The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie) (2 page)

             
My research and the unrelenting efforts of the GFS is what has brought the human race back together again. Six years of hell swept the planet before I was able to weaponize my counter-agent, and in return began our righteous revolution. But, that is a whole other story which is depicted in the Valkyrie: Official Report, now publicly available in most communities. The following pages are not about the GFS, and are not about the plague itself. Those subjects are just the outcome of an evil back-story.

             
The following pages you are about to read are but a small compilation of ramblings by a hopeless and mysterious survivor in the War of the Dead. His name is never mentioned and he scribed no signature. It is a simple a memoir of horror, death, life, and predominately love. You will read about his own personal battles, not just with this disease, but also with God himself. This survivor teeters rapidly, to-and-fro with faith, and in the end gives in to nothingness. It is a battle that most have suffered through, and only a true survivor can claim triumph over.

             
The entries of this hand written journal, although overflowing with imagery, lack any of the old-world dates or time-periods. Even he himself loses track of the days during extended periods of solitude. In fact the only reference of time itself is the use of simple calendar moon phases. Nicknames from multiple moon calendars that stretched across the world. A few were even created by himself. To give perspective to those outside of the GFS, the first month of his year is the Outbreak Moon which aligns with the old calendar from about mid-March to mid-April, the period that this pandemic had spread worldwide. This man had restarted the clock even after the fires of hell had consumed it. This, amongst other clues, prove that he was well-educated - a man of worldly knowledge. And it is because of him that the GFS came to adopt his calendar, a testament to our rebirth and to his fortitude.

             
Some of his passages were so vague and illegible that I've had to use my own ingenuity to fill in the gaps and pull his story together. Which of course, I did with as much respect and taste for his words as I possibly could. I do not feel that my additions or revisions are misleading in any way, and I believe that this man would be in no way offended by them. Like with most of written history, the historian’s prerogative filled in the holes based on the evidence that was presented.

             
This survivor tends to use a variety of nicknames to depict the dead, which are but a few, compared to those coined across the world. Some funny, however most are frightening. Some were derived from pop-culture, such as Zombies and The Walking Dead. However more commonly they are referred to as; The Hungry, The Infected, Slugs, Necrotic's and simply The Dead. All recognizable to even the most naïve, and all with a dreadful purpose.

             
His accounts of those horrific years are sporadically detailed, from the initial outbreak, to his life after the fall of society. His encounters with the damned, which were just as horrible as those with some of the living. Some passages are simple biographies of the dead themselves, depicting a variety of physical and personality traits. Other entries are just random thoughts and ideas, even drunken emotions spilled out on paper.

             
This book is for humanity to absorb and to learn, to see what it takes to overcome any obstacle and simply ensure our very own survival. It doesn't take a superhero, or even an army to prevail. If this man could do it on his own, then just think of all the things we can accomplish together. Look around at everything we have already accomplished.

             
I hope these pages will forever be a reminder of the atrocities that have occurred over that decade of misery. A reminder of the easily corrupted human spirit, as well as the perseverance of mankind and it's never yielding will to survive. Learn what you can from this man, so that future generations can avoid another world of the dead. This book shall become our Bible, a Revised Testament to the continuation of mankind. We shall never again falter, never secede. Life is the universes gift to us which we shall cherish until the sun's light is once and for all extinguished.

             
This is the inspirational story, of a Nameless Survivor.

Robert S. Zimmerman;

President of the Global Federation of Survivors

Former Lead Virologist of Division 9

Survivor

              There was almost a complete silence amongst the region, definitely too quiet for this sylvan mountain. The only sounds were that of thunderous cracks and prolonged creaks caused by the sway of ancient timber. The Bitter-cold winds which rip through these valleys and mountain-passes burden almost everything within their path. Except for the cursed, they are burdened only by rage and hunger.

             
It being the dead of winter is the only reason I dared to venture so far from the safety of my cabin. The below freezing temperatures slow them down, and it has been weeks since I have come across any stragglers. Aside from constant numbness and icy prickles in my skin, the day is in a state of momentary peace.

             
Uneasy silence, generally I'd be wary of such calm in the forest, it was as if life itself was hiding from an unforeseen menace. No, the silence must be an unfortunate result of the frigid temperatures, the forest critters were just waiting out this extended snap from within their cozy little dens. Waiting for the suns warmth to release this land from its dead and icy prison. Unlike my stupid ass, trudging through the fresh snow with my aged and worn snow-shoes, looking for food.

             
I've become ghastly thin, and increasingly anemic over the last few weeks, but the worst of it is the merciless burn within my gut. Living off of fermented rice and lichen soup for the past month has taken a dreadful toll on my body. One might even mistake me for one of the damned, then starvation would be the least of my worries.

             
Thinking back, it was only five years ago that I willingly paid for heart clogging, inedible food at a greasy diner. Now I find myself foraging and hunting for anything that would ease the sharp pains that rip throughout my grumbling stomach. This has been the worst winter yet, never before have I been this thin, and the lichen soup has now become revolting on my palette.

             
“Maybe today is my lucky day.” I thought to myself, but doubt loomed over me.

             
Struggling through the deep and heavy snow I trekked further up my mountain, desperately trying to stay warm underneath my heavy bear-skin coat. The energy that I exerted may in turn be nothing but wasteful idiocy. My small canteen of water had already frozen solid making it all but useless, thus the snow had become my only hydration supplement, dangerous as it was.

             
A frigid burn throbbed within my fingertips as I managed to hold tight onto my bow. It would be simple fortune that my hands still maintained the strength to pull the string if I ever found a target. I have become less and less reliant on my guns, and with good reason, these mountain ranges breed ghostly echoes that can wake the dead... Literally.

             
For a couple of hours I had been following deer tracks throughout the frozen mountainside with little gain. Their trails zigzagged through and around trees and brush, up and down jagged slopes, and then back across itself. It was like I was walking in circles and the deer were hiding not too far off, reveling at my failed attempts to track them.

             
“Those Bastards!” I cursed.

             
The fear of starving to death is always on my mind these days, and if sustenance continued to elude me, then my fears most definitely would come true. Luckily the snow fall has been somewhat mild compared to normal winters in these mountains. But unfortunately, Mother Nature has undoubtedly refused to ease up on the frigid temperatures, her incessant abuse has no bounds.

             
Slow and with minimal noise I moved further up my mountain as not to draw attention to myself or startle my long anticipated meal. However, my attention was soon drawn to an unusual sound off into the distance. Something had broken the monotonous silence that had been pursuing me all day, something obscured amongst the hardwood.

             
At first I thought it was just the old ghosts of these ancient hills, unusual noises caused by wind and cold against old trees. But, this sound was becoming louder and quite distinct. It was no ghost, there was definitely something up ahead, something I had least expected.

             
Persistently I pushed myself forward, moving painfully up the slope. I longed for a juicy steak, or perhaps even rabbit stew. Honestly, I would have settled for dried thistle buds and a pile of moose-shit, rather than go back empty handed. Anything would provide me with the confidence to endure this agony another day.

             
My thighs throbbed and burned as I continued on, my heart pounding hard within my chest like the rapid succession of a boxers fists. Calmly I gasp for air, struggling to feed my weak and overexerted muscles while attempting not to make any excessive noise.

             
The sound gradually became clearer and definitely more recognizable when I finally stumbled up onto a small crest. It was a soft, yet clearly distinct whimpering. My heart stopped in a sheer moment of fear, I was unsure of what to make of it. Could it be a wayward Necrotic, fumbling through the icy landscape?

             
The Plagued make quite a large selection of sounds; snarling, growling, hissing, moaning, and even shrieking. However, whimpering as of yet, was not one of them.

             
My knee sunk down into the bleach-white crust of the small knoll as I knelt down to get a better look around. The area descended abruptly before me, down into a small dell, with the far-side ascending steeply back up again. I gazed about the brilliantly white and green landscape looking for the source of that pathetic whimpering. An injured animal is what I was hoping for, something I can easily take down and sink my teeth into.

             
However I was soon disappointed at what I had found, yet even more astonished. Towards the opposite side of the glen I could just make out a large, army-green, canvas coat. Tattered and worn, it huddled in behind an ancient hemlock. Snow had slowly begun its drift down from the bare canopy, collecting upon the coat like a dusting of powdered sugar. The constant shivering that resonated beneath the canvas was my clue that this was not one of the dead - they do not shiver.

             
Shake, convulse, wobble and weave; yes, but no shivering.

             
Cautiously I stood back up, ready to make my way towards the shrouded figure below, but stopped abruptly when something – else, had caught my eye. Kneeling again, I peered further on down the valley, where something lingered in a swath of old cedars. Too shaded to get a clear look, yet something sluggishly swayed in the shadows. Quietly I pulled out my old binoculars to get a better look, adjusting the focus until the fuzziness magically became crystal-clear. And, within an instant I had begun to shake uncontrollably.

             
SLUGS! The partially frozen dead, their skin blackened with frostbite and peeling away like paint on an old barn. Maybe thirty or forty of them, all huddled together in the thickets, undulating in rhythm with the ice-cold wind.

             
Every winter they congregate together, for which I presume is an instinctual attempt to share what body heat they still produce. They wander for brief distances, sometimes taking only a couple of steps per week. Aside from their lethargic demeanor, the viscous trail of putrid secretions left behind in the snow is the root of why I call them Slugs.

             
I had first encountered them around my second winter in the wild, and carefully I tracked and observed the herd for about a week. At first I believed them to be of little threat. They appeared too weak and frozen to be capable of giving chase, yet I was dead wrong. Although their eyes were nothing more than cubes of ice within two dark trays, I uncovered that the slightest sound, or smell of fresh blood can awaken their slumber with terrible and ferocious haste. In truth, it is a skillful tactic for any lethal predator, to conserve energy and allow its prey to come to them. Those evil fucking bastards.

             
Fighting back fears frozen grip, I turned and looked back down towards the shrouded figure below. This time a pair of beautiful green eyes stared up at me from beneath the hooded coat, full of innocence and fear. It was a young girl, maybe even a child, I could not be sure. At first I presumed I was just seeing things, or maybe I had finally taken my final breath and she was my angel guiding me into the great beyond.

             
However, behind her beautiful yet wind burned face was fears other hand gripping ever so tight. She was frozen in place, afraid of them or of me, I was not sure. But, her apprehension did not last, as she soon sprung from her huddled position like a jack-rabbit and bolted up the opposite side of the dell. Even with mere bundles of cloth for footwear, she never once slipped on those icy slopes. As nimble as an elf.

             
Swiftly I kicked off my snow-shoes and backed down the way I had come, trudging out around to the other side and staying deep within the trees. As anxious as I was to find her, I made sure to keep out of sight and sound of that slumbering herd. With as much agility I could muster, I leaped over falling logs, and crawled up the steep slopes after her. It took everything in me to ignore the fire that scorched through my legs.

             
Why did I pursue this girl?

             
It goes against every rule I've created for myself, self-preserving laws adopted with purpose and upheld by consequence. Currently I maintain a dozen or more truisms, all of which forged from my own failures and close calls. These same decrees, although primarily an inconvenience, have kept me alive for this long.

             
For all I knew, the girl may have been leading me into the hands of her people. Until now I have not encountered any of the living, she is the first evidence that there are other survivors, which scares me even more than the infected. It is within fear and desperation which lies man's cowardly malice.

             
Before long I had found her tracks, she had moved further up the mountainside where the terrain quickly inclines and becomes littered with jagged rocks and ledges. Not a safe place for a little girl, let alone myself. It seemed like hours, but probably only twenty minutes, making my way up the treacherous landscape before I began to hear her pathetic whimpering again.               The snow was now falling much heavier than before, although the mountain can be dangerous at any time, it is definitely not a refuge during a snow-storm.

             
“Have to get back to the cabin,” I muttered.

             
Yet, I made one last push up over a small ledge in hopes to rescue this seemingly lost ward of perdition. For a moment I wondered if she was nothing more than my imagination gone wild. Years of solitude tend to play tricks on one's mind, mere moments of dementia and fallacious grandeur that can drive one completely mad.

             
But my moment of doubt faded when I spotted her once again, this time huddled behind a large chunk of granite that rested atop the narrow outcrop. Desperately she hugged her knees to her chest in a failed attempt to conceal herself, continuously shivering.

             
Pausing for a moment, I knelt down onto the ice coated ledge, trying to catch my heavy breath whilst not frightening the precious girl any more than she already was.

             
“I'm - I'm here to help.” I gasped, but she just cowered back even more, as if trying to hide deeper into her oversized coat.

             
“I'm not going to hurt you.” I said reassuringly, but as I inched myself closer she began to breathe frantically.

             
Before I was able to scoop her up, she let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed throughout the mountains like bullets ricocheting off stone. Quickly I covered her mouth hard with my hand and held her to me tightly, however it became apparent that there was no need. Her fear had overcome her and she had passed out, limp and lifeless unlike the dead-heads that waited anxiously down below.

             
I can't even imagine, nor would I want to, what horrors she has endured to develop both a blessed yet faulty disposition.

             
As gentle as possible, I lifted her up and over my shoulders, and thankfully she did not weigh nearly as much as I had expected. Mere skin and bones, starving just like me. It was apparent that she had been wondering out here alone for quite a while, and she has survived winters onslaught quite well. Her attire though was definitely not suited for these conditions and it surprised me that she had no signs of frost-bite. It was a miracle in the very least.

             
Carefully I made our way back down the mountain and towards my cabin, watching every step with precision. Within moments though, a familiar and dreadful sound broke through the crisp and cold silence. A heart-stopping and raspy scream, followed by moans and spine-chilling snarls which echoed throughout the forest like a pack of banshees.

             
The hairs on my neck instantly perked up and without hesitation I began a treacherous and foolishly rapid descent. Dodging boulders and trees, leaping down high ledges, all the while trying desperately to hold my footing. I preferred not to make us an all you can eat buffet strewn across the side of my mountain.