The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie) (21 page)

              Mia has all but forgotten about her nightmares, and she speaks no more of Big Paul, or even Tommy for that matter. Yet, she does wear his necklace proudly, and refuses to ever take it off. I catch her from time to time, caressing the teeth, like she did that first night when she told her tale of woe. And, I know in those quiet moments she is thinking back on their friendship, reminiscing of past good.

             
The days have become hot and humid, and the constant buzz of cicadas resonates throughout forests like a damned fire-alarm. We have had much luck in hunting this summer, a couple small deer, a good sized black-bear, and even Mia got herself a few rabbits. For which their pelts have gone straight into Mia's new wardrobe. She is beginning to resemble myself, a mountain-man – woman.

             
We have grown close and find ourselves spending most days just talking, about our likes and dislikes, and funny stories from before the outbreak. We avoid the tragic tales, often stopping mid-sentence as we remember where the story leads. Then the other quickly speaks up with a yarn of their own, bequeathing a needed change of subject.

             
I've also been teaching her the ways of survival. Not just how to avoid, or if need be, kill the infected. But, how to hunt, forage, and fish. Mostly simple things, passed down from ancient man, things most of former society would have balked at. Such as squeezing the water out of the moss that grows along a brook, rather than dangerously drinking directly from it. And Mia is eager to learn, and learns fast too. Old Ben was right, she is a great shot, almost as good as myself. But, when the shot counts, she almost always fails. Her past has fractured her nerves, and keeping calm while under pressure may be her only flaw. It is something that I hope I can help her overcome.

             
I find myself in awe of Mia, she is by far the highlight of this entire apocalyptic scheme. She brings out the happiness in me, happiness I had long ago forgotten existed. Her simple presence makes me smile, which has become a nice change in my daily habits. Nova too, has brought life into both of our hearts. Life that was almost completely drained away.

             
The area has been peaceful and quiet, in fact, aside from one instance, there has been no sign of the dead. But, that one horrifying yet amusing moment ended as quickly as it came. It is something that Mia and I both still chuckle over occasionally. It happened a few days back, while I attempted to teach Mia how to play the game of horseshoes. She wasn't the most skilled either, she was so bad that I had to give her a child-advantage and allow her to stand a few feet in front of the pit. She was, however, amazed at my ability to get one ringer after another. Years of my mother nagging and forcing me to play had paid off, at least for Mia's amusement.

             
Mia had just thrown a shoe which sharply veered to the left, out behind the cabin. There was a loud thunk, then a softer yet more defined thud. We looked at each other for a moment, unsure of what we had just heard. Shrugging off the odd sound we both casually walked over to retrieve the shoe. As we turned the corner we stopped abruptly within a moment of fear, which soon faded as we burst out into a fit of laughter. An infected man, flailing about on the ground like a tumbling rag-doll. Mia's poor game had knocked the stumbling fiend to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

             
The wayward Necrotic had escaped some nut-house not long after the outbreak for he still wore an old but tattered straight jacket. Although still taut, the splattering of both brown and red blood stains showed that he was just as lethal as any other infected.               Aside from his restraints, and his frizzy Einstein hairdo, the more humorous aspect of his attire lay at his feet. An old rusted bear-trap, snapped tightly around his right ankle like the jaws of a bear itself. And we could do nothing but laugh hysterically at his misfortune as he desperately fumbled about, attempting to pull himself back up onto his feet with futility.

             
We watched and laughed at this absurd being that just happened to wander out of the forest at the most opportune moment. Aside from humorous stories of the past, this current event was the slap-stick comedy the world of the dead needed. If only reality-TV was still as popular as it once was, then we would be rich. I suggested Keeping Up with the Carrion as a fitting title, although clueless, Mia shrugged off my parody.

             
After we regained ourselves I dispatched the devil with a quick horseshoe to the head, caving it in with one swift blow. Mia's smile vanished instantly at the sound of his cracking skull, but she did not hesitate to help me drag the body over to the cremation pit. But, before setting him aflame, I noticed a tag on the back of the man’s straight jacket, written in French.

LMC Mental Health Institute

Patient: 11-5637 – Benoit, Jean

Diagnosis: Schizophrenic Savant

              A psychotic genius from Lac Megantic, Canada; an arduous thirty or forty miles from here. I am sure that his life – and death story would be one of great interest to anyone. How did he become hospitalized, did he have a photographic memory, or was he a math genius? How did he eventually turn and make it so far from his reformatory? Sadly though, his alluring tale is now forever lost within his decaying mind.

             
It's not often that I can find the humor in this plight, but on occasion it tends to find me at the most unexpected moments. Yet, behind this jocularity was something dreadfully apparent. The dead were on the move, and traversing great distances even with their own disabilities. I only pray that he is the only dead Canuck lurking out in these woods.

             
We met a man the other day, Mia and I, and not an infected man. He was full of life and vitality. An old wise man, maybe sixty or possible pushing seventy years of age. An old mountain man, or who some would call, an old hermit. A man who had lived alone in these mountains and forests for the better part of his life, and yet still socially competent. Although our encounter came as a complete surprise, I am happy to say that Mia and I have made a new friend.

             
I had spent the better part of the day chopping wood while Mia gingerly stacked it for me. She is quiet the assistant during these long hot days, happily fetching me cold water from the brook to cool us down with. So much work gets done with little effort now that she is around. Her presence creates a sense of perfection to this humble homestead that I have forged. Nova on the other hand could care less about daily chores and instead spends most of the days lounging in the shade of a great oak tree. However, the pup's gentle heart has also helped build something out of mere nothingness, a family.

             
By midafternoon I slump down under that same tree to take advantage of the cooling shade. I reckoned we would finish up tomorrow and just enjoy the rest of that afternoon. Mia completed stacking the last few logs and then flopped herself down beside me, resting her head atop Nova's stomach. The wolf pup was able to manage one wet lick across Mia's forehead before she began panting heavily again as if she had been working hard all day.

             
Just as I lit a partial crushed cigarette, the afternoon silence was abruptly broken. A loud an eerie racket echoed down from upon the ridges, maybe only a few hundred yards away. The hairs on my neck rose stiff and Mia latched onto my waste for protection. Nova's pristine pelt also stiffened erect, like the quills of a threatened porcupine, as she let loose a low and menacing growl towards the unmistakable sound of hee-hawing.

             
“A donkey? Up here?” I said loudly as I jumped up from my shady cover. The cigarette fell from my lips and hit the ground with a shower of sparks and ash. I had not seen a donkey in years, well before the outbreak, and never around these parts. There were no farms for over fifty miles, and I doubted a mule would have made it this far, yet there was obviously one heading straight our way. As I walked out towards the edge of the tree-lines the hee-hawing ceased, yet followed by and old and angry voice.

             
“Quiet down ya old coot! You’re gonna wake the dead!”

             
And like something out of The Wilderness Family, a stranger and his mule stumbled out of the thickets and into our yard. He wore stained and dirty old denim overalls, a flannel shirt and an old green fishing hat which was littered with a colorful display of both dry and wet flies. His mouth revealed a long history of neglect, only three front teeth remained, two of which were blackened with rot. His back teeth were all but obscured, however I am sure that it wasn't any prettier. The man led his clamorous and defiant beast by a thick and frayed rope, it's back adorned with satchels, saddle bags along with an assortment of blankets and tools.

             
“Hello Stranger.” I called out.

             
The mule reared up in distress, baying and kicking its front legs into the air. The stranger himself was also taken off guard, and struggled to keep his aged hands ahold of the frantic beast’s restraints. He quickly gained control of the animal and pulled it forward all the while holding his hand out towards me with the biggest grin stretched from under his thick graying beard.

             
“Why, hello back!” he called out.

             
Sweat poured down his forehead collecting upon his bushy eyebrows before overflowing down his face. He snatched up my hand, squeezing firmly and shaking it abrasively. There was moment of silence as he worked to catch his breath, huffing and puffing in exhaustion. Yet, he continued to hold tight onto my hand, as if afraid that if he ever let go, as if he would never again feel the touch of another person.

             
“Didn't much expect to see anyone today” He paused briefly,” Truman's the name, but ya'll can just call me Tugger.” He said with a slight chuckle in his voice.

             
“Tugger it is,” I responded as Mia darted up with a cup of cold water from the spring. “This is Mia, and that over there hiding under the tree is Nova.” He nodded at Mia and then curiously turned and looked out under the tree.

             
“Nova, aye?” He stepped back a second as he got a good glimpse. “Mother of Jesus in a hand basket! That there is a wolf!” He exclaimed.

             
“That she is, raised her as a pup. But don't worry, her bark is fiercer than her bite.” I answered back.

             
“She don't bite, she's scared of her own shadow.” Mia reassured as she handed out the cup of water, which Tugger graciously sucked down.

             
“That’s very true.” I agreed.

             
“I hope so, I'd say it's been an odd fifty years since I last seen a wolf 'round these parts. Even then it was a rare site.”

             
“They must be moving down from Canada, reclaiming the land.” I said as he finally looked back up to me.

             
“I'd be guess'n so,” His expression showed a bit of confusion. “Any-who, it's a pleasure to see some'n finally putt'n this old cabin to good use.” He paused a moment, “Bout how long you'n your beautiful daughter been here anyhow?”

             
Mia giggled.

             
“Actually, she is not my daughter, I found her last winter lost in these woods.” I corrected, he stared in my eyes, a bit puzzled. “I've been here about the last five years, since everything went to hell. Where are you from?” I asked.

             
“Well,” He took a deep breath, “Originally I come from a small town far to the south of here, doubt you heard of it, Sydney?”

             
“I know the area quite well.” I said. “Actually I grew up not too far from there, in Weeks Mills.”

             
“Small world, aye.” he stated. “Yet I've not been back in those parts in many years. These mountains are the only home I know.” He said as he tied his hoofed companion to a nearby tree.

             
“Well, it's nice to finally have some company, why don't you stay for the night, have some dinner with us?” I offered.

             
“Nah, I couldn't impose.” he rebutted.

             
“Nonsense, I insist, we have more than enough, and I am sure a man such as you can appreciate a good deer steak.” I said as I walked back towards the cabin unwilling to take no for an answer.

             
“Venison, aye.” he paused with intrigue, then began to follow. “Well how can I refuse, it be getting late anyhow.”

             
Mia rushed ahead and darted into the cabin before us, eager to show Tugger the ins and outs of our home. Generally I am more cautious of the living, but Tugger seemed harmless enough. The flexing of his right hand was a sure sign that he has a nasty case of arthritis, there was little strength left in his old bones to be of any threat. He was just an old survivor, living day by day just like Mia and I.

             
Immediately I began to slice off three generous-sized steaks from a large piece of smoked venison as Mia eagerly gathered a few fresh potatoes and wild onions. Her and Tugger worked together chopping the veggies and tossing them in a small pan for roasting while I fried up some steak in a bit of wild-duck fat. The smell of smoky goodness permeated the cabin and drew Nova in who sat patiently, waiting for scraps. Mia and Tugger chit-chatted together as they prepped the vegetables and set them in the wood-fired oven to roast. She filled his ears with stories of Nova, about me, and about how she helped in growing the vegetables. He politely entertained her eagerness to talk, however it was apparent that he had little experience relating with the younger generations.

             
“If you'd be so obliged, after dinner, take some of these scraps out to Ol' Bessy. That old bitch sure do love taters.” He immediately realized his slip in proper language, however Mia paid no mind and eagerly nodded.

             
“I'll sing to her as she eats!” She proclaimed

             
“I'm sure she'd like that,” he smiled. “Especially songs from an angel's voice such as yours.”               “That's what he says,” she responded while pointing her knife over at me. “You got an angel's tongue.” She said while attempting to mimic my voice.

             
Tugger chuckled, “Well it's the truth, dar'lin.” 

             
We sat down together at the table as Tugger eagerly dug into his smoked steak before anyone else. His manners may have been lacking a bit, but what can one expect of an old hermit. He sliced off pieced that appeared to be bigger than he could chew, but then he immediately found the space to shovel a large potato in as well. With every bite he would grunt and moan with satisfaction as he slowly chewed, breathing heavily through his nose, and swallowing each morsel with a loud gulp. He was definitely a man who truly enjoyed his food.

             
“Five years, aye,” he said while chewing, “That's a long time.” He shoved more food into his mouth, yet continued to talk. “You say you found this girl? Where are her parents?”

             
“They're dead.” Mia responded without hesitation and slight remorse.

             
It was the first time she had referred to her parents, let alone any of the infected, as dead. Usually they were the Hungry, or the Meanies, but never the dead. It was a welcoming sign that she was finally letting go of her lost-childhood, she was growing up, coming to full realization of what this world has become.

             
“I am so sorry dear.” he said with a hint of guilt. “So you came to live with this gent?” he asked

             
“I lived in the woods by myself for a while, but he saved me.”

             
“I'm glad to see that.” He said with a bit of a puzzled expression. It was obvious that Tugger had some concerns about our situation, and rightly so. Tugger immediately turned his attention back to his food.

             
After dinner, he graciously helped with the cleanup, washing dishes as Mia and I put them away. Tugger told her stories of all his escapades over the years. She listened with such curiosity, hanging off of every word and eager for more. His tales were a pleasant addition to a laborious day, it was reminiscent of a time when storytelling was the only form of entertainment families once had.

             
“So there I was, Bessy just a few feet behind me on this steep ridge as I tugged her up by her reigns as she wrenched back in protest. I knew that any moment she could'ah easily pulled me back and over them ledges. But, I was determined to make it to the summit, I could feel gold call'n out to me.” He nudged her with his elbow while chuckling.

             
“I swear, I fought with that old-hag for most of that day before we finally reach the top and I got my first glimpse of what had scared her so.” He chuckled some more under his breath as he handed her a plate to dry. “It was nutt'n but a god'damn old porcupine.” He chuckled again as Mia followed in suit. “Stupid old jackass.”

             
“So, did you find the gold?” Mia asked.

             
“Nah, there's no gold left in these hills. Only tiny flakes in the rivers. And I don't have the time to collect them.” He said.

             
“You should make time,” Mia suggested, “I've always wanted a gold ring.” Tugger laughed in response.

             
“Well, I just may do that, but just for you.” he paused a moment, “You may be just as old as I am by time I finish though.” he laughed.

             
When the cabin was finally put back in place, Mia darted off outside with Nova, lugging all the vegetable scraps out for Bessy. Tugger and I sat back down at the table with an old dusty bottle of Scotch which instantly sparked interest in the old man. I cracked open the decanter and poured a generous portion into our cups and we both leaned back in our chairs while sipping the aromatic nectar as it warmed our belly's.

             
“Tell me, Tugger, where are you coming from and where were you headed?” I asked, his expression change quickly from relaxed to discontent as he fiddled with his glass, trying to find the words.

             
“I'll tell ya my good man, it's been a good decade since I last left Mount Pucker-Brush. I use to come down often and visit the folks over in Stratton as well as collecting useful odds n' ends. But I lost interest in that hustle and bustle of city living.” I chuckled slightly at his vision of the once small and close-knit town.

             
“Yesterday, just before dawn, I awoke to Ol’ Bessy out yonder there, screeching like a stuck pig on a hot summer’s day.” With his hand shaking he took another sip, then continued, never taking his eyes off the glass. “I figure it be a coy-dog or fisher going after my chickens. But, I be wrong. I rushed out, my old Winchester held tightly in hand, only to find a sick man limp'n his way towards her.”