The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie) (4 page)

             
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 met 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.

             
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.

             
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 treatment.