Chapter Text
The unnamed survivor walked along the snowy meadows of Mystery Lake, the air felt stuffy- perhaps an early sign of an incoming blizzard, but he didn’t seem to be worried.
What really occupied his mind was getting food to live another day, all the canned goods had perished long ago which didn’t leave much to the imagination, he had to resort to fishing and hunting, but even the latter was getting harder, as the bullets ran out each day that he attempted to harvest some venison in the regions.
Beside the desolate railroad rested a lodge, he visited that place many times in his travels, it almost felt like home; a place to rest after such an exhausting travel from the Trapper’s cabin.
It was the only place that gave him that twinge of familiarity back in his homeland, a place he used to belong.
Passing by the lodge, he headed straight to the lake, the fog was beginning to envelop the landscape, it was quite concerning. But the man still kept going forward, he was hungry and the thought of possibly catching some salmon made his mouth water droplets of saliva.
The fishing hut was rather ill fitting for him, but it still made do and offered some protection from the wind.
After smashing the half frozen cut out circle, he threw the hook into the water, the line nestled and tied to his fingers as the activity had now become solely a game of patience.
As the hours passed by, his fingers were beginning to freeze, but his face did not etch with worry- more concerned about the line snapping than his fingers risking frostbite.
His ears seldom twitched at the nearby howls, the pesky wolves sending messages to their furry patriots as they too looked for another day’s worth of food.
His attention was quickly diverted as the line gave a strong tug, his eyes widened, it must be big, he thought to himself.
After carefully pulling it out, he sees the hook piercing through a cat-fish’s maw, its body thrashing and kicking, the will of survival still there- but in vain as he took it by the fins and tossed it to the other side of the wooden floor.
The man huffs as he prepares the fishing line. and perhaps firing up the pot belly stove resting beside the hole, seldom glancing at the fish’s life slowly draining away- now nothing but muscles acting up during post-mortem.
The man returned to his musing, ignoring the sloppy claps of the fish out of the water, he always mused- maybe he thought to himself too much. Maybe if he were an animal, he’d have the privilege of ignorance, to just be a fish swimming in the water, blissfully unaware of its incoming demise.
As more hours passed by, the pile of dead fishes began to grow, the fire now turned into orange embers- signaling the end of his “shift”.
He slings on his backpack, one he wore many times, one he’d wear as long as his broken heart kept beating on the whitened soil.
An Alice Pack, a sturdy and creaky backpack that was once used back in the 70’s to the early 2000’s. It was worn by many soldiers, soldiers who had probably seen it all, who tumbled and crawled on the arduous sand of Iraq.
The survivor thinks back to when he purchased this pack, he so desperately wanted it, was it for aesthetic perhaps? Or just the complex yet so simple system of the pack.
He shakes his head, interrupting the irrelevant memories circling in his head, distracting himself with the weight bearing on his shoulders, the fish already stinking up the supplies and the nylon fabric the backpack was made of.
He gets out of the hut, and as his eyes look around noticing that the surrounding lake had been enveloped by an eerie mist.
His eyes widened slightly, hearing and feeling the mist’s droning sensation, he felt like he was brought into another realm.
Not really sure at first on which direction to take, his heart begins to flutter, his layered clothing plushing up to an uncomfortable temperature. He takes a deep lung-biting breath, and takes the direction he thought he came from. Surely, he couldn’t get lost, not in such a small lake.
Panic begins to set in, as he felt like he was walking on ice for an eternity, a howl startled him- the rifle now cocked and ready for action.
The stink of the fish must’ve been attracting them, how could he be so stupid for not taking measures for an incoming mist? Why did the weather need to be so unfair and unpredictable?
Stupid, just stupid.
As disjointed thoughts begin to rise into a simmering pot of fear and frustration he shouts, a shout of anger in the hopes of scaring the pack hiding in the mist away, but of course it does not work.
A wolf barked from behind, the man spun on his heels to train his rifle at the wolf. He only had 3 shots in his rifle, 2 for hunting, one for peace.
The wolf growled, its paws clicking against the ice as he slowly approached him, the man yelled a slur, but it only seemed to have angered nature’s guardian even more. Its eyes were yellow, fierce, its maw peeling back to reveal its daunting sharp teeth.
He didn’t have a choice. His gloved finger squeezed the trigger. The bang pierced through air, scattering whatever ptarmigan were foraging about.
As the echo of the gunshot echoes out in a haunting melody the wolf let out its last howl, collapsing in their own pool of blood, its crimson eyes looked peaceful as the red source of life poured out of its fatal wound- paws seldom twitched as the last droplets froze and etched into the grey matted fur.
He turns around again, before putting a pep in his step, cocking out the spent cartridge as he keeps trudging on the slippery ice.
He could see it now, the lodge, his steps began to pace faster as the ice slowly faded into snow- his boots sinking deeper with each step. The lodge becomes larger in his viewpoint, but something else reflects onto his green irises, the silhouette of something large- something that the man did not notice as he hauled himself into the cabin.
He sighs a breath of relief, as he looks around the dusty lodge, a small kitchen-workplace like setting was placed on the far corner of the cabin, some paperwork was sprawled around- and a cracked laptop had been left open. There was a stairwell that led to a living area with two bunk beds on each side, also having a desk with another lifeless laptop.
Despite his many visits, he never took the time to clean the place up, he didn’t even dare to open up the windows to air out the stuffy cabin, the cold would simply kill him from doing that.
With that, he begins stripping his gear off, hanging his parka on an empty rifle rack, his backpack lying beside it.
He loosens some of the straps, pulling out the sack of fish he earned from his fishing trip, it should last him about three or four days at most.
Fetching the cooking skillet from the kitchen and taking some of the wood he stashed in a corner into the stove, he uses his knife (more like a sharpened scrap of metal) to strike some sparks.
As the embers grew and turned into the familiar flickering of fire he sighs in relief, the warmth of the fire was the only respite he could manage. The only time he could relax.
With another sigh, he gutted the fish and sliced it in half- blood dripping down his hands, tossing it on the simmering metal- the fizzling echoing in the cabin.
He sits back on a stool, scratching the back of his curly long hair, the dermatitis on his scalp was killing him- it was painful, so much so he thought he was losing a few hairs because of it.
It felt dry and yet damp, it was driving him crazy and the exhaustion didn’t help.
No matter how hard he tried, he’d always come back weaker and more exasperated. He tried reading books and tried working out but the energy was too precious for it to go to waste with such activities.
He wasn’t living, just surviving, scraping by whatever resources his fellow humans left behind only to die or disappear during the great flare.
And the loneliness, something he always had thought was his friend, had also begun weighing down on him. As the only facade of companionship were the splotches of memories of a human face.
Arching his nose, he feels the snot slowly seeping out of his nostril, he wipes it- as primitive and dirty as it was, but it did not matter to him. Who had time for a damn shower anyway?
Fleeting moments passed by as the fish was finally cooked, another… plain plate of catfish.
As he forced himself to eat it his brain tried everything to reject the small bite, and his reflexes acted up.
The man spits it out, despite how hungry he felt, his stomach refused to eat- was he sick? Perhaps, but he knew it couldn’t be, the mistake of eating wolf meat had taught him a good lesson about stomach parasites.
No, it was his body, wanting to end it- it didn’t see a purpose to live anymore, despite how much he wanted to keep living, to linger onto some hope to make it back home someday. It wasn’t enough anymore.
he chuckles, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes as they start to run down his cheeks.
His head unknowingly turns to the rifle resting by his backpack, his movements were robotic as he stood up, picking up the fragile yet powerful hunting rifle.
Right fingers run along the barrel, before resting on the trigger, his off hand assisting the end of the barrel as he shoves it into his mouth.