Page 1 of My Apocalypse Mountain Man
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Sierra
Thestaticclearsjustlong enough for me to catch the tail end of Tom's transmission.
"—road's completely gone. Repeat, Maybrook, the northern pass is gone. Avalanche took out—"
Static swallows his voice again. I adjust the frequency, trying to recapture the signal, but the storm that's been building for the last three days is playing havoc with the radio waves.
"Old Pines, this is Goldfinch at Maybrook Outpost Seven," I try again, my breath forming clouds in the freezing air of my little station. "Tom, do you copy?"
Nothing but white noise.
I've been alone at this outpost for eight hours now—ever since the evacuation order came through. Eight hours of trying to coordinate the escape routes, eight hours of weather getting progressively worse, eight hours of dwindling hope that I'll make it out before the real storm hits.
The smart thing would have been to leave with the others when the early storm warnings came through. But someone needed to maintain communications, coordinate the evacuation, make sure everyone got out safely. I volunteered because I'm good at it, because the radio network I've spent eighteen months building is my baby, and because I stupidly thought I'd have time to get out after everyone else was safe.
Now I'm trapped in a converted ranger station with maybe a day or two’s worth food left, watching snow pile up past the windows, and my beautiful radio network is failing piece by piece as outposts go dark.
"Goldfinch, this is Old Pines." Tom's voice breaks through suddenly, crystal clear for once. "Sierra, you still there?"
"I'm here," I confirm, relief flooding through me. "Tom, what's your status?"
"Holed up at the church with about thirty others. But Sierra, you need to know—there's a massive zombie herd moving south. The storm's driving them down from the mountains."
My blood chills. "How massive?"
"Two hundred, maybe more. Moving in a group, not scattered. They'll hit your position in maybe six hours."
Six hours. I have six hours before a herd of zombies arrives at my doorstep.
"I'm moving out," I tell him. "Today."
"In this storm? Sierra, that's—"
"Better than waiting for two hundred zombies. I'll try for North Ridge."
"North Ridge hasn't responded in two days."
"I know." I stare at the marks on my tracking sheet where I've been logging response times. Tracker at North Ridge has been my most reliable contact for months—always there for the morning check-in, always had the best weather reports and movement intel, somehow making me laugh even duringthe worst reports. His deep, gravelly voice saying my callsign, "Goldfinch," like it means something special. Two days of silence feels wrong. "But his position is elevated, defensible. If he's still there I have a chance."
"That's a big if."
"It's the only if I've got, Tom."
"Good luck, Goldfinch. See you on the other side."
"See you on the other side."
The transmission ends, leaving me alone with the static and the sound of wind howling outside.
I pack quickly but carefully. My emergency pack was already prepared, but I add everything useful I can carry—extra ammunition, the last of the food, medical supplies, and the portable radio beacon. The main radio setup has to stay, but I remove key components so no one else can use it to track our network. I’ll go back and fix it later… if I’m still alive.
As I prepare to leave, I think about the last eighteen months. Building the communication network settlement by settlement, creating protocols, establishing trust. Hours spent talking to voices in the dark, coordinating supplies, warning about threats. Tracker was one of my first regular contacts—that deep, gravelly voice always calm, always prepared. I'd built up a whole image of him in my mind: older, weathered, probably sporting a military buzz cut and a suspicious squint.
Now I might actually meet him. If he's alive. If I can make it through the storm. If the zombies don't catch me first.
The wind nearly rips the door from its hinges when I step outside. Visibility is maybe ten feet, and the cold hits like a physical blow. I've mapped the route to North Ridge a dozen times, but that was on paper, in the warmth of my station. This is different.
