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Day three-hundred sixty-three: cloud cover below is thinning today. Found footprints in the snow.
Day three-hundred sixty-four: nothing new to report. Merry Christmas. Tell Lundvik I haven't forgotten that she owes me a bottle of tequila. Footprints were just my own tracks? again.
Day three-hundred sixty-five: cooking a rabbit I found. Late Christmas present? Amazing. How could a rabbit have survived up here? I still see birds sometimes. Nature's adaptability is astounding.
Day three-hundred sixty-six: so it's been a year since I've heard back, as far as I can estimate. Is anyone still listening to these things? I think sometimes I talk just to hear my own voice. Is that weird? Things wouldn't be so bad if I just had somebody to talk to. I have to admit, I've been having hallucinations. I'm not sure how much longer I can hold this down. Tell Lundvik I don't think I'm going to be able to make it to that date we always talked about...
Day three-hundred sixty-seven: blizzard raging below. Found footprints in the snow. Spooking myself yet again with my own footprints? it's like my brain just doesn't want to acknowledge I'm the only human being on this mountain.
Wait? I never went up there?
Taking cover behind rocky outcropping - is someone else here? If anyone is listening, please advise.
No? Ok, then?
I don't see anyone? not seeing anything in the crags?
I'd rather not be caught unawares. I don't think I can go back to camp and sleep knowing somebody might be out here. I? have to follow the footprints.
Who could possibly be up here?
[breathing and crunching sounds; twenty-six minutes]
Creeping up the crags, still don't see anyone. The wind is terrible up here. Lundvik, I'll have you know I blame you for this. I'm doubling that debt to two bottles of tequila. The cold up here is the worst. Climbing rocks with numb fingers was not in my plan for today. I'd kill for five minutes next to a fire.
Warmth? oh, warmth?
[final exasperated gasp]
[silence; two minutes]
[loud footfalls]
Ice. Goddamnit, ice. No footprints.
Did you hear that? Was that? a gong? Are you hearing this?
Oh, it was just cracking ice? there are some pretty gigantic cliffs up here past the crags. If someone really had gone this way, where would they have been going? Blizzard's moving up the mountain, I have to go back.
If anyone's listening at all, now would be a really good time for some contact.
[ragged breathing and climbing sounds; twenty-two minutes]
The footprints - they're gone! Driving snow here, did it cover them up already? Or am I starting to imagine things? Maybe I should follow them the other direction? where did they come from? What direction was it? I can't remember?
Did you hear that? Can't see anything in the blizzard, but I swear I heard a footfall.
I'm considering doing my lookout route, just to feel more secure? but I know that'd be deadly in this storm, and I wouldn't see anything anyway? what would you do, Lundvik?
No, you're right, that's a bad idea.
If there is somebody out there, they'll never find me in this storm. If I can't see them, they can't see me.
[footfalls on snow; eleven minutes]
Hey, fire's still alive. Saves me some effort. Wish these godforsaken cans of beans would cook themselves, too? but I suppose that's too much to ask for.
I'd kill for some warmth right now. I hate sitting so far from the fire. If only I could reach out and warm my hands by that flickering heat? but that's my game, isn't it? I can never have that blessed warmth, but I can't freeze solid, either, now can I? Stay just on the edge of alive?
It's alright, Lundvik, you can sit closer to the fire. You're fine. Just don't touch me, or you'll end up? cold, like I am.
Oh, this place? Some travelers must have set up this little niche and hideaway. Food here to last years. The rations I came with ran out months ago. This little find was kind of an amazing stroke of luck. They were supposed to get me out of here long before -
[groan]
Damnit. I'm hallucinating again. I know you're not really here.
But it's still nice to have someone to talk to.
Now there's an interesting thought: does it matter if I talk to figments of my imagination if I'm the only one here?
I suppose I'm happy for the company.
Would you like a can of beans? No, of course not. You haven't got a stomach. It takes me an hour to get one open with these numb, shivering hands anyway.
[single sob]
I want to go home?
[drawn breath]
No, no, it's fine. I have weak moments sometimes. It's the cold, and the shortness of breath. It gets to you. I've still got warm sun and bright beaches and memories of you in my head, but I'll never have those sensations again. In a sense, you're still alive? and I'm not. I could feel alive again, if I could read any of these damn books. Two hundred and fourteen books, on shelves, alongside the food! Somebody thought ahead. Survival isn't just physical.
You want me to follow you? I would love to, if I could? I appreciate you wanting to save me, but I can't go with you. I can't be saved.
[wind and crackling fire; forty-seven minutes]
Yeah, the storm's breaking. It happens sometimes. It won't last long.
That? That's it.
Yes, all of it. That's not the ocean, rookie mistake. You can tell when the light hits it - the spectral blue glow, it's unmistakable. It's the GLORWOC.
Yes? all of it. Everything but the mountains. It's the altitude and the cold. It needs oxygen and heat. That's why I can never warm up. You know that, Lundvik. It's all over me, all over my skin - it preferentially consumes the skin, remember? As long as I stay cold, as long I stay high up, I can keep living, keep performing my duties, and it'll never start in on my organs. Up here, my skin heals just barely fast enough to stave it off.
It does hurt. It's eating my skin all the time? very slowly, mind you, because of the cold? but imagine little scrapes all over your body, over every single square inch. Imagine those scrapes made raw by cold, imagine not being able to fill your lungs, imagine shivering every hour of every day, ten feet from a blessed fire, but if you get close, if you try to warm up? if you ever warm up? then you'll end up like them.
Sacks of bones, muscles, and organs flailing around on the floor in agony as the GLORWOC finally starts dissolving the rest? it leaves the eyes and the brain for last. Why does it do that? Is it just some cruel happenstance? I saw dying parents watch their children dissolving, families screaming?
It's no wonder I've imagined you. Can you imagine living with the weight of all those horrors on your soul while you cling to life on the edge of freezing? While you report back, day in and day out, hearing nothing in return? We might not have been able to save them, but we could have tried. The only defense we have against nightmare is the power of self-sacrifice, right?
[sobbing laugh]
Oh, you don't have to move. You're safe, sure. If there's any in the snow, it's dormant. You're clean and safe as long as you don't touch me. I'm the only warm and infected thing on the mountain? and I certainly never get close to the fire.
[sobbing and breathing; two minutes]
I really wish I could go with you, but I know I'm gonna die up here. I just can't give up. That's the human agony, isn't it? Survival at all costs. Who knows, maybe GLORWOC simply stops after a year of trying to consume something? Maybe someone back home will find a solution. Maybe I'll grow immune somehow. The slightest sliver of hope is my damnation. I've had a long time to think about that.
[deep laugh]
I w
ould just love to hear a single word from another living human being. That would be my Christmas present. Or maybe glasses, to read these damn books. I was the ideal candidate for this post, being so far-sighted? and now I'm surrounded by two hundred mental escapes I can't even read.
[wind and crackling fire; eighteen minutes]
Guess I'm sleeping then. Be a good hallucination, won't you, and keep the fire going? Don't worry if I shiver. I never stop.
Day three-hundred sixty-eight: cloud cover thinning below after the blizzard. Doing the rounds again. No change. Never any change. Just a vast ocean of spectral blue devastation, horizon to horizon. Found footprints in the snow - here we go again.
[breathing and crunching; thirty-eight minutes]
Except? they just stop.
They just stop in the middle of nowhere.
And there's a box.
A thrift-store cardboard box, filled with dozens of cheap glasses?
[rapid breathing]
I knew you weren't Lundvik. She'd have never gone brunette.
[laughter; fourteen seconds]
For this, I'll bring that debt back down to one bottle of tequila.
The Desolate Guardians Page 5