pain. “Man Up!” As my father would say. Yet up until now I have never had the opportunity to pop my own shoulder back into place. Once as a teenager I had it done by my doctor, which reliving that agony was not part of my agenda today.
“How hard could it be?” I thought as I stood up and leaned my back against the large oak that had just saved my life. It's massive trunk just slightly leaning out over the brim of the cliff. As if frozen in time just before the moment it toppled over the edge. Yet its roots were large and strong, gripping the cracks that splintered throughout the hard mountain stone.
“Man Up,” Is what the man said, so I took a few good deep breaths as I twisted my arm outwards, and the pain intensified to no end. I clamped my teeth together and on to one last. Deep breath, before I lunged my shoulder hard into the side of the tree. The pop seemed to resonate loudly from my shoulder, and my bones reverberated within my skin.