A Land of Ash

ALONE ON THE MOUNTAIN By David McAfee

He lived off the grid. He hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to anyone in years, but if he had, that’s what he would have told them; that he lived off the grid. His house was a shallow cave in the side of the mountain. The lip of the cave, along with the slight overhang, kept the rain out, and during the winter his door - nothing more than a few branches woven together and covered in brush to make it like foliage - kept the heat in. He’d chosen the place because of the natural chimney at the back. He could light a fire to keep the cave warm while the smoke traveled through the crack in the ceiling and went only God knew where.

Additionally, the cave’s position in the mountainside afforded him an incredible view of the valley below. If a bear or a deer walked by, he’d know about it long before the animal knew he was close.

It worked on people, too.

Granted, few humans came this way. But every once in a while some hiker would get lost or some would-be survivalist tromped through the valley. Even a handful of hunters had come through here over the years, with their bright orange vests and the smell of soap that even he could smell from a hundred feet away. No wonder they never caught anything. They didn’t know how to truly blend in. Most of the time they kept on moving, never even looking up.

They miss so much that way, he thought. Eyes on the ground or on the trees around them, watching for predators. If only they’d look up.

Still, it suited him. The less time they spent in his world, the less likely they were to find him. Even after fifteen years, he still lived in fear that someday others would find him and bring him back. Not that he had much to go back to. But they’d try. Oh, Hell yes, they would try. He could picture it now.

Don’t you miss running water?

A creek ran at the base of the valley. Plenty of running water.

What about your family?

Fuck ‘em. They’re probably all dead by now, anyway.

But the world has changed so much. There have been so many advances.

Keep ‘em. I’m fine right here.

He didn’t actually know if there had been any advances; it was just a guess. The fact was there were always advances out there. Everything needed to be better, smarter, faster, or stronger. The world got itself in a big ass hurry and didn’t want to slow down to see what it was running from. So fuck ‘em. Fuck all of ‘em.

Out here the only thing that ever changed was the weather, and he liked it that way. This time of year, the squirrels darted around the valley floor, gathering food for the coming winter. The deer would be storing some extra body fat and growing thicker fur. Soon they’d be surviving on moss and tree bark. Every Fall, it was the same thing.

He looked down into the valley below, prepared to count the squirrels. He’d named a few of them, and spoke their names when they came into view. But he was never really sure if they were the same. All the squirrels looked alike after a few years. Besides, it made it harder to eat them if you named ‘em.

For a minute, he couldn’t tell what was wrong with the picture, but then it hit him. There were no squirrels. No deer, either. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any all day. Strange. The woods were usually teaming with the little chatterboxes this time of year. Could there be people in his valley? Maybe they scared off all the game. He’d have to check it out. Squirrels weren’t the only ones who needed to store food for the winter.

He got to his feet, but stumbled as a feeling of vertigo took him and his knee gave way, making him fall on his ass. The years were catching up to him, it seemed. Soon the pain in his knuckles would be so severe he doubted he’d be able to numb them with herbs anymore. But the alternative was unthinkable. He couldn’t go back. Not after so many years out here. He’d just have to deal with—

Strange, the vertigo should have passed when he sat down, but instead it grew even more intense. He stared at the trees in the valley, noting how they, too, seemed to be swaying on unsteady legs. Then he realized the truth.

His legs weren’t unsteady, the ground was.

Earthquake, he thought, and a hum-dinger, too. There hadn’t been a quake in his remote section of eastern Kentucky in years. Not since right after he came here. And none this severe. He looked up and saw that several large rocks had come loose and were bounding down the mountain toward him. He scrambled to his feet and ducked into his cave just as a rock about two feet across slammed the spot where he’d been standing only a moment ago.

Staying in the cave wasn’t smart. If the quake got any worse the whole thing could collapse. But stepping out into a rainstorm of rocks and rubble seemed an equally bad idea. He was just trying to figure out on which death he should take his chances when the quake stopped. It didn’t ease off or slow down to a steady rumble, it just quit, as suddenly as it began.

He stood at the entrance of the cave, listening to the sound of birds as they returned to the valley. Soon the squirrels were back, too. Bouncing along and picking up nuts and acorns. Chattering and running through the valley in their search for food.

Weird. It almost seemed like the animals had been expecting the quake.

He shook the thought from his mind and grabbed his sling. He had a shotgun, but he’d long ago run out of shells. Over the last decade, he’d gotten damn handy with a strip of cloth and a baseball sized rock, though, and he could take out a deer from thirty steps away. He stepped out of the cave and into the valley, reminding himself that food would be scarce in the coming months.

By the time he returned to his cave with half a dozen dead squirrels and a wild turkey slung over his shoulder, he’d forgotten all about the quake.

He sat outside on the ledge, drying the meat over hot coals. He’d need a lot of it to get through the winter. Not that he wouldn’t be able to hunt at all; the game would still be around, there would just be less of it. Far better to have too much dried meat and not need it all than to run out halfway through the winter because he thought a deer might happen by. He was never a boy scout, but he still liked being prepared. After fifteen years on his mountain, he knew how to make it through the cold winter.

Once the meat was suitably dried out, he stuffed it into a pouch. The pouch was made of deerskin and lined with a wax he made by melting animal fats and combining it with tree sap. Completely watertight. He hung it on the back wall, next to half a dozen others. Seven bags of food in all. Still not quite enough. But if he could bag a deer this afternoon, that should make up the difference. He grabbed his sling and a handful of stones, and after a moment took his old BEAR compound bow from the wall and grabbed his three remaining arrows. He tested the string. The wax-coated nylon had held up well. He thought it would last another season or two before he had to replace it. He might be able to make a suitable string out of deer hide, but he didn’t know for sure and hadn’t been willing to risk finding out yet.

Satisfied that he was ready, he stepped out into the sunlight.

The valley stretched out below him, a breathtaking sea of reds, yellows, and oranges. Here and there a few still-green leaves held on to their chlorophyll, and of course the pines and firs still bore green needles, but for the most part the valley looked like God had splashed a bucket of paint on it and walked away. The Appalachian Mountain chain was so beautiful this time of year. He stood at the mouth of his cave, taking in the view.

This is why I left Nashville, he thought. Right here. right now. This could be Heaven.

Except in Heaven, he probably wouldn’t be hungry.

After a few minutes spent admiring the view, he trundled down the side of the mountain, watching for any sign of deer or bear. There were also mountain lions, coyotes, and even a few wolves scattered around the area, so he stayed on full watch. Coyotes would leave him alone unless he looked weak or sick, and wolves would lose him if he took to the trees. But if he met up with a mountain lion...well, he just hoped he didn’t run into one. That was the reason for the bow. He wouldn’t use the arrows on game, it was too easy to lose or break one. But his sling wouldn’t do any good against a hungry cat that outweighed him by eighty pounds.

Once he reached the valley floor, he headed left. About two miles south of his cave was a secluded spring where deer often congregated. It should be easy enough to kill one once he arrived. He didn’t usually go that far while hunting, especially when his hands hurt, but a single deer could finish off his stores and make sure he had enough to eat all winter long. For that kind of peace of mind, he’d make the trip.

About halfway to the spring he noticed the woods around him went quiet again. His feet made a slight crinkle as he walked through the dead pine needles and dried out leaves, not even fifteen years could erase all the sounds of his passage, but his steps sounded a little louder without the background noise of the woods to diffuse it.

He stopped to listen. Nothing. Not a single bird, squirrel, or even field mouse made its presence known. Weird. It felt almost like the animals were afraid.

Then he heard it. Animals. Big ones. Somewhere behind him, and not far. Not the high pitched yip of a coyote, but the deeper, stronger bark of wolves. He turned around just in time to see a big one leap through the trees twenty yards away and run right at him. An instant later, two more bounded from the brush.

Shit.

He turned and ran, hoping to get to a sturdy pine about fifty feet away. The low branch would be perfect to haul himself up, if only he could get there. The sounds of the wolves at his back grew louder, their barks and yips coming closer to his heels. By the sound of it, several more wolves had joined the first three. The entire pack must be right behind him, but he didn’t want to turn his head and risk tripping over a root or rock.

Twenty five feet to go. The first wolf was only a few feet behind him. He would never make it.

So this is how it ends, he thought.

The first wolf was right on top of him. He could hear the big canine’s labored breath. He could almost feel it on the back of his neck. A few more steps and those teeth would be in his calf, or his hamstring, or maybe even the back of his neck. In his last seconds, he whispered a prayer, asking for a quick death. Just a few steps more...

The wolf ran by him without stopping. The other wolves in the pack did likewise.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t dead yet, but as the fourth wolf passed him by without so much as a glance he reached the pine. Not willing to take a chance on any of the other wolves, he grabbed the branch and hauled himself up. He reached for the next branch and pulled himself up on that one, too. Then just to be safe, he went up one more level. That should be high enough, he thought.

He looked down and saw the last few wolves run by the base of the tree. None of them even glanced in his direction. They sped by, their breathing hard and labored, as though they’d been running for a long time. But what could they be running from? Hunters? Maybe, but he doubted it. It would take a lot to scare a pack of wolves that size into running away.

Maybe it was something environmental. He sniffed the air, trying to detect any evidence of fire. But there was nothing. No smoke, no ash, just a calm serenity that felt eerily out of place in the valley at this time of year.

After waiting for about thirty minutes to make sure the wolves didn’t return, he started to climb down the tree. He was about halfway down when the tree started to shake. A quick glance around told him other trees were shaking, too.

Another earthquake? That made two of them in as many days. What the hell was going on? He decided to wait this one out in the tree. After about five minutes, the earth stilled, and he climbed the rest of the way down.

He turned back toward his cave, forgetting about the spring and any deer that might be there. Odds were good the wolves would have scared them off, anyway. The walk back was filled with dark, worried thoughts about the coming winter.

The quake woke him up. He’d been dreaming about sailing on rough seas, which he’d never done, and when he woke up he found the rocking motion of the sea had been replaced by the violent rumbling and shaking of the ground underneath him. The whole cave pitched back and forth as though it were on a huge vibrating bed. Outside, rocks tumbled past the entrance, some small, others the size of full-grown black bears.

He got to his feet, determined not to be in the cave if the ceiling fell in, and lurched his way to the opening. Once there, he steeled his resolve and ran through the cascade of falling rocks, hoping to skate through without getting crushed.

A jagged rock the size of a softball grazed his shoulder, drawing a deep gash about four inches long, but he made it outside otherwise unharmed. Once he was clear of the entrance, he didn’t stop, knowing that rocks and debris would cascade down the mountain as long as the ground continued to shake. He sprinted down the slope, hoping to find a safe point in the valley to wait out the quake.

He stumbled and fell more than once as the ground lurched and bucked underneath his feet. Rocks and tree limbs fell all around him like hail, but he managed to stay clear of the larger pieces. At one point a boulder the size of a small car rolled by, but he dove to the side just in time to avoid being turned into pulp. The boulder rumbled past, taking its own mini quake with it. Just as he thought he was safe a smaller stone clipped the side of his head and sent him to the ground in a spasm of vertigo and pain.

He lay there, about twenty feet off the valley floor, panting for breath. His lungs burned, and he knew he needed to get up, but he couldn’t move. The pain in his hands faded as the new pain in his head took center stage. He sat up, and immediately vomited. He hadn’t eaten much the night before, but that didn’t stop his stomach from clenching and spewing a puddle of bile across the rocky ground. After the pain in his belly subsided and he could once again draw breath, he sat, dizzy and disoriented, waiting for the next big boulder to end his life.

And then, as if turned off by a light switch, the quake ended.

In the valley below, animals ran madly to the east. Bear, coyotes, rabbits, squirrels, and deer sped by, their eyes wide with fear. He even spotted a cougar speeding along the valley floor, heedless of the many morsels nearby it as it ran to safety. In the sky, clouds of birds blocked out the sun as they flew east, as well.

Where were they going?

More importantly, why were they going?

As he watched the endless parade of wildlife make tracks eastward, he came to a decision. The animals must know something he didn’t. If they were running east, then by God, he would go, too.

He scanned the mountain’s face. His home for the last fifteen years. He could just make out the entrance to his cave among the rubble. He’d need supplies, and all his supplies were in the cave. At bare minimum he’d need his knife and something to carry water. He could hunt with the knife, if he had to. He’d rather have his sling, of course, but at this point he’d take what he could get.

He climbed slowly back up to his cave. The climb took longer than normal because of the many cracks and rocks that had been displaced. In many places, his old route was completely covered up and he had to find other ways around. He stayed alert, not wanting to be caught off guard if another quake came, even though he knew there wasn’t much point. He didn’t have any place to go. If the earth started to shake again, he’d be pitched off the side of the mountain like a dislodged rock.

But the quakes didn’t return, and aside from a few scrapes on his hands and elbows, he made it to the cave more or less unscathed. He looked up at the sun. Mid afternoon. Probably around 2 or 3 o’clock. The climb had taken him half a day. No wonder he was exhausted. Down in the valley, the animals continued their mad dash eastward. A pack of wolves padded by, leaving a group of quail in relative peace as the flightless birds made their own haste. He would be joining them soon, but he needed tools. And a weapon. Wherever those animals were going, they’d get hungry sooner or later. He had no intention of surviving an earthquake just to become dinner for a panicked bear or a starving band of coyotes.

The entrance to the cave was partially covered by rocks and pieces of broken trees, and he wasted another hour clearing an opening big enough for him to get through and take a few supplies with him. Once inside, he was surprised at how relatively unscathed the inside of the cave was. A few packs of dried meat had fallen off the wall, and a few small rocks had settled onto his pallet, but other than that it looked much like it was supposed to look.

I could have stayed in here and been just fine, he thought, rubbing the side of his head where the rock hit. The lump had grown to the size of a duck egg, and hurt to touch. He forced himself to remain still while he poured cold water into the wound, as well as the one on his shoulder. Then he wrapped both in strips of cloth he tore from his threadbare blanket. It wasn’t much, but it would do the job.

His wounds tended, he grabbed two packs of dried meat and a canteen of water. The canteen held two quarts, which would be enough to get from one body of water to the next, at least until he reached the eastern foothills. Once there, he would be out of familiar territory and would have to search for water. He’d done it before, though, and he could do it again. His old leather sack hung on a wooden pike set into the floor, and he grabbed it, filling it with all the spare clothing he had left. If he were stuck outside in the coming winter, he’d need every scrap, and probably more. Finally, he grabbed his bow and three remaining arrows. They would be clumsy to carry, but he’d feel better having them along.

He squeezed his supplies through the opening, then pushed his way through the hole and out into the sunlight. The sun’s position told him it was close to six o’clock. He only had a couple hours of daylight left. Better make the most of them.

Below him, the number of animals running east had thinned considerably. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean. Using a strong, sturdy stick for balance, he set off down the slope. It had been a long time since he’d carried this much on his back, and his aching muscles and joints let him know they didn’t appreciate the extra weight. He ignored the protests of his aging body.

Halfway down, and still a good eighty feet above the valley floor, he slipped in some loose rocks. Overbalanced by his heavy load, he was unable to correct himself, and tumbled over the edge. He saw the rock ledge below him, and braced for the impact.

There was a sudden, blinding flash of pain, then nothing at all.

He drifted slowly back to consciousness, more a gradual increase of awareness than actual clear thought. He didn’t open his eyes, preferring the dark of his eyelids. His head throbbed, a constant pounding that threatened to make him nauseous again. He rolled onto his side and dry heaved. There was nothing in his stomach to expel.

Pain assaulted him from every angle. His head felt like it had split open. His arm screamed a fiery curse at the rest of his body, and his left leg felt broken. But if he didn’t open his eyes, he could go back to sleep, and then the pain would go away.

Through the fog of dizziness and pain, he caught a strange smell in the air. It almost smelled like smoke, but not quite. It smelled more like ashes. As if the world had burned to death while he was unconscious. He didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be good.

He tried to lose himself into the darkness again. But the more he tried, the more the pain kept him awake. Finally. He couldn’t ignore it anymore, and he tried to open his eyes. The lids were stuck together by some gummy, sticky mess - probably blood - and he had to open them with the fingers on his good arm.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus. He lay on a rocky outcrop about twenty feet off the valley floor. He must have bounced along a little further down the slope after hitting the ledge. That would certainly account for the pain in his arm and leg, which shouted at him even louder now that he was conscious again. He had some herbs in his pack that might help, although if his leg were truly broken they wouldn’t do much good. He’d need a splint, and he damn sure wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

The world around him had a soft, gray quality, as though he’d awakened at dusk or early dawn. He could not see the sun through the haze. The sky was thick with gray clouds. And it was snowing.

Already? he thought. It’s not time yet. And it’s nowhere near cold enough.

He took another look, noting the dingy gray color of the flakes falling from the sky. Not snow, he realized, but something else.

One of the flakes landed on his forearm, and he noticed for the first time that there were hundreds of them covering his body.

Ash.

He brushed the ashes off his arm, immediately regretting it as another flare of pain shot through him. He almost screamed, but held it in, lest some hungry predators hear him and think about a nice, helpless meal.

He coughed. A thick wad of gray matter shot from his mouth to smack into the dingy tree to his right. Not good.

Down in the valley, no animals remained. As the ash piled up, it covered any tracks left behind by the stragglers.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

A shadow fell over the valley, and he looked up into the sky. The soft gray clouds had been replaced by an angry black wall.

More ash. Lots more.

He coughed again, his lungs trying desperately to clear themselves. I should have just left with the animals, he thought. Too late, now.

Then the black wall poured into the valley.