The Drifter

Chapter 2: The Journey Begins

That morning, I opened my eyes to the sound of a dog barking. Not like a big bark, more like a small dog bark. What if it was dangerous, or even worse, a Chihuahua? I looked around, unsure whether to look for it or run from it. I pulled myself to my feet using the moss growing out of the bridge's concrete wall for grip as I struggled to wake up without a coffee. I continued to scan the surrounding area until I noticed a small brown dog strutting down the tracks. He appeared well fed and definitely had an owner, despite not having a collar. That, or he kept getting good meals from the local trash cans.

"Hello," I said awkwardly as he wagged his tail up to my feet, slapping my ankles like a whip. I leaned down as it pranced at my feet. It seemed friendly, so I risked it and gently reached my hand down. "What are you doing down here?" I asked, half expecting a response. The dog let out a small bark, and I watched as my small alarm clock ran up the hill and disappeared into the trees. I reached down and wiped dirt from my knees before looking around, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight. I quickly figured out where I wanted to go and decided to head up the hill to the creek so I could wash up. I clambered up the hill slowly and quickly caught sight of the creek.

I bent my knee down and knelt to wash my face. The water wasn't perfectly clean, but it was still nice and cold. The water ran through my fingers quickly as I reached down to grab another scoop of refreshing water. I still felt a little weird not waking up in my bed, but it was a good kind of weird. Now, don't get me wrong, I didn't come out here half-cocked expecting to become a beggar without a plan. I wasn't that desperate for money. I had been saving up for emergencies, and I was going to survive on my own two feet. I knew exactly where I wanted to go; San Francisco. I know it sounds like a long stretch. A very long stretch. But I had always wanted to go. My parents knew it, too. We had talked about it for a long time before... well, the incident. I was on my own now. The only thing was I would decide where I ended up.

After washing my face thoroughly, I reached into my bag and slid out my ammo box. I unclamped the side and pulled the lid up to see everything inside: A map of the state I had collected a while back, two-hundred and thirty dollars, a mini first aid kit with assorted bandages, dabbing alcohol, cotton balls and a few other things. I also had mini lotion, mini shampoo, and a bar of soap, all that I collected from a frequent hotel visit with my uncle; a flashlight with a sharp point on the end, a flint and striker, a mini measuring tape, a foldable canteen, and a military-grade survival kit. I know. More?

In the kit was a tactical knife that flips open with the push of a button, a multi-tool pair of pliers, a whistle, a small bundle of strong black rope, a small wire saw, a golden compass, a multi utensil, which was a spoon, fork, knife, bottle opener, can opener, and corkscrew all in one; a chrome emergency blanket, and a small bag of fishing supplies with line and things. I also had spare Co2 canisters and a pocket watch. The pocket watch was a sort of dirty gold color and had an eagle engraved on the front of it. I felt prepared for just about anything. But that's just what I believed.

I unfolded the map and examined it carefully. It would be a while before I arrived, but that was the risk I was willing to take. Just as long as I got away from here. I popped open the compass and found North, figured out the direction I needed to head, put the map up and realized I was getting hungry. I could eat the canned food cold, but I felt better with it being taste-worthy. I needed a fire. I searched around for some good wood for about ten minutes but there wasn't much in the middle of the woods that weren't just a twig. I needed better wood, so I pulled out the wire-saw from my bag and got to work. I located a thin tree by the edge of the hill and wrapped the saw around the tree.

It took a little while, but I managed to cut the tree down with minor effort. It slowly dropped and slid down the hill toward the tracks. My only thought was that hopefully no one would mind me cutting down a tree on their land, even if it was just as wide as the can of soup I was trying to open. I clambered back down the hill and began to cut the tree into smaller pieces, which was a lot more tiring than the first go-round. I piled them into a small little position I had learned from one of my many survival books I like to read called a trench fire, where you dig a hole in the ground and cook on top of it.