The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie) (13 page)

             
When I reached the old cabin that my father built long ago, I was both relieved and disheartened. The past twenty odd years of neglect had taken its toll. Half the roof had long ago caved in when a large tree limb crashed through the rotting boards. I must have counted thirty, maybe forty fallen trees around the area. The winter winds that rip through these mountains can be as devastating as a hurricane. Unfortunately, I expected little aid from FEMA, not that they had been all that reliable in the past.

             
It took a few weeks of cleaning and rebuilding to get the cabin and yard in order. The fallen trees came in useful as raw lumber and firewood. Luckily my father’s old tools were still within the mouse infested shed. A bit rusty with age, but with a little WD-40 and sharpening they were still able to get the job done. The old red outhouse was a complete and total loss, and a necessity without any running water. It took about another week to dig a new hole and rebuild the privy. I was well adapted to the outdoors, thanks to my father, but shitting over a log was for cavemen. I am, of course - a sophisticated survivor.

             
The cabin was originally built for hunting and fishing and not much else. It was ill-equipped for long term living and I was completely unprepared for the winter, which loomed only a few months away. I excavated a deep cold cellar to store fruits and vegetables, both for preservation and to protect from the animals. There was no time for a garden that first year so strategic foraging was to be my life-saving crutch.

             
Next I created a makeshift smoker for any game I happen to take down. Over the following years I have improved it into something any Cherokee chief would be proud of. Unfortunately at that time I had no canning supplies so smoking and drying was the best method I had before me. Hunting, fishing and foraging came next. Luckily there were few infected so far north to compete with, so hunting was quite easy. At first I relied on squirrels, raccoons, partridges, wild turkey and skunk. Yes, skunk, which can be quite tasty, if properly killed and butchered. Of course, one wrong slip of the knife and the meat will instantly absorb its rancid musk.

             
In fact, my luck continued for most of that summer, I was able to take down a large bull moose that wandered aimlessly into the yard. The smoking process took forever, but like our ancestors, I did my best to utilize every part of the body. The antlers and bones I cut up to use for both tools and weapons, as well as some ornate carvings to pass the time. I was also able to tan the hide, most of which became a warm blanket that I still use today. The remaining scraps I used to make footwear and a face-mask for those bitter cold winds. The scrotum made a perfect water bag, which I added an innovated pull cord to seal the opening when full. Moose tendon, if properly preserved makes a durable thread, which later came in handy to mend a nasty gash I received on my leg.

             
Foraging raspberries, blueberries and strawberries for daily rations kept me going through those summers months, preserving them was not yet an option. However; cat-tails, fiddle-heads, wild garlic and onion, as well as dandelion greens held up well in the cold cellar. Other wild plants I collected were used more for medicinal purposes. Mushrooms, I reluctantly decided was not an option. Even though I once had quite the eye for identifying them, you could just never be too sure. There are many mimics out there, for which my father had once consumed. For three agonizing days I watched him cry out in pain as he clutched his stomach. His urine had turned a dark rusty-red, and he had a case of the runs that presented itself without discretion. After that my father and I swore only to eat store bought mushrooms.

             
Fish on the other hand was my primary source of protein in the beginning. The brook trout that spawn in these rivers and streams were small yet plentiful. The few larger ones I caught, ten to fifteen inches, ended up in the smoker. Fish jerky is not my most favorite of meals, but it seemed like a regular old lobster boil come dead of winter.

             
Old hunting lodges and camps litter these mountains and lakes for miles. It amazed me that I was the only person who thought to escape here. Or maybe I was just the only one who had made it. Daily I would thoroughly scavenge those forgotten cabins for anything of use. At the top of my list of necessities was, food, weapons, ammunition, and first aid. There was but one old cabin that was a haven for any survivalists. A dusty vault of Preserved fruits, veggies and meats packed in re-sealing canning jars. In the loft I found a sealed, air tight metal canister which contained about ten pounds of corn seed, an unmistakable godsend. Those dried kernels became the start of my exorbitant seed collection which has helped me survive all these years.

             
There was one day, mid-autumn, that fate provided me with a different bounty. While foraging, I had come across an old black bear as he tromp his way through the forest. He proudly wore a heavy dark winter coat that had all but just grown in. The only distinguishing mark was a large scar that traced across his face, the remnants of a great old bear fight. Like myself, he was also scavenging, looking for fatty morsels to help him survive the coming months of hibernation. Undeterred, the bear moseyed his way up along a crystal-clear spring fed stream that cut its way through the sharp granite ledges of Bag Mountain. I followed quietly, staying to the opposite side of the water-flow and at a safe distance behind the massive furry beast. He knew I was there, and if he wanted to he could of easily taken me down, yet he paid me no mind.

             
Unlike the old bear, I was losing energy fast. It had seemed like a whole day was wasted on the attempt to exploit his foraging skills. Yet my aching legs and back was worth the trek up the mountain, for soon Old Scarface turned his interest to a tall dead pine tree that hung over a small gorge in the brook. The crack-ridden granite slabs to either side dropped down a good fifteen feet to a deep and cold pool of water.

             
His nose twitched and contorted as he sniffed around the base of the tree before driving his razor-sharp claws into the dry-rot. A magnificent display of strength as he tore chunks out of the trunk as if the wood was nothing more than a clump of sod. It only took a few minutes of mauling before his nose dove into the hollow center. It was then I realized what he was after as a dark cloud of honey bees rose about him and like precision missiles dove one by one into his fur, stinging madly. Maybe it was his fur that protected him, or he just felt no pain, because he never flinched as the swarm desperately attempted to scare him off.

             
I was in no rush and let him eagerly munch on the sticky honey-combs as the viscous fluid matted the fur around his face like globs of golden-glue. I was more than willing to share since he had just as much right to the feast as I. But starving, was far from an option, and when I felt that he had his fill I fired off a shot above his head. Quickly he pulled his nose from the tree and scurried off into the woods, never looking back even as the bees followed with precision after him. Quickly I jumped across the small ravine and moved up next to the old tree. The bee's that remained behind immediately targeted me, their stings felt like a red-hot needle jabbing repeatedly into my flesh. At least these were just honey-bees and not those damned ghost-face hornets. Large like a bumble bee, yet black with a menacing white face painted on their head. They can be both inquisitive and aggressive at the same time, commonly striking anything and anyone without provocation. Vicious little bastards.

             
Quickly I gathered a few good large chunks of comb, storing them gently in a moose skin pouch, and headed back towards the cabin. It was a long hike down Bag Mountain and back up the next. As a treat, I indulged myself with a large plate of honey-comb when I arrived back home. The busy day and full stomach had taken its toll on me as I woke the next morning with my face resting upon that very same plate. It must have taken most of that morning to scrub off that sticky mass, but was well worth it.

amid 1st Wolf Moon;

              That first winter was better than I had ever expected, of course the heavy bounty I had obtained prior made it all the more easier. I used those cold months to read old books left behind by my pop, as well as normal day to day chores. On the warmer days, I would trudge through the deep snow, scavenging what little I could, what the animals had left behind was of course buried in three feet of snow. I even attempted ice-fishing on Bug-Eye Pond, yet I found it to be grueling, backbreaking work which yielded little results. Chiseling through almost two feet of hard-packed ice and snow with a rusty pole and mallet proved difficult at the very least. It became clear that fishing would remain a summer task.

             
So I spent most of my time at the cabin, puttering around to find things to keep my mind off the extended silence. Loneliness set in fast, which I found extremely hard to bare. At times I would converse with myself, along with random inanimate objects. It was like I was Tom Hanks lost on some Island, unfortunately I had no Wilson to keep me company. Other tasks to keep me busy included a majority of home improvements and tool repair. The old snow-shoes that hung above the fire place consumed a lot of my time. The webbing had drastically frayed and split which took me many hours of twisting and trying to make them new again. It was worth the effort for they have become a necessity in the deep mountain snow.

             
Some nights I would just wrap myself up in my blankets to wait out the snow and windstorms. At all cost I attempted to remain inside as much as possible, and yet when nature called I found myself baring my ass to a shower of stinging ice needles. The blistering cold could freeze snot in seconds and hurricane force winds, reaching up to a hundred miles per hour, whipped through the valley with ferocious anger. The thunder of falling trees and ghostly howls added a creepy soundtrack to nature’s wrath.

             
Yet these were just some of the minor discomforts of those storms. One storm, one of the last of that first winter if I remember correctly, was the scariest I have ever endured, even to this day. The storm began early in the afternoon, and lasted for three depressing days. Pots and pans had unfortunately become my privies during that dreadful period, for which the smell quickly became quite unbearable.

             
On the first night, the wind violently threw a large branch through the kitchen window. For a moment I thought something had exploded as I ducked for cover from the shower of splinters and shattered glass. When I composed myself, I rushed to remove cupboard doors to use in boarding up the destroyed porthole. The force of the wind pushed back the doors with such strength that I could hardly hold them in place as I fumbled with the hammer and nails.

             
The second night was the worst, or what I believe to be the second night. Huddled in bed I listened to the wind and stared at the lantern that burned next to me. My eyes welled up with tears, it was all too much, the seclusion. A life sentence in nature’s prison. The temptation to end the torture was great, yet a greater fear of the afterlife held those temptations at bay. Then, like a flick of a switch, the entire camp lit up with a bright blue light. I froze in place and the shivering subsided as my stomach crawled up into my throat. For a moment it was unclear as to what I had just witnessed, but then the low rumble of thunder eased my spastic heart. Snow-Lightening, something I had not observed since I was a kid.

             
Jumping out of bed in excitement I dashed over to peer out the front window. The effects of snow-lightening is a brilliant display of nature’s true power. The bolts spider out across the sky within the gray mask of falling snow, just barely bursting through the fog. Brilliant flashes of blue and purple, and every large and small object would cast an eerie yet remarkably complex shadow across the landscape. A smile of excitement crossed my face with the next flash, like the snap of a camera an instant visage of a blue forest burned into my mind. The next flash, however, subdued my excitement completely. I saw something, something or someone in the dance of light and shadows. My eyes were playing tricks on me, I had thought as I strained in an attempt not to blink, waiting for that next flash to illuminate the area.

             
It didn't take long before the next blinding-purple burst of light scorched the landscape and revealed a lone figure, standing knee-deep in the snow. It was but only ten or even fifteen feet away from the door. My hand slowly reached over to grab the pistol from my nightstand, my eyes never leaving the window. A series of delayed vibrant flashes lit up the area for a good ten seconds, but it seemed like minutes. This time I had a good look at the figure.

             
It was a tall and anorexic looking man, wearing nothing more than a pair of stained overalls which hung from his frail form like a child wearing his father’s clothes. He was an older man with a receding hairline from what I could see. He was staring, almost with curiosity, into the sky. With each successive flash of lightening, like nature’s own strobe-light, the spiritless figure swayed back and forth in awe and stupor. Clumps of snow were quickly building up on his right shoulder, which abruptly ended with the remains of a bloody stump. His arm, recently torn from its socket by something with great strength.