"Maple! Ash! Look! There it is!" Peter Fisher and his family stood atop a hill in the wee hours of the morning. It was a land of blue, but in the distance were scintillating amber lights peeking out from a splendid ring of wind breaks. Both of the children voiced their amazement with enthusiasm.
"I'll race you!" Ash said and his little feet sprang into action, with Maple chorusing her ascent. He only managed to get a few tottering steps before he was yanked back, falling on his well padded bottom into the deep snow. Maple was similarly kept back by her mother, although she managed to stay upright.
"Oh no you don't! It's still too dark to go running off half-cocked." Peter helped his son up, dusting off the snow that had caked on to his fur-lined parka.
Rena had observed this all, standing a small distance away, with her pack circling about her. As she gazed at Fisham, the settlement she had left behind, an icy wind blew into her face. She squinted against the bitter onslaught, raising her arm as a paltry defence. One of her wolves sat down beside her, opening his maw and expelling a squeaky yawn before licking his chops. "I know, Rigmarole, it's been a long night."
The group descended the hill, their motivation rekindled as their goal was within their sights. Rena pulled up beside Nel as they walked. Nel gave her a side glance, then held Maple's hand tighter as she picked up speed, outpacing Rena.
"We're finally here. Before I go and frighten the watchmen, I suppose we ought to say our goodbyes," Peter said, looking Rena up and down.
"Good bye?" Maple asked, bewildered as she rubbed her eyes ineffectually.
"Rena won't be coming into Fisham with us," Nel said gravely. She rubbed Ash's back. He groggily lifted his head, having curled up on the sled for a rest.
"Where will Rena go?" Maple asked, pouting her heart-shaped lips.
"Not far," Rena assured. She knelt down, looking into the little girls large, innocent eyes. "You be good to your little brother, even though I know that's hard when he can be such a brat. But he's a loveable brat, alright?"
Nel did not look impressed, but Maple smiled even as tears warmed her eyes. Rena patted Maple on the head and then stood up. Maple wrapped her arms about Rena in an embrace. "Good bye..." she said, sniffling.
"Nel, may we speak before I go?" Rena requested. Nel shook her head.
"There isn't time," Nel said. Rena looked to the east, a blue gradient scaling the expansive flats. She was very exposed in the prairies.
"Just let me say that I never meant for you to feel trapped or afraid." Rena didn't linger to catch Nel's response. She whistled to summon her pack of companions and began to walk along the treeline in search of shelter.
Peter stood back and watched the two women who mattered most in his life, and shook his head. He couldn't worry about the recent rift between Rena and Nel, he needed to finish the last stretch of their journey. "Come on kids."
Tired, everyone followed him. To his relief, the night watchman wasn't very chatty. Once they recognised each other, he just tood aside and nodded for them to go in with a mighty yawn. And though it had been years, and he could see some changes, Fisham was much the way he had left it. The dark, blocky sod hunts stood in sharp contrast to the moonlit snow. Candle light sometimes probed past the wooden shutters, but most homes were dark.
His hand in Nel's, the group of them finally stood at the door to his mother's house. He took in a few deep breaths, not keen on waking his mother. There was the briefest moment where he worried she may have passed away in his absence. But the man at the gate didn't say anything, so he was feeling fairly optimistic. He pounded on the door, waited, then pounded again.
Ash leaned against his leg and yawned. Maple was shivering even in her bundles. Perhaps she was sensing his own nervousness. Nel squeezed his hand. Finally, as he was about to knock a third time, the door came open.
A familiar and reassuring site greeted his eyes. Eyes, sharp despite their age, squinted in the darkness, waiting for them to adjust. But then they widened, with recognition and Peter heard a gasp. He grinned.
"Oh, Peter, is it you?" Peter's mother raised a gnarled hand to touch his bristly cheek. He lifted his mitted hand and covered her trembling fingers. He then stood aside, gesturing to his family. "Oh... oh Nel! Oh and look at Maple, how big you've grown! And who is this handsome young boy? Come in, come in!"
None of them needed any further urging. Exhausted from their long trek, Peter's family filed in after their emotional host. "Make yourselves at home! I was just getting the fire started."
"It's good to see you are still in good health, Mrs. Fisher," Nel said.
Maple peered at the woman, as if trying to decide whether she ought to be excited or shy. Ash's somnolent haze was left at the door and he hustled over to sit by the hearth. His boy watched attentively as Mrs. Fisher coaxed a warm blaze from flint and steel. Ash exuberantly began tossing in some dried grass from the kindling box. It was as if he knew this was home, despite having never been here.
"Pop says we're here to see Grandma, so you must be Grandma. I'm Ash." Nel paused, her scarf half off as Ash spearheaded introductions.
"Hello, Ash. Oh my, you must like your fires big, but that's enough dearie, that's enough." Peter's mother gently put her hands over Ash's little fists, which gripped a handful of kindling.
Soon a crackling fire was contentedly burning in its cosy corner. Nel, Maple and Peter were all squished onto a cedar bench, while Mrs. Fisher sat in her rocking chair. Ash immediately crawled onto Mrs. Fisher's lap, which brought a surprised laugh from the woman.
"He's not shy," Peter said, adding to the chorus of laughter.
"I see. I'm glad your family is growing. I really worried you'd never come home..." Mrs. Fisher said, looking over the tired travellers.
"We didn't think we would, either," Nel said, staring into the fire.
"Well, you all look tired. I can set out some pallets and you can get some rest, then we'll have a proper catch-up."
Smoke curled around the cramped control centre as Sergei stared blearily at the fuzzy main screen. Images on smaller monitors flickered and showed the same monotonous nothing. The Bering Strait was still the Bering Strait. The most exciting thing was tracking the movement of ice floes. Sergei took a drag, blowing out more smoke from his cigarette, tapping the tip over his crowded ashtray.
Sergei knew he probably should slow down. Since the world ended, no one was really making cigarettes as fine as these anymore. The smoky odour was satisfying, almost as much as the feeling of rolling the paper between his thumb and forefinger. The ever present clicks, pops, and static of the comms were white noise, so much that as far as Sergei was concerned, he was plunged into silence. But it was his job to be there, in case something happened. He almost wished something would.
He had not heard from his commander in months. His rations were running low. But there was no getting out of this god forsaken ghost village. Whose idea was it to make an outpost in an evacuated whaling village, anyhow? For all he knew everyone was dead out there. Wouldn't that be a kicker? The last man on Earth, and he's out of beer. He couldn't even go out with a buzz.
Sergei picked up his pistol, staring at it a moment, engaging and disengaging the safety a few times as he looked out at the monitors. This had become a little ritual of his. It would serve everyone right for sticking him in this hellhole if a whole throng of the infected were to somehow cross the gap. He began laughing at the thought, his viscous belly shaking.
He imagined a horde of zombie invaders hopping and sliding across chunks of pan ice like fretful fleas on a white dog, clawing and shoving each other as they got closer to the shore. He could see the ravenous army rushing climbing onto the abandoned remnants of a bridge to Ratmonov, funneling like grains of sand in an hourglass. Then on the shore, they'd charge for the outpost, only to find his long desiccated corpse inside, the blood and brain matter already dried. And then miles and miles of nothing. Miles of nothing he'd often considered risking on foot. Freezing just might be better than starving to death. Sergei sighed and put the gun down, taking another puff.
Hope they like smoked meat.
Rubbing his eyes, Sergei almost missed the blip on his screen. But then he saw it. Nothing was crossing the Strait. But the surveillance camera at the west entrance showed a dark grainy spot moving. He leaned forward, his feet hitting the floor with a thunk as he squinted. Sergei rubbed his eyes again, but it was getting larger. It moved like a person. Who would be crazy enough to approach on foot? Or maybe they had a vehicle somewhere nearby.
The lone Russian began doing mental stock of his resources, hoping that maybe it was a case of low petrol. He didn't care who they were, if they weren't supposed to be on a military outpost. If they had a way out, he would give anything to hitch a ride. He almost rushed to the door, then paused, eyeing his gun. On the other hand, he only wanted to get out so he could live. No point dying from carelessness.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Sergei stood at the gate, watching the bundled apparition come closer and closer. It wasn't a trick of the cameras. Someone was approaching.
A wind stirred up the powdered snow, momentarily blocking his view of the encroaching stranger. He remained on the safe side of the gate, power lock engaged. When the figure walked out of the glittering screen, he could make out the fur-fringed hood of a saddle brown parka. Scarves covered the unknown person's nose, and they were up to their knees in snow.
He activated the speaker box, calmly telling the stranger to halt and identify themselves. To his surprise and delight, he heard a woman's voice shout over the roaring wind. He was barely able to make out that she was not an official, but had a message. He could also tell from her accent that she was not a native Russian speaker. Sergei deliberated, before telling her to raise her hands, approach slowly, and make no sudden movements. She complied.
Once the woman stood just outside the gate, Sergei briskly searched her for weapons. No weapons, no supplies, just a single canteen. That should have been a red flag, but his acuity had been dulled from insufferable monotony and isolation. Satisfied that she was no threat, he allowed her inside, if only so he could hear her message without the whistling winds drowning her out.
Who was he kidding? He let her in because he was lonely and bored. And her eyes had a deep, stimulating quality to them. There was a mysterious allure about her. Although that might just be because anyone who trudged in out of the white abyss would seem mysterious. He couldn't wait to see what was underneath all that bulky snow gear. It'd be like unwrapping a present. Naturally, he bid her to get those cold things off and warm up.
Wordlessly, she accepted his offer, the sound of a zipper tickling his ear with anticipation. The woman did not disappoint. Her face was round, with just a slightly squared jaw, strong and elegant on a long throat. Her complexion was pale in stark contrast to her round brown eyes, set deep under low, shapely eyebrows that hinted and teased at knowing some secret. Her nose was straight and well balanced against her sloped cheeks. The woman's slightly down-turned lips were full without appearing to peel away from her face. Thick black hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Her figure was indiscernible as she was wearing a thick knitted kuspuk and baggy pants gathered in by fur-lined boots.
It certainly was a pleasing change of scenery, and he'd almost forgotten that she arrived to convey a message. A message which she shared without preface or ceremony.
His faction had fallen. His commander was dead. Governments all over Europe have collapsed. They were plunged into wide-spread anarchy. And the dark cloud from the Americas had spread to the Old World, pushing people further towards the poles.
Sergei stared at her for a moment, trying to take this all in. Although he'd joked that the world had already ended once the nukes went flying, the news that the last holdouts of civilization had crumbled was a heavy load. He grabbed another cigarette and popped it in his mouth, eyeing the woman. He held one out to her, raising his eyebrows. She shook her head. He shrugged. Her loss.
For the information she had, she was composed. He smirked. Well, it was the end of the world, so damn the consequences. Just as he was formulating how he'd want to spend the Last Days, he was halted by a sudden pain. His eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe, a thumb pressing into his windpipe. He made a grab for his pistol. The woman, eyebrows only slightly lifted and with a look of indifference, opened her mouth wide, the light glinting off of pronounced fangs.
It was all over in moments.
"The Bleak has encroached our borders. The skies are silent. There is no one we can rely on but ourselves!"
A gathering of men and women assembled at a long table in a conference room, the skies outside shedding the diffuse light of an overcast day through the large windows. The landscape was eerie in its whiteness. Silhouettes of unmaintained buildings and skeletons of long-since stripped down cars were highlighted by snow. There was no power in the building they gathered in, and so most of the assembly were swaddled in their warmest clothes, and rags were stuffed in the cracks of windows and doors to keep the heat inside.
The man speaking stood at the head of the large table, addressing the others who sat and listened. "I know y'all handle your own protection. But as a Ward, we need more than truces and trading. We need to come together and protect each other. What the vamps don't kill, they'll infect. We've each held out against the White Plague this long." He let a pregnant pause rest there, a finger lifted, but eyes downcast. Then he lifted his gaze, surveying everyone in the room. "But times are changing. Either we stand together, or we fall apart."
A din of murmuring followed this rousing speech. The speaker held his cap out in front of himself, as a ruse to hide the anxious twiddling of his thumbs as he waited for someone to elevate their voice in challenge or agreement.
A middle-aged woman missing the tip of her nose rose to her feet. "Only three of us got comms. Them Hawks don't even got power in their camp." She gestured to a broad-shouldered man with a feather affixed to his tuque.
"That is a fair question, Ida of White Warrens. Those with radios'll be responsible to contact those without. Since Perch is close to the Goldilocks huddle, it will be up to Goldies to keep the Hawks informed. As for the White Warrens, I'll make sure we of Willowbrook will keep you informed. We can also use smoke signals, I found some books about 'em. Y'all can read them and take your own notes." The speaker gestured to a pair of hardbound books off to the side, then looked back to the assembly.
Seeming satisfied, Ida sat down, lacing together her brown fingers, large buggy eyes narrowing as she peered across the way at an older man who rose next. Although his hair was grey, he had a healthy head of it and a neatly trimmed beard. He had all his fingers and his face was unscarred, which set him apart from the rest present.
"As a new entry to the Ward, I have concerns about Fisham being the most remote. While we do have radios, we worry about the time it would take either for help to arrive, or for us to assist in the case of an attack. How would you address this difficulty, Mayor Benton?"
Mayor Benton momentarily smirked derisively but quickly brightened it with a disarming smile. "Well, Chief Fisher, I'd encourage you to barricade so you can hold 'em off until help arrives. If that's not workable, well, evacuate your folk here to Willowbrook. With working together from our more defensible location, we can lick 'em, and eventually you can go back and rebuild."
Chief Fisher's half lidded eyes narrowed further, and he took no pain to hide that he was not pleased with this response. All the same, he sat back down. Ida slid a side look to the Hawk representative, and the two shared some whispers, eyeing Chief Fisher.
"I'm thinking we ought'a have rotations of scouting patrols and joint training once a month. I expect all members to contribute able-bodied men and women to increasing our security..." Mayor of Willowbrook droned on as they further discussed the finer details of this plan for security. Chief Fisher hung back, observing and taking it in, but he spent as much time watching his fellow Warders as he did paying attention to the plans.
Just as things seemed to have reached a conclusion, the leader of the Goldies, who had remained mostly silent other than when asked to weigh in a vote, cleared her throat. She must have swallowed a grater, for the voice that came out was airy and shredded. Glazed eyes regarded everyone when they turned to her. "Since we're talking patrols, I need 'em fast." Everyone waited patiently while she coughed, and cleared her throat again. "Some of my hunters went missing. Took the hounds out looking, and they dug 'em up. They was buried, but their throats torn open. I'm worried a vamp might've gotten up north and bit some folk, and we got passers."
"Passers?" Chief Fisher asked, tilting his head. Everyone looked at each other in mild surprise at the question.
"Well, yeah, folk bit by vamps, but not fully changed yet. They can seem human for a bit. You ain't ever had a breakout in your settlement?" Ida asked incredulously.
"No, we have not," Chief Fisher said frostily. "They don't normally come this far north."
"They did in the early-ons. And we get refugees enough from further south where they're active. Sometimes they're bit, but tell no one." Madam Gold explained. "Anyway, we'da be on the lookout."
Everyone nodded in agreement. Chief Fisher furrowed his eyebrows but lifted his chin, glancing out the window at the whiteness outside, stroking his chin.
"That is grave. But I must be going. I had to travel far to get here, and if there are vamps, I best not be caught after dark." Chief Fisher bowed to all present and left with a decisive gait.
With Chief Fisher no longer present, Ida shook her head. "I don't know why we let those outsiders in our Ward. There's something fishy about them," she said in her nasally yet fudgey voice, laughing at her own little pun. It took a moment, but two of the other leaders laughed with her. Mayor Brenton looked up from rolling up a map he'd been using for his demonstration.
"Now, now, we gotta earn their trust. They've got something we don't, just not sure what. Their people live longer and healthier, there's gotta be a reason, right? No idea why they reached out to us when they did. Probably because something stinks in the state of Fisham." Mayor Brenton chuckled, pleased with himself. He looked around at the room, everyone staring blankly at him. He grunted and sobered, grumbling to himself. It truly was a burden being cultured in a post apocalyptic wasteland. "Anyway, might be able to use that to learn their secret."
The smell was the first sensation. Ah, that salty, smoky aroma of cooking meat. Waking up to the sound of a sizzling pan was such a beautiful thing that Peter did not open his eyes immediately, but just savoured the moment. He missed his mother's cooking.
"Wake up, Pop, wake up!" came Ash's excited voice. A constant nudging jarred Peter further awake, as tiny hands pawed at his chest and shoulder. Peter finally opened his eyes to see his son jumping up and down beside him. "Grandma is making some Berky!"
Peter rolled out of bed and struggled back into his homespun sweater. Before they could sit down to eat, he needed to clear away their bedrolls and pallets, and Ash was positively vibrating across the floor to each of his tasks. Maple was more subdued in doing her chores. It was a lot of activity for the two-room soddie, but they somehow managed to not be under each other's feet.
Finally the family sat down to eat their lunch of porridge and 'Berky', a local term for fried ham made with the Berkshire pigs. Peter wasn't sure what a Berkshire pig was as opposed to any other sort of pig since they were the only kind found in Fisham. What mattered is that they were as delicious as they were willful. Peter always found the pigs unnerving as a boy, but had to get used to them since pig farming was his family's duty. He wondered how they even fed the pigs since the long winter began. Doubtless, he'd soon find out once his mother put him back to work.
"This is YUMMY!" Ash gushed after tearing into a juicy, marbled piece of meat.
"I'm glad!" Mrs. Fisher responded. "Eat your fill!"
"Trust me, he will," Peter said with a smile as blew on his porridge.
"Now that you have rested, I have to ask Peter. Where is Rena?"
Utensils scraping against earthenware dishes was all that could be heard as the family fell into a hush. Maple sniffled, and went to wipe her face with her sleeve. Nel slowed down in her chewing, and Peter quickly shovelled a large mouthful of porridge in.
"Oh, Mom told me she had to go, but I'm sure she'll be back. She always comes back," Ash said helpfully.
"She's not coming back, though, is she, Mom?" Maple asked. Nel placed down her spoon and sighed, looking at her children. Peter could see the pain she was trying to hide. The pain of a parent who had to explain hard truths to their children.
Nel quickly finished and rose to her feet, letting this be a discussion between mother and son. "Let me get started on the dishes, Jill." She gathered up hers and Ash's dishes, but Maple was taking her time.
Peter stirred what remained of his porridge around, then sighed. "Rena travelled with us as far as the outskirts, but she knows better than to return here," Peter finally answered. "And... we don't know if she is coming back. That depends on what happens after I speak with Uncle Graham."
"About what, Peter?" Jill asked as she scraped the sides of her bowl.
"Letting Rena come home."
Trivia: The Bering Strait is the only passage from the Pacific ocean to the Arctic. The border between the US and Russia runs between a pair of islands known as the Diomedes. While small, they were once the home of I?upiat people. The Strait has great ecological importance as many marine animals migrate through these waters, and the coast and islands have been nesting ground for many species of bird. At its narrowest point, it is 82 km/55~ mi across.
By the way: Some may have noticed a tonal shift in the section focusing on Sergei, and may even questions the point and significance of this scene. This was some experimental writing I had fought with myself whether to keep or cut, but ultimately decided to keep. I'd be very interested in reader's thoughts on this particular passage.
Are you craving bacon now?
