Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

“That’s it?” the stranger asked, surprised.

“Well, I’d tell you to get cleaned up and make yourself useful, but it ain’t my place to play babysitter — you gotta find your own way,” Aristotle said. “Now, you’d best march right outta here. Keep your back to me.”

Still holding his hands above his head, the stranger cautiously sidestepped toward the exit, maneuvering around Jackson’s dead body then coming to the door. After picking up his pack and swinging it onto his back, he put his hand on the doorknob.

“You know, I never caught your name,” he said, without turning to make eye contact.

“They call me Aristotle,” she replied.

The stranger didn’t say anything for a moment, like he was taking it all in. Then he swung the door outward. A gentle wind rustled through the trees outside.

“The name’s John,” the stranger said. “John Osborne. Look me up sometime.” He raised his hand to give Franco a two-fingered salute. Then he disappeared into the darkness.

A couple of months later …

“This is the General.”

“Private Brushnell of Moose Lake outpost speaking, sir. I saw him , sir. I saw the man from your photo.”

The General didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re sure? You know there’s a good chance he died along with the rest of the world.”

“He had a thick beard but, yes, sir. I’m sure it was him.”

“A beard, huh? Interesting … Did he see you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. How many are at your outpost?”

“There are two of us, sir.”

“And you’re absolutely sure it was him?”

The private paused. He was well aware that this moment could make or break his career.

“… I’d stake my life on it, sir.”

“Then I need you to trail him. Take the radio you’re using now. I’ll have another one delivered to Moose Lake soon. Check in with me nightly at 2100 hours. Report to me immediately if the situation changes. Most importantly, remain undetected. Osborne is touchy — one wrong move and we could lose our chance with him.”

“Understood, sir.”

“What was your name again, son?”

“Brushnell, sir.”

“I have faith in you, Private Brushnell. Help me with this and I see a promotion in your future.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The General, over and out.”

The radio went silent. The private set it down on the outpost’s wooden table. He ran his hand through his short, golden blond hair and rested it on the back of his neck. Pensively, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it with a sigh.

His border patrol duty — nothing but glorified cabin-sitting — was over. Finally he had a real mission. He packed quickly and set out immediately, while the trail was still warm.

John was a grimy, smelly mess of a man. It was late July, when the days were long and the sun seared the skin. His flannel shirt was a vessel for sweat, his jeans a magnet for dirt. No matter how many times he brushed his pants, the brown muck reappeared immediately. His beard was getting long too. If he looked down, he could see it hanging from his chin.

Unfortunately, appearance and odor ranked low on his list of troubles. Two days ago, he’d used his last.45 round, sniping a squirrel out of a spruce tree. The meat was delicious and his stomach wanted more, but he couldn’t hunt without bullets. Knife hunting? He’d burn more calories running around and hacking at rodents than their meat could replenish. Getting into a knife fight with a bear or wolf? Crazy talk — he was resourceful, not insane.

Now, say he got the jump on a moose. A bull moose would outweigh him by a factor of five, but at least the massive herbivore wouldn’t have fangs or claws. With a knife against a moose, he might stand a chance. The prospect of a hoof kick to the ribs or a sharp antler to the stomach didn’t sound so pleasant. Better than starving in a ditch though, he thought.

John looked down the endless path. Usually he could scrounge up ammo from villages or abandoned homes. Problem was that since he’d crossed into Minnesota, he hadn’t found as much as a backwoods love shack. Just trees. Trees and water. A boundless expanse of woodland and lakes, interspersed with the occasional trail to nowhere. Beautiful country, zero bullets.

At least he was far away from that pompous wannabe cop in Ontario. She couldn’t have kept tabs on him this far south. John didn’t intend to cause trouble, but he didn’t like the thought of someone looking over his shoulder.

John heaved a sigh of exhaustion. Something wasn’t right. His training included combat under fasting conditions — he could go without food for a week and still perform at a high level. Yet now he was starving after two days with no meat, despite eating every berry and piece of fruit he could find? It didn’t add up.

What’s that? His eyes spotted a wooden sign in the distance. His feet grudgingly carried him close enough to read it. The sign read, “FRONTIER VIEW — 2 MILES,” in faded white letters. Finally, I’m getting somewhere, he thought. He could restock his cache of bullets and maybe get a decent meal. Newfound hope made his pack feel lighter and his feet move faster. He kicked up loose gravel as he sped ahead, leaving a dusty haze in his wake.

Within a couple dozen steps, his second wind blew out as fast as it had come in and a hazy fog crept over his brain. He doubled over, resting his hands on his thighs and panting heavily. A coughing spell hit him, each violent cough singeing his throat on the way out. He looked at his feet. Red splotches dotted the gravel — blood.

Shortly, the coughing subsided and mental clarity returned. What the broken trigger is wrong with me? he wondered. His body wasn’t using his energy reserves properly — something was impeding the process. But why now? He’d been drifting through the wilderness for nearly two years. An empty stomach wasn’t novel. Spitting up blood was.

With a groan, he stood up straight and continued ahead. No way he’d collapse on the road with the promise of civilization just minutes ahead.

As John wandered down the path, a creature meandered out from the cover of the forest, about fifteen yards ahead on his right. A moose? A milk cow? No, neither. John stared at the strange animal. A shiver ran down his spine. It had the head of a Holstein, complete with those immense, vacant black eyes — the same eyes he remembered seeing on milk cows in his youth, which always seemed to peer deep into his soul. Yet the beast wasn’t a head of cattle. It had heavy antlers, as well as the arched shoulders and rugged body of a moose. It was a big, brown, furry abomination, and it gave John the willies.

His stomach growled — the animal was also fresh meat. He watched as the beast ambled across the road. It stopped and turned to gaze at him, meeting his eyes. John approached the creature with caution, scheming as to how he could take it down. Not with the knife — if he didn’t hit a major artery on the first slash, he’d have an angry frankenmoose on his hands. No, he’d use his arm. A quick bash to the head with his left arm could take it down.

He slowly circled toward the creature, narrowing his eyes distrustfully. The beast continued to stare at him unflinchingly. John winced as stale breath rushed into his nostrils. Apparently the frankenmoose had never heard of mouthwash. John drew his head to one side, deeply dipping his left shoulder and then his right as he examined the creature’s head. Though the freakish beast gave him goosebumps, it seemed harmless enough.

Lunch time , he thought as he drew his left arm back, preparing to deliver a megaton wallop. He curled his fingers into a fist and threw his arm forward.