• A Perfect Companion


    “Why bitter? Why do they always call it bitter cold? Is it because it makes you bitter?” Vlad’s voice is tinged with dry rhetoric. “Or is it ‘cause when it is cold, everything tastes bitter? The bread, the salt, hell, even the air. It all tastes the same.” The white noise of water can be heard all around, filling the air when all is silent. The small river flows quickly, and if followed by the eye it can be seen heading toward a great pillar of oily black smoke in the distance. This is underneath Vlad’s notice at the moment.

    “You could always help me! I mean, of course, I can handle it by myself - but I do not need a spectator! You could always hunt mice,crows...or even that damn wolf poking about,” Vlad snarls, head dug in behind the watermill’s dynamo. The axle fails to turn, instead emitting whining and creaking protests as the river struggles to force the wheel off of it’s mountings.

    A german shepherd sits on his haunches, head slightly cocked as Vlad busies himself with the generator. The insults and complaints have little effect; he patiently waits and watches. With every exclamation his ears pop high onto his head, as if expecting certain words over others. Again and again, he doesn’t catch the words he’s hoping for. Eventually he settles his front paws in front of him, laying down to watch.

    “It’s no damn good. The thing is going to shear the mounts at this rate. There’s no power, Karl.” Vlad climbs out from behind the dynamo, greased and dusty with the equipments’ years of neglect. He leans over the housings and yanks a lever; the axle promptly stops protesting, and the flecks of light within the wheelhouse begin flickering as the waterwheel resumes turning quietly, contentedly.

    “Up. Come on, we have work to do.”

    The icy, foul soil does not accept crops readily. When Vlad bought the farm it was not with the intention of emergency survival. He reasoned that the river running through it would be ripe with fish. He wasn’t wrong, though it has become a source of irony; the bombs that fell, while being relatively clean, threw enough harmful elements into the atmosphere that the radiation leaves dead salmon floating atop the water. A mere glance reminds any to avoid consuming the tainted contents within. The hills and mountains that Vlad relied upon for isolation instead became his protection. Once hearing the news of nuclear holocaust, he sprung into action. With grim dedication, his microbrewery became a water distillery, the wheat and barley he kept in reserve became crops in the soil, and his limited pantry became a source of ration for the coming months of winter. The small assortment of agricultural tools he did have, he rapidly learned their uses and had a small plot ready for planting.

    It’s been a month since the bombs fell, a month since his last contact with anyone, and a month since he had to rely on anything but what he had. It seems as though his luck may have run out.

    Vlad eyes the distant smoke, the burning remnants of Murmansk that promise supplies and trouble for all comers. “What do I have to do,” he mutters, “to avoid wandering through that hellhole?” He sighs, and begins gathering supplies for the trek into town. A night’s food, a small handgun, a bedroll, his pack, bandages...Vlad checks off the list as he collects his things, and shoulders the pack in a tired motion. “Karl, come on. We have some shopping to do.”

    As the pair walk along the empty roads toward the smoke in the sky, the noises of life begin to fill the air - and an unhappy one at that. The cacophony of distant gunshots and thunder strike without warning, yet sound nearby from sheer volume. Fallen trees and toppled power lines litter the highways, cars and trucks on their backs as if a child had tossed them about and forgotten. Most seem looted, with windows broken and doors left ajar, perhaps by those eager to escape, or by those even more eager to get inside.

    Turning his eyes from the chaos, Vlad picks up his pace, heading directly into the outskirts of Murmansk without looking back.

    A few hours of travel, and they have arrived at the cluttered outskirts and suburbs of the city. As the burned, stark trees thin to ruined homes and empty buildings, Vlad calls Karl to follow closer. Peering into building after building as they pass, Vlad acts with a dark determination to be quick, heartless, and unseen. Scorched vehicles block many crossroads, black with fires long since burned out. Corpses and ash lay around and beneath many of the wreckages, some burned, others merely beginning to waste away.

    And the stench. Rank, pungent, grotesque; the foul odor of rot fills the air and denies any amount of cold from wholly denying it. Vlad pulls his scarves tightly around his face, aching for even a small relief from the sickening smog that fills the streets. Karl quietly whimpers, though remains at Vlad’s side, ears at attention and head on a swivel, nose working tirelessly regardless.

    One storefront, half collapsed, promises hardware and tools. Vlad rushes across the street, keeping his head low and motioning Karl to him. Once outside the facade, Vlad peeks into the doorway, his head beginning to swim with relief as the wares inside seem intact, at least at a glance. He steps inside, crouching and sidling between the broken doors, glass crackling underfoot and eliminating a chance at stealth. Breath catching, Vlad stops and waits, listening for anything or anyone within. After an eternity, he slides forward and in, satisfied that if anyone is around, they have decided to leave him be.

    After twenty minutes of sorting through broken tools and wasted supplies, Vlad pulls his pack back onto his shoulder, satisfied he has retrieved everything he needs. Karl follows along, heavy paws carefully threading between broken glass and sheared metal. The pair make their way to the front of the shop, peering outside as they go.

    Vlad eases himself out the broken doors to the street, Karl following suit. As he pulls his leg from the glass, a calm voice makes him pause.

    “Stop. Drop the pack, and step back inside.” The voice is raspy as mottled steel, as serious as war. Vlad raises his hands above his head, slowly turning his head to see his robber.

    “Please, I need -”

    “No. Drop the damn pack, get back in the building, or the dog gets put down.” Vlad can see the shadow of the man cast beside him, a weapon at his shoulder.

    “Alright, alright. I’m going.” Vlad slowly slides the pack from his shoulder, letting it slide down his arm. He lets the pack fall freely, dropping in front his arm, masking his hand long enough to draw his pistol.

    “Good. Now get in the building. Now.” The man steps forward, his footsteps heavy on the pavement, his breath uneven. Vlad complies, stepping forward toward the doors, to spy the shadow raise the weapon, not quite at him…

    “Hey!” Vlad screams, stabbed by the sudden treachery and whipping around, pistol raising. The assailant’s rifle was aimed squarely at Karl, his eyes suddenly alarmed by the shout. Vlad’s pistol is on target, the robber’s rifle is panning slowly, forever slowly, sweeping across Vlad’s chest as Vlad pulls his trigger. The pistol kicks hard in his hand, the shock of recoil mirroring his thoughts, as the brass casing glitters past his eyes. When the pistol settles in his hand and the casing bouncing off the street is the only noise to be heard, the assailant’s head is tilted all the way back. Smoke drifts from his rifle, mirroring Vlad’s own. Vlad watches the robber fall backward; why is everything so slow?

    Karl whimpers at Vlad, wrenching Vlad’s eyes from the dead man. In a sudden haste, Vlad lurches forward to check Karl for wounds when he tumbles to the ground. The pain is blinding, white and hot and icy and cold all at once. It recedes eventually, to the warm rhythm of Karl’s tongue lapping at the angry red hole in Vlad’s leg. The tears of relief flow freely, and Vlad tries to scoop Karl up to hug him, but his leg reminds him he shouldn’t try much of anything for a few months.

    Swearing under his breath, Vlad grabs for his pack, fumbling with the clasps for minutes until his fingers close around the small first aid pouch. Feeling his leg, a brief spike of relief surges through him when the exit hole is as clean as the entry. He almost thanks the shooter for carrying such a large weapon. Vlad pastes a generous amount of antiseptic on both sides of the hole, brushing Karl’s tongue away from the welling blood. Once he feels confident it’s as clean as it’s going to get, he wraps the bandages tightly around his leg, eyes watering from the pain and pausing every few moments to weep and snarl and curse.

    After several minutes of both cursing the raider who shot him and thanking the world for such a clean wound, Vlad crawls over to the man who shot him. In the panicked moment to protect his dog, Vlad had fired a very lucky shot, the hole in his forehead was nearly center. After a quick pat down yields only a few cigarettes and a battered knife, he carefully picks up the rifle and checks the man’s belt for ammunition. The rifle is a big one, one a hobbyist might take pride in. Vlad claims it for himself, sliding the spare magazines the raider had into his pack and crawling back toward the shop.

    “Well, Karl, it looks like we will be staying here for a little while.”