meant food and warmth and directions out of here and
maybe even a ride back to civilization if he got really lucky.
He couldn’t
believe his incredible good fortune. He almost laughed out loud at the thought
that he had been seconds away from crawling on his belly through the mud under
a tree where he would have spent the next twenty-four hours or more cold and
miserable, and now, because he just happened to look skyward at the right time,
he might just be on his way home with a full belly and warm, dry clothes within
hours.
Hefting his pack,
which had started out heavy but was now even more so thanks to the water
soaking the canvas, George angled in the general direction of the smoke,
zigzagging through the trees, ducking under branches and putting up with ice-cold
water dripping down his neck. He kept his eyes on the prize: that thin column
of nearly-invisible wispy smoke, fearing that if he lost sight of it he might
never relocate it.
After roughly
twenty minutes of struggling, he trudged through a particularly thick line of
trees into a large clearing and stopped dead in his tracks. Spread out before
him was what had once been a tiny village, clearly abandoned years ago,
probably decades ago. Hell, maybe even centuries ago. The remnants of about a
half-dozen small granite foundations lined each side of a narrow, rutted dirt
trail, which was barely wide enough to accommodate a car, not that any car
would be able to navigate this rough terrain; even a four-wheel drive vehicle
would get stuck trying to make it out here.
In addition to the
ancient stone foundations, which George assumed had at one time held houses, a
couple of similar but larger foundations—perhaps supporting a general store and
maybe a police station or jail—sat in disrepair at the far end of the clearing.
Weeds and scrub grass and even some fairly large trees sprouted out, around and
through the foundations, giving the area a look of utter abandonment. The
forest had nearly completed its reclamation of the lonely and isolated village
which had been hacked out of it at some point in the distant past.
In his shock at
stumbling upon this tiny deserted village, George had almost forgotten the
trail of smoke he had been tracking and now looked around to see if he could
find the person or persons responsible for the fire. At first he could see no
sign of the smoke—he thought for a moment he had lost it completely and almost
panicked—but after a few seconds caught sight of a wisp drifting lazily up and
out of a red-brick chimney sprouting from the roof of a small log cabin off to
George’s right.
The home was
tucked into the very edge of the abandoned village and was clearly not part of
the original town; it looked almost brand new. The construction looked square
and shipshape, with windows and a door and a farmer’s porch running the length
of the house.
George’s heart
leaped with the thought that he was about to get out of this mess, then he was
struck like a hammer by the obvious question— who in the hell builds a home
way out here in the middle of nowhere, at the edge of an old housing graveyard? Even Ted Kaszinski, the old Unabomber himself, the guy with the grudge against
modern technology who had terrorized the country for a time in the 1990’s with
bombs delivered through the United States Postal Service, had lived in an area
that was at least accessible to some conveniences. What had George stumbled
upon? Some antisocial lunatic who might chop him up into little pieces and then
feed them to his equally antisocial dog?
George laughed
uneasily to himself at such a ridiculous notion. He just needed a little help,
that was all, and undoubtedly whoever lived here would be happy to provide it.
Of course they
would.
Jeez, get a grip.
But his nervous
body refused to cooperate with his calm, rational brain. His breath came rapid
and shallow and sweat dripped down his back as he stared at the strange village
laid out in front of him, not a
maybe even a ride back to civilization if he got really lucky.
He couldn’t
believe his incredible good fortune. He almost laughed out loud at the thought
that he had been seconds away from crawling on his belly through the mud under
a tree where he would have spent the next twenty-four hours or more cold and
miserable, and now, because he just happened to look skyward at the right time,
he might just be on his way home with a full belly and warm, dry clothes within
hours.
Hefting his pack,
which had started out heavy but was now even more so thanks to the water
soaking the canvas, George angled in the general direction of the smoke,
zigzagging through the trees, ducking under branches and putting up with ice-cold
water dripping down his neck. He kept his eyes on the prize: that thin column
of nearly-invisible wispy smoke, fearing that if he lost sight of it he might
never relocate it.
After roughly
twenty minutes of struggling, he trudged through a particularly thick line of
trees into a large clearing and stopped dead in his tracks. Spread out before
him was what had once been a tiny village, clearly abandoned years ago,
probably decades ago. Hell, maybe even centuries ago. The remnants of about a
half-dozen small granite foundations lined each side of a narrow, rutted dirt
trail, which was barely wide enough to accommodate a car, not that any car
would be able to navigate this rough terrain; even a four-wheel drive vehicle
would get stuck trying to make it out here.
In addition to the
ancient stone foundations, which George assumed had at one time held houses, a
couple of similar but larger foundations—perhaps supporting a general store and
maybe a police station or jail—sat in disrepair at the far end of the clearing.
Weeds and scrub grass and even some fairly large trees sprouted out, around and
through the foundations, giving the area a look of utter abandonment. The
forest had nearly completed its reclamation of the lonely and isolated village
which had been hacked out of it at some point in the distant past.
In his shock at
stumbling upon this tiny deserted village, George had almost forgotten the
trail of smoke he had been tracking and now looked around to see if he could
find the person or persons responsible for the fire. At first he could see no
sign of the smoke—he thought for a moment he had lost it completely and almost
panicked—but after a few seconds caught sight of a wisp drifting lazily up and
out of a red-brick chimney sprouting from the roof of a small log cabin off to
George’s right.
The home was
tucked into the very edge of the abandoned village and was clearly not part of
the original town; it looked almost brand new. The construction looked square
and shipshape, with windows and a door and a farmer’s porch running the length
of the house.
George’s heart
leaped with the thought that he was about to get out of this mess, then he was
struck like a hammer by the obvious question— who in the hell builds a home
way out here in the middle of nowhere, at the edge of an old housing graveyard? Even Ted Kaszinski, the old Unabomber himself, the guy with the grudge against
modern technology who had terrorized the country for a time in the 1990’s with
bombs delivered through the United States Postal Service, had lived in an area
that was at least accessible to some conveniences. What had George stumbled
upon? Some antisocial lunatic who might chop him up into little pieces and then
feed them to his equally antisocial dog?
George laughed
uneasily to himself at such a ridiculous notion. He just needed a little help,
that was all, and undoubtedly whoever lived here would be happy to provide it.
Of course they
would.
Jeez, get a grip.
But his nervous
body refused to cooperate with his calm, rational brain. His breath came rapid
and shallow and sweat dripped down his back as he stared at the strange village
laid out in front of him, not a
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