by Chila Woychik
It was the farthest north they had ever been. And time was all Maddie and Saul had left. Hours awash in Maddie’s own thoughts, the strangest memories crept in at even the hint of a connection: an oak tree with a split trunk reminded her of climbing a tree in her back yard years ago with her younger brother. A curve of the riverbank reminded her of days fishing with her dad. A dragon-shaped cloud formation mimicked a coloring book picture she penciled in with her niece. She couldn’t stop the visions.
The pack lay heavy on her shoulders, but lighter than when she left Northfield ten days ago. One full water bottle and two empties, a camelbak, also full, two portable water filtration straws, a camp stove, waterproof matches, all the usual essentials. Those survival shows; she had learned much. And all that Googling, spending her hard-earned money on “camping stuff”—that’s what she told her friends. Now the friends were gone, escaped with their families to god-knows-where, left in hopes of reclaiming the past, in hopes of safety, probably heading south. All but her. And Saul. But even he had stayed in the last town, left her to wander off alone.
She guessed maybe fifty more miles to Duluth and another fifty or sixty to Superior National Forest. She’d find a secluded cabin, cut and burn wood, hunt. She could weather these winters, had camped for weeks in those nearly four-million-acres of trees and rivers, with the bears and wolves, though she’d never seen either, only heard the strong melodic wolves’ cries at night. She wasn’t worried.
“The Walking Dead. It isn’t like that,” Maddie said aloud for the umpteenth time. “Desperation, yeah, but no zombies in need of a knife through the eye.” She ran her hand over the leather hatchet sheath at her hip. Water. The killer is the lack of potable water. No one came into this prepared.
August. The rivers would be clear. Multitudes dead in the cities, but this would be different. The trees would filter the atmospheric haze on days when the Jetstream blew it overhead. All that talk about North Korea, and then this. Was anyone left in the Capitol? Did we have a military? Her wind-up radio spewed only static. She shut the questions off.
*
The streets of Duluth reflected Maddie’s destitute longings. She stayed on the edge of town, believing the center had gone like those mentioned in the reports the night the news hit. Every large city. There must have been hundreds of missiles. She checked four houses before she found an unlocked door. The mailbox along the sidewalk said Miller. Once inside, Maddie called out. No reply.
She slid off her pack, and rummaged through the kitchen. She wouldn’t take heavy cans with her, but grabbed baked beans off the shelf. A hand-crank opener was in a drawer; no need to use the hatchet. She turned the handle on the kitchen sink. Nothing. No generator, no electricity, no refrigeration, no water. She didn’t need water, knew what to do. She should have written a book.
There was nothing else she found or needed, so opened the beans, sat on the sofa, and ate. The dead television screen stared back at her for the longest time, but it was okay, and Maddie would spend the night in another soft bed. The crazy purple drapes sparkled.
The map put the next closest pitstop twenty-some miles away: Taft—an unincorporated village just inside Cloquet Valley State Forest on the southern end of Superior. A little speck on the map, Taft. Could be a cabin there. Could be a lot of things.
A blue-green sunrise greeted Maddie on her slow trek north on 53. She met no one for several miles, then heard the roar of a motorcycle around an upcoming bend. She left the roadside and ducked behind a tree. The motorcycle flew past, and Maddie resumed her journey. So rarely did she see anyone anymore, the temptation to stop them and talk weighed heavily, but common sense told her not to.
*
Two days later, Maddie scrounged around Taft’s few remaining buildings but found nothing suitable for long-term living.
This road so cold and gray
These tinseled trees of evergreen
The sky’s still blue, don’t cry
A place called home is just ahead
A place called home is waiting
Maddie rang out her home-cooked song, and added verses when burdens bore down to the tune of a semi’s-worth.
*
Seven Months Later
Maddie’s little hunting cabin perched on a high ridge, well-hidden by trees and brush, yet her view of the valley below continued to bring comfort; the woods cosseted her in that stark solitude. Her rare trips to Duluth yielded necessary supplies & a few fun extras. She met the occasional adventurer on those all-day jaunts, and twice, those who wished her harm, who wanted what she had, body and belongings, but Maddie had grown tough, and a brave escape followed each scrape—with the help of a long-handled hatchet.
The empty coffee can held what was left of the deer jerky, and the rabbit snare outside sat empty, as it did most days. Deer jerky, butter beans, and hot coffee. It would do. Another log in the cast iron stove and an umpteenth reading of the Duluth News Tribune, dated April 15th last year, cover to cover. Income Tax Day. Appropriate. The notebook and pen taken on the last trip prompted Maddie to begin what she labeled “The Sun Still Shines,” a diary. Today she began it in earnest.
The cabin’s thick walls kept out the draft, and the stainless steel pot she scrounged from someone’s house soothed worries about Alzheimer’s from using the aluminum one sitting against the wall, as if anyone needed to worry about Alzheimer’s these days.
Weeks dragged on in this exact fashion. Days jumbled together. Once the snow began its eventual melt, traveling would be a cinch, and a move might be in order. Possibly even an acquaintance could be found, someone trustworthy to spend her days with.
*
After
David pounded on the door of the old cabin. No response. He lifted the latch and the heft of connected logs budged open. The tiny room ached with neglect: a partially eaten can of beans on the table, crumpled blankets on the bed slab. Scant human presence lately, that was sure.
There was a notebook next to the beans.
Take a look, take a look, David said to himself.
Trip to Duluth. Number three. The loneliness stings more than ever. If only I could find that one good friend—is that too much to ask? Saul, where are you? I have enough water to go around and can share.
Chila Woychik is originally from the beautiful land of Bavaria but has lived in the American Midwest most of her life. She is widely published, and has an essay collection, Singing the Land: A Rural Chronology (Shanti Arts, 2020). Her impressive barn is currently home to an old cat named Sweet Pea and four young strays, Shadow, Skitter, Suzy, and Scamp. Chila is the founding editor at Eastern Iowa Review, and also reads for Birdcoat Quarterly and The Upper New Review. www.chilawoychik.com
January House Literary Journal 
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