Always South

Always South

     The burning timber, the orange light, the tree shadows, I had forgotten warmth completely, and here it was again. I hugged myself and stood, rotating my body, warming myself all over and evenly. Then I laid on my back and held my feet out toward the flames until they were too warm, then I held them a little longer before cooling them down in the snow as I stood. The sizzle of snow melting, by the flames, was like the drawing of a dozen bows across a dozen perfectly tuned violins.

     I lay there, between the fires, having pulled some of the larger boards from the rubble and stacking them ten feet away. I fashioned for myself a snowy space between walls of heat and light that kept me comfortable for two nights. Once the embers cooled and the warmth was gone, I packed up my sleeping mat and my blankets. I was reasonably warm, but most importantly, I was dry.

     I made one more pass around and through the rubble, there I often found one or two valuables undamaged or lightly scorched that could be useful to a traveler like me. But here there was nothing. Pity.

I shouldered my pack, tied a scarf around my new hat, pulling the sides of the brim down over my ears, and trudged south—always south toward warmth.

     I had months and miles behind me now. The roads weren’t straight. They connected towns and villages, following them exposed me to groups and questions and long distracting meanders out of my way. If I followed the needle on my compass, due south, only changing course to get around lakes, mountains, and pockets of disease, I would soon be warm, I knew that much to be true.

     The very last town I encountered before incurring my deformity was a peaceful town. Well off the beaten path, they had suffered very little from the disease. They were wary though. They bore the weight of a town that had a problem or two with outside folks coming in by force.

     I came through the trees near an old garage. I’d heard the clattering of machines and chattering of people. Coming out behind that shop, looking as I must have looked, blackened from smoke, and ragged from my journey, I don’t blame them for being frightened and coming at me like they did. Fortunately, I was practiced in my diplomacy by then. 

“Are you sick?”

“What are you doing?” 

“Who the hell are you?” 

“Who sent you?” 

“What do you want?”

I received the same line of questioning every time. My responses were well worn, as worn as my boots, and just as reliable.

     “I’m from the north. I haven’t been around the infected. I’m heading south to be with family. I have been walking a long time, staying off the roads, avoiding infection. I would like to work for food and water, to rest a bit, if I could. I don’t mean any trouble. I’m sorry if I scared anyone.”

     I took jobs lugging stone for field walls, toting jugs of water from springs, sometimes folks would ask that I put in a garden, split a cord of wood, dig a ditch, or a fence line. They were all simple tasks, each worth a loaf of bread, a container of stew, a bucket of hot water and some soap for washing. I knew how to tell the folks who wanted to hear my story from those who couldn’t wait to see me leave. If they wanted to listen, I spoke humbly, but clearly about my travels and encounters with bad groups and wildlife. If I embellished just right and didn’t strike any discord, pity could sometimes get me a new hat or some snow pants that the family wasn’t using anymore. These items often belonged to the departed.

     I worked my way through the town, fattening up, upgrading supplies, drawing little attention, when finally, one of the town overseers decided he had had enough of my presence. I could usually see it coming—these awkward little interactions.

He was polite, though he had two men with clubs just a few paces behind him as if I might lash out, unarmed as I was, and bring fisticuffs to what traditionally went smooth as any respectable exchange of ideas. The town wanted me to go, the man was sent to tell me as much, I said I needed a week more to earn food for my journey. The town had considered this, as they always did, and presented me with two fresh blankets, three pounds of dried food, several cans of fruit, and some snowshoes.

     So off I went, offering a few waves behind me to some of the more charitable and hospitable of the town’s residents. Once I cleaned up and put some fat back on my bones, it was never hard to draw the eye of one or two isolated young ladies—lads occasionally too. I wasn’t interested in romance but clothes and supplies in exchange for my stories and attentions worked just fine for all parties involved.

     If I waved just right and smiled graciously enough, I would be remembered as a nice fellow that recently passed through or remembered not at all. 

I strove for the gray area between nice fellow and not at all.

     After a town, keeping to my southerly heading, I often came across an isolated farm or home. I never stopped unless I was sure I’d made it seven days before encountering these just-outside-of-town places. On this particular journey I encountered an excellent opportunity six days south of town. Horses whinnied from inside a well-maintained corral. Milk cows stared blank faced from a barn that showed a handful of bullet holes but was otherwise sturdy and looked to have a sound roof. Most of the windows in the home were lit and there was movement on every floor, healthy movement, carefree in a way, the movement of youth. But I maintained an allegiance to the rules that had kept me safe for near two years.

On this occasion it may have been a mistake.

     Fifteen days out of town, I was still heading south, but slower than ever, despite the snowshoes. I had been caught in two separate storms, back to back, working against me in tandem. I dug into the snow enough to wait the first one out. Maybe eight inches fell before I woke to blue skies. I hustled along, taking advantage of the weather, swinging my arms violently, forcing blood back into the numbness spreading through my fingers. Then the second storm came white across the horizon and dropped ten more inches. I couldn’t dig, I couldn’t make a fire, all I could do was stay awake. I stomped and swung my arms around like windmills all night long. My hands didn’t hurt, nothing hurt, I just kept fighting off the tired feeling of giving up. I’d jump up and down and stomp some more, and after what seemed like a week—though it was but a single evening—the warm sun finally peeked over the horizon to see if the coast was clear. I felt some relief from the cold winds. I thought about crying as the rising sun’s light shown and my brain thawed in its warming ultraviolet reflection off the white forest floor.

     I marched on, only half conscious of the numbness spreading yet again. I’d lost or discarded so many items of value, focused on fast travel, focused on getting south. The last thing I remember before waking up indoors was a split rail fence. I guess I saw it, processed that it could mean salvation from the cold, probably followed it for a while, then I saw a figure pulling a toboggan. I was trying to stand on the fence so they could see me, when I fell.

     I came-to under heavy quilts in a soft bed. There was a window letting in a little light. I called out. A handsome man accompanied by an attractive woman entered the small bedroom. I smelled baking bread in the air. They were in their forties I’d say, and healthy. I asked what happened. They told me their daughter was gathering standing-dead along the tree line. She saw me fall and brought me inside. They darkened at mentioning this. I wondered if I had broken a leg or appeared skinnier than I could recall. Perhaps they feared I was sick, but still they stood by, the woman’s hand on my leg, probably trying to comfort me.

     When the covers were pulled back, they revealed to me my bandaged hands. The man said he had confidence that I could keep my thumb and first finger on my right hand, but that they all had to be amputated from my left. I went blank with shock and thanked the man for his medical attention. Then, not knowing how to continue, I asked about the nearest town and the spread of the disease. I learned that these lovely people believed themselves to be immune. They said the next town was a six-day ride or about twelve days by snowshoe to the south.

     I recovered there for just under a month. The daughter, she was very kind. She read to me and brought me tea. The man helped me get used to strengthening my two fingers so I could manage on my own. His wife constructed a sort of prosthetic for me out of a silver three-pronged serving fork. As you can see, she ingeniously fastened it to a cup that goes over what remains of my hand. The straps go around my back. I can feed myself and manipulate simple tools this way. There is no pain at all anymore.

     One day, as I could feel winter turning to spring, I felt I had enough of staying in one place. The southerly wanderlust was building within me to an intolerable level. It needed to be expressed before I could gain any relief. I mentioned my plans that evening at dinner. The family seemed sad to hear the news, but as they were just about the kindest, most giving folks I met during those two years, they understood.

     I was given a good frame pack the man used to use for sheep hunting, he gave me a small rifle too, a customized .22 with three boxes of ammunition. His daughter smiled at me while I made myself tear-up at receiving such generosity. I smiled back at her over the shoulder of her father’s embrace and she teared-up too. I was given tall boots, blankets, food, two water bags, a new compass, and a wonderful map. I shared my plan to set out that next morning after one more good night’s rest indoors.

     I wasn’t going to wait for any more generosity. I knew the man’s daughter might wish to visit me during the night. Perhaps the man would feel a heart to heart and an open invite to return anytime was necessary. I gathered my things and brought them outside. I made my way to the barn and gathered up some chain.

I went upstairs first. The creaking steps alerted nobody. It was easy to lean some of the hallway chairs against the bedroom doors. I moved some of the smaller furniture too, for good measure. I dumped the oil lamps up and down the hallway and across the doors before going downstairs. I turned on the gas stove. After chaining the front door and the back door as best I could with two chains and one hand, I lit the place up.

     I turned and toasted my whole body all warm and snug in my new wool layers. I laid on my back and toasted my toes in my new big tall boots. When I could approach the house, I guess it was midday by then, I dragged some of the larger timbers about ten feet away and hunkered down between the two flaming piles, comfy and cozy again, swaddled in the heat of the housefire. I took a last look around the cold embers late the following day but found nothing of value. I shouldered my pack, slung my new rifle, nodded up at the sun setting to my right and journeyed on, always south.