No One Cries For The Lost

VIII: One Is The Loneliest Number

VIII

One

Is The

Loneliest Number

Day 171

Martin and I clear the treeline and well beyond. Beyond the mountain and beyond the stark, frozen landscape of what we can see not far out from the crash site. We keep moving. Moving until our legs tire and then still moving on. Our campfires and small little sites that we set up out here are scattered throughout the Somerset forests by the end of the first week away from the site. By the end of the first month, we've likely made a lot of time, scouring across the landscape and continuing on through the trees and along the rocks, dirt and snow. But there's nothing out here. No one's found us.

Our tracks, his paw prints and my footprints, stain the snow and earth of the Somerset landscape well behind us by miles and then some. We leave a wake of nothingness behind us. Barely any visible sign that we were ever even here to begin with. Like the place is trying to wipe us from existence. Wipe any real sign that we ever even existed. But still for some reason, we keep on going.

It starts to don on me after a while that it's actually been months that I've been out here. Maybe I've gotten too used to it. All we do day in and day out is walk. Hoping to find something. I'm beginning to doubt my compass is even working anymore. Either that or I must just be a really slow walker. Guess I should go home and get my money back for all of those Pilates excersices when I get out of here. Even some of our nights have been spent walking. I've found little sign of people on this damn island the past five months and I don't even know how that's possible. There's no way I've been going in circles. I've stayed on a straight path heading south since Martin and I first started walking. The only real signs of people here that I've even come close to discovering is an old supply crate with barely a little food left in it and an old cabin out in the middle of nowhere. I'm sure I'm gonna die here. I'm sure no one's looking for me and if they are they're either too busy still looking off in the wrong spot or about to give up the search. I'm sure that this is it. This is where my life ends. Here virtually all alone in the cold near-arctic tundra...and without my family...or my friends...well at least...only one.

I keep walking along the cold, frozen ground. The snow's melted somewhat over the past few Spring months to the point where much of it is now finally visible. Although much more is still very much covered by ice and snow. My breath is heavy. My watch is broken from that rough tumble down the hill I took a couple days ago but it still works. 8:15. I wonder what dad or Trish or Daniel are doing right now back home. Wonder what they're eating for breakfast. What commute they're taking to work. What kind of problems they have. I wonder if they're thinking about me as much as I am them.

I stop in my stride and set the sled down. I walk around over to it to grab one of the bear traps I found from that old supply crate not far back and open it up and set it down in the dirt, covering it with leaves. Maybe when Martin and I camp out here for the next little while we can see if we catch anything. Setting it down right in the opening between a few trees makes it seem pretty likely we'll catch something with it anyway. If even just something small. I snap her open and leave her there, stepping cautiously away from it and heading back around to pick the sled up from the front part of the sticks again.

"There, that should be a good spot I guess." I say out loud as if Martin or someone else were listening to me.

I keep dragging the makeshift twig sled along. I'm only wearing a sweater and my winter jacket and survival pack along with the dead deer are all tied to the sled behind me while I pull it all along with me. Out of nowhere something starts running at me from behind. I hear it barreling through the snow before it slams into me and nearly knocks me over. I struggle to grab it, grappling with the tremendous, furry beast while I try shift my legs and keep my footing. Sure enough I get knocked down, laughing as Martin tries to lick me to death and coat my face in his spit. His tongue practically freezes my cheeks.