Page 2 of My Apocalypse Mountain Man
I make it maybe a mile before I realize I'm in serious trouble. The trail I planned to follow is obliterated by snow. My compassis spinning wildly due to the magnetic interference from the storm, maybe, or just my frozen fingers shaking too hard to hold it steady. The weight of my pack is already exhausting me, each step through hip-deep snow a monumental effort.
By hour two, I can't feel my feet. By hour three, I'm pretty sure I'm walking in circles. The storm has become a complete whiteout, and I've lost all sense of direction.
That's when I smell it. Woodsmoke.
Just a hint, carried on the wind, but unmistakable. Someone has a fire going. A real fire, not just the desperate trash-burning that raiders do, but seasoned wood smoke that speaks to preparation and stability.
I follow the scent like a bloodhound, stumbling through drifts, using trees to pull myself forward when my legs threaten to give out. The smoke gets stronger, and then I see it—a thin dark line rising through the white chaos of the storm.
North Ridge. It has to be.
The trees thin out suddenly, and I stumble into a cleared area. Through the driving snow, I can make out buildings—a cabin built into the mountainside, windows glowing with warm light. A workshop to one side, everything organized and purposeful despite the storm. This isn't just survival; this is someone thriving.
My legs give out twenty feet from the door.
I try to crawl, but my pack is too heavy, my hands too numb. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. This is it, I think. Twenty feet from safety and I'm going to freeze to death in some hermit's yard.
The door opens.
A figure emerges from the warmth. Strong hands grip my arms, hauling me upright.
"Can you walk?" A deep voice, familiar even through the wind. Tracker.Kole.
"Trying," I manage through chattering teeth.
He doesn't wait for more, just picks me up like I weigh nothing, pack and all, and carries me inside.
The warmth hits me so hard I nearly pass out. Real heat from a real fire, not the barely-adequate warmth I've been living with for days. He deposits me in a chair by the fireplace, then disappears, returning with blankets and towels.
"Need to get you warm slowly," he says, his voice exactly as I remember from the radio—calm, measured, competent. "Too fast and you'll go into shock."
I nod, unable to speak through the violent shivering that's taken over my body.
Now that the immediate crisis is past, I can finally look at the man I've been talking to for eighteen months. He's nothing like I pictured. Mid-forties. Dark hair that's longer than military regulation, a full beard that's more practical than stylish. Gray eyes that are assessing me with the same intensity I'm studying him.
"Goldfinch," he says, and it's not a question.
"Sierra," I correct, finding my voice. "Sierra Goldmann."
"Kole Sawyer." He hands me a mug of something hot—tea, probably pine needle, but it tastes great given the circumstances. "You picked a hell of a time to visit."
"Zombie herd coming from the north. Two hundred plus. I had to move."
His expression darkens. "When?"
"Four hours from now. Maybe less. I thought coming here was my only option that didn't involve definitely dying."
He nods slowly, then starts pulling off my frozen boots. "These are done for," he observes, noting where the sole is separating. "Feet are borderline frostbite. You're lucky."
"I don't feel lucky."
"You're alive. In this world, that's lucky."
As feeling returns to my extremities, it brings pain. Needles of fire shooting through my fingers and toes. I bite back a whimper.
"Hurts?" Kole asks.
"Like hell."
