aside the slow winding flow of the
Dead River. Its hood left open as if the mechanic was on an extended
lunch break, but the myriad of weathered bullet shells was the
confirmation I needed to bring a smile to my face. It was
undoubtedly Big Paul’s rust bucket, a defeated adversary of the
survivor. We had reached our destination, and my stomach churned
with anticipation.
The sight of this marker brought thoughts of pessimism to run
rampant in my mind. For all we knew, somewhere up on that
mountain, we would only find and empty dwelling riddled with the
signs of chaos and destruction. The Nameless Survivor may have
chosen a different area to call home, or quite possibly fell before
reaching his home. The only assumption I could make is that his
own pride for this land was enough to push for his return.
Still, as I stared into the dense forest that rose above the old road,
and I found myself hesitant on entering the thickets. Apprehensive,
anxious, and fearful. I was like a long lost orphan about to meet his
birth mother for the very first time. Many thoughts raced through
my mind, like, what would I say to him? Would I be welcomed or
shot dead? Would I only find emptiness on the mountain top above?
“Why did we stop?” Steph asked, and I turned from my gaze and
smiled.
“This is it.”
“We made it?”
“Yes,” I paused to brush her hair back away from her face,
revealing her own smile of satisfaction. “We made it.”
With a deep breath, we plunged together into the underbrush and
one step at a time we made our way up the mountain. How far I
would need to travel was unclear, and I just prayed that I would
reach the old tote road spoken of in his journal, the only direct path
to his front yard. But, as I pushed my burning muscles further up,
there was no sign of it, or so I thought.
I knew we were on the right track, off in the distance I could hear
the muddled trickle of a brook, and if memory serves me correctly
then it should pass right by his cabin. And then, like coming out of
an exhaustive morning haze, the road I had been searching for
presented itself. We had been following alongside it all along,
obscured by the regrowth of trees and brush, only visible by the
ancient tire ruts that were nearly buried in dead vegetation. This was
it, we were close, and my heart pounded with excitement.
Before long we came to a barely noticeable fork in the road, and
once again I was faced with a clueless question. Pulling the
survivors journal from my back I thumbed through the pages,
searching for the answer of which path to take. The effort, however,
was in vain. I had his journals almost memorized, and I knew there
was no mention of this divide.
“What now?” Steph asked.
“Now we take a guess.”
“Guess? We chose wrong and we could walk into a horde!” She
protested.
“Either path could present its own obstacles, what choice do we
have?”
The path to the right, however, was obviously the one least
traveled, the ruts that had guided us thus far were no longer visible
in that direction. The only sign that it was once a road were the
younger trees beneath the ancient ones to either side. On the other
hand, the path to the left was much more visible, yet darkly shrouded
by a thick canopy. It resembled a tunnel into the pits of hell,
foreboding and almost free of regrowth. It was the most logical of
choices, but its presence seemed to force me away.
“This way.” I said, pointing to the clear choice.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Without waiting for a response, I took the first step into the
shadowy path, Steph hesitantly following behind. We trekked on,
ignoring our aching legs, and within an hour or so I began to see
signs that most would have missed. Moss covered bones, animal or
man, I did not take the time to check. Then, barbed-wire fencing,
stretching between small clumps of tree to either side of the road
with narrow gaps here and there. It was no old pasture, but a barrier
for the
Dead River. Its hood left open as if the mechanic was on an extended
lunch break, but the myriad of weathered bullet shells was the
confirmation I needed to bring a smile to my face. It was
undoubtedly Big Paul’s rust bucket, a defeated adversary of the
survivor. We had reached our destination, and my stomach churned
with anticipation.
The sight of this marker brought thoughts of pessimism to run
rampant in my mind. For all we knew, somewhere up on that
mountain, we would only find and empty dwelling riddled with the
signs of chaos and destruction. The Nameless Survivor may have
chosen a different area to call home, or quite possibly fell before
reaching his home. The only assumption I could make is that his
own pride for this land was enough to push for his return.
Still, as I stared into the dense forest that rose above the old road,
and I found myself hesitant on entering the thickets. Apprehensive,
anxious, and fearful. I was like a long lost orphan about to meet his
birth mother for the very first time. Many thoughts raced through
my mind, like, what would I say to him? Would I be welcomed or
shot dead? Would I only find emptiness on the mountain top above?
“Why did we stop?” Steph asked, and I turned from my gaze and
smiled.
“This is it.”
“We made it?”
“Yes,” I paused to brush her hair back away from her face,
revealing her own smile of satisfaction. “We made it.”
With a deep breath, we plunged together into the underbrush and
one step at a time we made our way up the mountain. How far I
would need to travel was unclear, and I just prayed that I would
reach the old tote road spoken of in his journal, the only direct path
to his front yard. But, as I pushed my burning muscles further up,
there was no sign of it, or so I thought.
I knew we were on the right track, off in the distance I could hear
the muddled trickle of a brook, and if memory serves me correctly
then it should pass right by his cabin. And then, like coming out of
an exhaustive morning haze, the road I had been searching for
presented itself. We had been following alongside it all along,
obscured by the regrowth of trees and brush, only visible by the
ancient tire ruts that were nearly buried in dead vegetation. This was
it, we were close, and my heart pounded with excitement.
Before long we came to a barely noticeable fork in the road, and
once again I was faced with a clueless question. Pulling the
survivors journal from my back I thumbed through the pages,
searching for the answer of which path to take. The effort, however,
was in vain. I had his journals almost memorized, and I knew there
was no mention of this divide.
“What now?” Steph asked.
“Now we take a guess.”
“Guess? We chose wrong and we could walk into a horde!” She
protested.
“Either path could present its own obstacles, what choice do we
have?”
The path to the right, however, was obviously the one least
traveled, the ruts that had guided us thus far were no longer visible
in that direction. The only sign that it was once a road were the
younger trees beneath the ancient ones to either side. On the other
hand, the path to the left was much more visible, yet darkly shrouded
by a thick canopy. It resembled a tunnel into the pits of hell,
foreboding and almost free of regrowth. It was the most logical of
choices, but its presence seemed to force me away.
“This way.” I said, pointing to the clear choice.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Without waiting for a response, I took the first step into the
shadowy path, Steph hesitantly following behind. We trekked on,
ignoring our aching legs, and within an hour or so I began to see
signs that most would have missed. Moss covered bones, animal or
man, I did not take the time to check. Then, barbed-wire fencing,
stretching between small clumps of tree to either side of the road
with narrow gaps here and there. It was no old pasture, but a barrier
for the
Similar Books
