The Great Alone (TLD inspired fiction)

[Stytch Fingal]

The Great Alone

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, 
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear; 
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, 
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; 
While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? — 
Then you've a hunch what the music meant … hunger and night and the stars.

—Robert Service, The Shooting of Dan McGrew

Prologue: Of a Journal Found in a Mountaineer's Hut

I do not know why I lived when the world and all its appurtenances and conveniences died in that great auroral flare. It seems a few others lived through it also. For a time. I see their bodies are caressed and coddled now only by the drifting snow. Only the wind sings in their ears, a last lullaby they'll never hear in the long dark they've stumbled into.

There are no electric lights, no radios, no cellphones. The great shambling encyclopedic thing that was the internet died without a cough or gasp. Even if the power suddenly returned, I suspect it would stay dead for it wasn't truly anything alive or whole or of a piece. It was a web of distributed processes as random as those which stutter across the human brain and give us our illusions of intelligence and consciousness. I think it likely the flare wiped all its servers at once, and left it as if it had never been. That is what death truly is, the erasure of everything, of all the arcing electric sparks that make up illusions; the return to nothingness.

Of my own life after the flare, I will say little. I scavenged the pockets of corpses and the trunks of cars for food. I broke into buildings for shelter and tools. I learned to hunt, and to boil all drinking water. I sewed rough clothing from hides I tanned with my own piss. I lived. And I wandered in emptiness with no reason to stay alive. And yet I fought to do so. And I took that unreasoning fight as more evidence that consciousness is an illusion, an illusion built upon the processes of cells chained into algorithms that repeat and repeat and repeat.

I came at last to a mountain and began to climb it. Partway up I sprained an ankle badly on a treacherous slope. The cold mountain air numbed it enough that I was able limp onward, though it seeped into my bones also and began to leach out my strength and will.

My pack grew heavier and heavier, as if with each meter of altitude I gained every stone I'd just climbed over was added to its contents.

I felt close to death when the terrain leveled somewhat and I found myself staring at a hut at the edge of a small lake. Beyond the lake I could see that mountain rose much higher still.

I entered the hut and found there was wood enough for a fire. My numb hands fumbled a match lit. My tinder took.

The fire burns, but I don't trust it will save me. I suspect I have hypothermia and don't believe the fire will burn long enough to pull me out of it.

This journal I found, scratched in charcoal on cured deerskin, beneath a hatch in the floor as I searched for food, may perhaps entertain me as I die here. I have no idea what happened to the author. Perhaps he wandered off and died in the snow. Perhaps he is wandering the mountain with the wolves I hear howling. 

In any case, I will read as much as I can and leave his story wrapped in the scraps of paper I've scrawled these last words of mine on. May whoever finds these writings profit from their reminder that death and madness are never far from the door.

The Journal

Day 1

Came out of some sort of blackout near a frozen creek. No memory of how I got there, nor even of who I am or where I'm from. No wallet, no ID, nothing but a backpack with an energy bar and a can of grape pop. I hate grape pop.

Wandered up a switchback trail to what seems to be a ranger station, but no sign that anyone had been there recently. So I gathered up some odds and ends that might be useful. Ammo for a .303, 5 shells. Don't have a rifle, but I took them just in case.

Found my way later to what seems to be some sort of remote resort office on a frozen lake. A frozen corpse at the top of the stairs, a couple of stoves and some bunks beds, a few dusty cans of food and some chocolate bars. And a can of orange pop—it's possibly worse than grape.

Tomorrow I'll have a look around the lake. Ice should be safe, right, in this frigid weather?

Day 2

Found a rifle beside a lonely cabin way around the lake, propped beside another 
corpse. He didn't seem to mind that I walked away with it.

Caught a small-mouth bass in an ice-fishing hut. Cooked it for later. Found a can of sardines, a knife, and a hatchet there, too. They'll come in handy.

Ate the sardines. Drank some gingerale I found in another hut. Tasted like pop.

Broke apart an armchair in the office—too damn restless to be able to sit and I can use the frame for firewood. Used some of the fabric to patch these ragged clothes I'm wearing.

Maybe I'm a hobo.

Day 3

Explored more of the lake today. Tore up some of the cattails that grow around the shore; the roots are tough eating but they got calories. Found more cabins and more gingerale. And some pork and beans—at least it's not pop.

Lost track of time in one of the cabins and an ice fog settled on the lake. So thick can't find the sun, and don't know how much time I got left before dark to make it back to that office I guess is my base—guess I need a base while I figure out what the fuck is going on … still no sign of any humans other than that corpse at the office and the one yesterday, and then another one today in whose pockets I found some matches and a granola bar.

***

When I stepped outside earlier and saw the fog, a wolf came growling around the corner of the cabin and ran at me. What the fuck?! I got back inside just in time. It wanted to eat me. Well, now I know it's around maybe I'll eat it. I have the rifle. Maybe I can figure out how to make a coat from its pelt.

Day 4

Killed that wolf yesterday evening and I'm eating him. Pelt and guts are drying on the floor. 

He tore me up good, though. I'm in bad shape. Missed him with the one shot I got off, and then he was on me. So I used that knife I found. He ran off whimpering. Found the carcass this morning after I lay whimpering on a cot all night, drinking water and chewing slow on cattail roots. Damn near froze skinning it and cutting some meat off and couple chunks of gut out.

After I warmed up a bit by the fire and ate some roasted wolf (needs salt), took a short walk and saw a rope hanging down from a cliff. Wonder what's up there?

***

Another night here and I should have enough strenght to get back across the lake.

Don't think that one pelt is enough to make a coat with—hope he was part of a pack. If so, I'll try to take 'em one by one and stitch their pelts together with their guts.

Day 5

Woke up in the middle of the night to a blizzrd raging. Hope it don't last a couple of day; all I got to eat here now is three pieces of wolf flank and a few cattail roots. Lots of water, at least. I had enough sense to gather firewood, build a fire and melt some snow while I cooked wolfy yesterday.

Wonder if I can sleep some more?

Howl, wind, howl. Grieve for your old friend wolf I'm chewing on.

***

Daylight come and me can't get home.

Blizzard's still keening. It's like a goddamn Irish wake out there—you know, since the name of this lake is a mystery to me I think I'll call it Lament.

Lake Lament for the whine of a blizzard over a crazed wolf. Lake Lament for t he life I can't remember. Lake Lament for the dead men in the snow.

***

At least I'm out of pop. Small mercies in this cold world.

***

The blizzard stopped. Old windy finally blew itself out of breath. Think I'll run for the office.

***

Made it back safe.

Lots of deer around the lake. Look like they're grazing on the cattails. Should try to take one down with the rifle. Bet they're good eating. 

Wonder if I can shoot? Can't say the rifle feels wrong in my hands. That must be a good thing?

Saw some rabbits today too. Wonder if I can make some snares from gut and old wood?

Wish there was some flour. I'm drooling at the thought of rabbit pie.

***

I'm a busy boy today. Went for a stroll planning to gather more broken-down chair frames and fabric from the cabins. Got partway across the lake and there was another wolf.

Crouched before he saw me, got the rifle up and braced one knee against a ridge on the ice and my elbow on the other. Let him walk into the sights and dropped him with one shot. Might not be long before I have a coat!

Better save the rest of the shells for deer, though. Could be risky eating all that carnivore meat? Besides, walking in these goddamn old sneakers is near as bad as going barefoot. I bet I could make some kind footwear from deerskin. Maybe some pants too. Anything would be better than these ragged old jeans.

Better start saving my piss if I'm going to be working with hides. Wonder how I know that?

Day 6

Another blizzard and nothing but wolf meat in the cupboards. Well, in the filing cabinet I'm using as a cupboard.

Going to go stir crazy if this one keeps up long. Got nothing to do inside here. Want to gt out and have another look around. Maybe climb that rope I found. Definitely got to get the wood and fabric from the cabins though there's still a chair, some crates, and a shelf upstairs I can bust up for heat and to melt more snow for water.

Wish I could do something with that body on te stairs. Can't seem to make myself just throw him out in the snow. The wolves might eat him (hm, might bring them close enough for me to get them and finish my coat—no! I can't do that to him). No shovel, and couldn't bury him in that frozen growund if I did have one.

Sounds like the storm is stopping. Hope I got enough time left in the day to get some shit gathered.

Day 7

Four cabins left with wood to scavenge, two with fabric. Some benches and picnic tables too. But I've got about all I can carry right now.

Think I'll skirt the lake on the way home, get all the cattails I can find.

Really want to bring down a deer, afraid those tough old wolves night start to disagree with me soon. Getting a taste for them, though, cut in thin strips and fried up with cattail soaked overnight in water. But I'm struggling to lug all this wood. Better wait another day.

***

Weren't many cattails left. Deer must be cleaning them up. Damn them anyway.

Ok, I can't wait another. I've the smell of blood all hot and coppery-thin in my nostrils and there's enough daylight left to try and bag a buck.

***

Tagged one, but he ran. Bleeding out somewhere, but ice fog rolled in again anc can't see to track him. Can only wait and hope it clears off before the wolves eat him.

***

Night fell and it's still thick with fog. Tomorrow, my bucko, I'll flense you and carve the meat from your bones.

Day 8

He was dead on the ice, my fine buckaroo. 20 lbs of venison. 

***

The wind is up again, only stops to let the fog creep in it seems. I think a little more creeps into my head every time too—and though the resurgent wind sobs right through me after it never clears all my fog away.

Day 10

Three damn wolves on the lake today.

***

At night, on the lake,
The ice becomes a steel drum
Rapid, thready pulse
Counterpoints a wolf’s tenor
Saxophone wavering near

Day 11

I need shoes. These sneakers are falling off my feet. And I limp, I limp. I limp, I limp, I limp. I limp in the snow and in my head someone I once was limps from dark corner to dark corner, limps and lurks and smirks. I don't trust him. He waits and waits. He's building something in there.

Day 14

Made snares a few days ago. They're working, but I need to make more. Four just won't keep me in food. A rabbit don't last long. Rabbits go rapidly. Rabbits have rapidity. I eat rabbits repeatedly. Fear the reaper, rabbits.

***

All this meat and water—starting to wish for a can of grape pop.

Day 20?

Little to tell. Trap rabbit, eat rabbit. Sleep. Trap rabbit, eat rabbit. Sleep.

Well, I did get some deerskin boots and rabbit fur mitts made. Found a deer carcass today. Might just soon have enough deer hide to make a pair of pants.

Sleeping in a cave tonight at a spot that overlooks old Lake Lament, or Misery Lake as I'm starting to call it. Climbed a couple ropes that were hanging down cliff faces to get up here. Lots of dry old fir limbs laying around. Good firewood, but a hell of climb to get to it.

Another sad corpse up here in the cave too. Rifle round in his pocket, and he had a pair of wool long johns that I'm wearing now. Can of gingerale and a book beside him.

Can't make out a damn word in the book. I'm sure it's in English but can't read it. Could I ever read, or did whatever the hell has happened strip me of that too? I seem to be able to write just fine—unless I'm imagining things.

Maybe I'm just in a long hallucination. Or maybe it's not long at all and I just believe it is. Only thing I know for sure is there's no certainty here. All I can do is what I need to do every day to stay warm and eat and drink. Just try to survive. If I start to believe it ain't real I'll just give up and die.

And then if it is real, I'll be dead. Just another sad corpse in the snow.

I ain't giving up.

But maybe if I ever find another can of grape pop I won't drink it. Just carry it with me until something kills me or I lose all will to go on. That way if there is another poor sucker left alive in this world maybe someday he'll find my sad corpse. And, with any luck, he'' hate grape pop as much as I do.

So. Trap rabbit, eat rabbit. Sleep.

Many Days, Perhaps Months, Later

I have lost track of how long I've wandered now in search of answers to my wondering. I stopped trying to sort my thoughts out in writing long ago. It never worked. Only kept me angry as I fell often into reading old entries and saw again how there were no answers to my plight. Nothing but whinging, and meanderings about how I had survived so far and how I meant to in the future.

Nothing of me. In all this great white nothingness that spreads, for all I know, around the globe I woke up each day more a blank, more a nothing. Be one with the land they used to say. Well, here there were no integers. There was no one to the land that one could be one with. And there still isn't. This is the land of zero.

I wndered recently into a most unpleasant valley overrun with surly bears and even more beset by blizzards than the unlamented Misery Lake where I woke up all those many days ago with no idea who or where I was. I ran madly about in search of answers and found none. Found nothing but empty buildings with hard-used tools and cupboards sparsely stocked with canned and dry goods, and matches occasionally on dusty shelves, with here and there some worn clothing. Just those in all this vast land, and a few corpses who knew less than me.

A knowledge of how to do some things trickled back to me, got me warm clothing and kept me fed.

But nothing came back of who I might be until the books, an encyclopedia set scattered throughout the region as if those who once lived here shared the volumes. The first couple I found I used to get fires burning for heat and to melt snow for drinking water. I dropped a third the other day as I tried to start another fire. It fell open to an entry and I could read it! I can read.

The volume was J, and I believe it has begun to bring my memory back. I believe I was called Albert Johnson once, and left my mark on those who did me wrong.

I remember. I remember. Please God, I believe I remember.

I remember all I asked for in those days was solitude, a place away from the stench and noise of mankind. I built my cabin in the woods of northern Alberta. I walked my trapline. I said nothing and chopped wood. I watched the days pass and the whirl of stars in the night. If there is happiness in the world, I'm sure I must have had it then.

And I think one day the Mounties came asking fool questions, knocking and knocking at my door, then peering in my window as I was about to lift the hatch of my cold cellar, gawking and squawking until I hung an empty flour sack in the way. I ignored them then. They went away.

And came back, the bastards, a few days later. Four of them, yelling questions at me in the night. A man should be able to sleep in peace in his own home.

I asked them to be off. Punctuated my request with a bullet in the gullet of the loudest. That got them running back to their stinking town.

But they came again, a whole troop of them. And they began talking then about dynamite they'd brought in case I proved, as they said, still recalcitrant and unheedful of their wishes. When they dug into a pack and began to tuck sticks into their coats to warm them up, I gathered my guns and all the shells I had and crawled into the cold cellar.

I plugged my ears with rags, but the noise of the dynamite going off still nearly deafened me. The walls of my cabin blew out and the roof fell in. But I was untouched in the cold cellar. They tried to storm in, but I had good sightlines and held them off with potshots until they gave up because of the blistering cold of the long, dark night.

When they left I eeled my way out of the cellar and into the bush. I went north and north, and north again. They followed and near caught me once, but I gutshot one. His screams tickled me into laughter and that sent them all scurrying again. 

They figured out then I was headed for the Yukon and they blockaded the passes. But I scaled a peak and got by them.

Thought I was free and clear, walking a frozen river in the wake of a caribou herd so they couldn't see my tracks. But I had to make camp on the riverbank at night and some smartarse bush pilot they had doing flyovers saw my trail one day.

They swarmed after me then and caught me on the river with no cover, but I got a bullet into another bastard before they shot me down.

It's cold here, but I think the Yukon was colder the day I died. And my heart colder still.

Final Entry

I see a mountain in the distance.  I will climb to its summit and howl my joy in this empty world.

Perhaps from up there I'll glimpse the sea I haven't seen since I fled Norway all those years ago. If so, I will wander down to the last point of the land I can find and stand there grinning into a sunset with a world of desolation behind me. I'll find a cave in the side of a deeply etched rocky inlet and make my last home there. I'll live by the fjord. I'll die by the fjord.
 

[Stytch Fingal]

Sorry for the wall of text above. I tried to use spoiler tags on each section after the prologue but they kept nesting, which wasn't the effect I was looking for, and I couldn't figure out how to fix that.