Meliorism

One

The field was just a sea of white nothingness bordered by thin, bare trees that began the thick forest. The sun shone onto the snow-covered ground, giving off a painful glare. It was early February, the field in central Vermont showing how it can still snow in the fairly warm month. It could have been anywhere, really, but Maine seemed right, seemed logical to the man trampling his way through said field. The ice and the snow was deep enough to declare the land was a northern state. The snow, the woods, the low population in most towns, it all sounded like rural Maine. The winter had been easy that year, light snow at the beginning of November and December. But it came down heavily at the end of January, leaving a couple of inches on the ground, enough to come up to your knees if you stepped in unpacked powder. He vaguely remembered seeing the ocean at one point.

It was all untouched, except for at the edge of the forest. Not a single creature dared to enter that field, the openness too vulnerable for the prey that would eat off the trees or venture further out for maybe a small nibble of dead grass. But, a lone man walked that field, trudging through the snow with his torn boots, creating tracks that would be covered over by the morning.

He was a dark figure against the pureness of the snow, his being a blemish against the perfection of the soft powder he stepped on. He'd been walking for miles, and his muscles were tired, his thighs burning in protest of the excess use. If he stopped, he knew he wouldn't be able to start again without sleeping first, exhaustion would win the. The man had not found a safe place to sleep in a couple of days, so he had been walking, stopping only for relieving himself. Besides, he couldn't sleep, didn't want to sleep. He would lose time, valuable time, even if he were to just rest for five minutes. He had to keep going, had to keep moving. His footprints for the day could be traced back a couple of miles, his older prints now covered with freshly fallen snow.

He had everything he needed on his back, the weight causing him to hunch over a bit to ease the pain away. His tent and sleeping bag were folded and rolled, tied tightly to his backpack with thinning cables, the bright colors purposefully rubbed off. Two blankets were inside, along with one set of clothes and along with food, if you could count the endless amount of granola bars sustainable food. A gas lantern was tied to the side of it, bouncing against his leg annoyingly, the sound of metal clanging against metal breaking the silence of the field. The only other important thing in his bag was boxes of ammo for his hunting rifle, which was in hand, and two handguns that were strapped to his hip, the only two clean things about him. Grime covered his face, sweat froze against his skin, icicles formed against his eyebrows. His beard was completely unkempt, curled and knotted against his chin. His brown hair was no better, either. It didn't bother him, though. It was to be expected from a man to look this dirty when he has not showered for weeks.

The man made his way to the woods, eye scanning everywhere. He occasionally broke his even steps to look behind him, make sure nothing had been following him. His tracks were easy to follow since nothing else interfered with them. Did he care? Not particularly. He was a man with a mission and he was trying to make haste in getting to his destination. Sometimes, he worried he was an easy target. Not for them, but for others, those whose mind had taken a turn for the worse.

But he wasn't actually sure of his destination, just the general direction. The snow crunched underneath his thick hiking boots as he crashed through the frozen top layer, feet numb despite having two pairs of ski socks on. His pants were soaked all the way up to his knee, frozen against his skin in places. His jacket was thick, the dark camouflage a classic uniform for any hunter, the dark hues of green and brown standing out in the monotonous forest.

He wasn't a hunter, though. If anything, it was him who was being hunted. For the past five years, it had been a constant struggle of who was hunting who. Stopping meant he could be attacked at any moment and his own death was not an option. Unless she was dead.