//------------------------------//
// Crawl 
// Story: The Wanderer 
// by Jetstream S 
//------------------------------//

        I pull the edges of my camouflage jacket close in an attempt to protect myself from the bitter wind that howls through the trees. Leaves fly all around, creating a whirlwind of red and yellow as they fly past my face. The crunch of leaves and sticks under my boots are the only sounds that distract from the overhead whistle of wind through the trees. The day is drawing to a close, and the sun looms just over the horizon.

As I walk the slow but rhythmic bump on my back reassures me that my partner is still with me and I feel safe. My pack, though rather small, contains everything I hold dear. A compass, my maps, a simple fire starting kit, and a large skinning knife with its sharpening stone in the sheath. My cargo pants, with the color matching my jacket to a T, rustle quietly as I walk, shielding me from the dense thicket.

 Along with my survival gear, I carry a small laser rangefinder and eight spare batteries. My hand drifts down to my left hip where my sidearm lies, secured tightly in its holster. 

I can see my breath as I exhale deeply, countering the motion with a sharp inhale of the crisp, clean air that permeates this vast expanse of woods I find myself in. The trees tower overhead, easily forty to eighty feet up and twice my width.

I look up as a sharp crack sounds from above. Gazing into the sea of red and yellow, I can not see it, but something is there. Instinctively, I reach to my back, tapping the hard kevlar of my partner, and running my hand over the metal. I grasp the grip, pulling it to my front with the strap scraping along the denim of my jacket. The wind suddenly slows, and the leaves fall steadily all around as I steel my gaze upward.

Another snap of a twig to the right pulls my attention away from the trees and into the thick brush. Another rustle of leaves in the same direction confirms my suspicions, and I raise the muzzle toward the sound. Flicking the safety off, I chamber a .308 round with a soft click, bringing up the barrel.

The leaves move again and I barely have time to react as a deer explodes from the brush, with a sort of... creature, hot on its heels. I fall back, barely avoiding pulling the trigger as I do, and watch as the pursuing creature finds its mark. With a snarl the creature pounces, sinking its teeth into the helpless deer's neck. It squeals, falling onto its chest as the weight of its reaper is too much to bear. The leaves and brush surrounding the pair are painted crimson, indicating that the predator had pierced the jugular.

In all my years, I have never seen such a creature. Its eyes burn a cold green, and its body seems to be made up of hundreds of pieces of timber. The clatter of wood on wood confirms this.

I bring up my rifle, aiming as best I can without using the scope. At a range of mere feet, it would only serve to hinder me. I get the distinct feeling this creature will not stop with just the deer after having seen me.

The deer finally stops struggling and the creature turns its attention to me. Its fangs bear, practically dripping red as its body bristles. The cold air is suddenly filled with a horrid stench, and I wince slightly.

It is now facing me fully, ready to spring. My finger grips the trigger, but I am not confident in my aim. My ammunition is limited, but so are my options. My knife is still tucked away within my pack, and I fear the slightest twitch will send this beast on the attack. Then again, hunger might just do the same without my input.

It barks at me wildly, releasing a green sort of fog. It smells heavily of sewage, and I do my best to block out the stench. The eyes on this beast shine a fierce green as it looks me over, seemingly debating on whether to kill me or not. It suddenly goes rigid; its lips curling slowly to reveal its gnarled wooden fangs.

With a feral growl, it leaps for me, higher than expected. I quickly aim up to compensate and pull the trigger. The rifle fires, sending the bullet a mere inch beneath the beast's belly and into a tree. Before I can react, the wolf is upon me, knocking me from my sitting position to my back. I instinctively turn my rifle horizontal and force it upward, jamming the scope in the gap between its chest and lower neck. For now, the snarling maw is blocked from closing around my neck.

It struggles, attempting to use its paws to knock my arms from the rifle. The first swipe misses, but the last succeeds in buckling my left elbow. The barrel end of the rifle goes down, making the timberwolf slide down to my left. Using this split second, I roll over, planting myself and my rifle on its belly. I quickly slide the stock up, positioning the trigger guard directly on its throat. I push down with all my might, intent on strangling the beast. It wheezes, attempting to growl and succeeding only in creating weak whimpering coughs.

Its hind legs come up, coming to rest on my back and pushing upward. My backpack is shoved up and the straps wrap around my head, making me lose my focus for a second. The wolf puts its paws on my chest and pushes hard, throwing me off. My rifle is tossed behind the wolf, and I to the front. It coughs several times, shaking its head, while I unsnap the plastic fasteners that hold my backpack's straps to my chest. As I do, I am able to shrug the straps off and sit up, giving me a most unpleasant view of the wolf’s gnarled fangs and glowing green eyes. As fear begins to set in and I  place my gloved hands on the ground to back away, my right hand brushes against my pistol, still secured firmly in its holster.

The wolf is now walking slowly toward me with foam and a continuous gutteral growl seeping between its teeth. My thumb removes the holster’s guard, and I pull the pistol from its place on my hip and bring it up. My finger squeezes the trigger but all I hear is a soft click. The wolf’s ears perk forward as I do, and it leaps without warning. In a flash, my thumb flicks the safety off and I fire several rounds in the wolf’s direction. I watch as the .45 ACP makes quick work of the beast as a round enters its eye and explodes out the back of it’s head. Splinters of wood rain down upon my body and a thick green mist shrouds the small area around me.

The area is once again silent.

Aside from the subtle ringing in my ears from the shots, no other sounds can be heard. Not a single chirp of a bird, or howl of wind through the trees. Even the wind has completely died, leaving the leaves scattered on the ground like a red and yellow carpet.

I pull the bolt of my rifle out, catching the empty bullet casing and putting it behind my ear. The cold has cooled it already, and it carries a lukewarm feeling. I take another round from my belt, sliding it into the chamber and pushing the bolt back in with a soft click.

Twenty two rounds left.

My bandolier is now seven bullets short, with one in the chamber. I sigh, feeling my heartbeat steadily returning to normal. Looking back to my rifle, I slowly trace the engraving just above the trigger guard with a finger.

Remington 700.





Several hours had passed since the encounter with the strange, hostile creature. My ears were still ringing slightly, but that was the very least of my worries. I had just killed a creature I had never before seen in my life, and it was all just blind luck. Had the beast not hesitated as much as it did, I wouldn’t have made it out with my neck intact. I count myself lucky that I escaped with only a pinkie-sized piece of wood in my thigh.

My small fire crackles noisily in the dead of the night, only serving to heighten my awareness and keep sleep at bay. Every little rustle of leaves, every creaking branch high overhead, every whistle of wind is enough to make me look away from the fire and into the dense night. Walls of black encircle my pitiful excuse for a fire, and it feels like millions of eyes are surrounding me at every waking moment. I fear sleep is my very last addition on my to do list tonight.

After what seems like hours into my sleep deprived paranoia, a particularly loud snap of wood from outside my ring of light draws my attention to my right. Another snap and a noisy rustle of leaves leads me to draw my pistol and click the safety off. I aim it in the direction I think the noise is coming from, and I fire one round into the inky black. I can hear the trunk of a tree splinter and a yelp of some kind. A distant snapping of wood and minutes of silence after, I make the assumption that I am safe for the time being.

I toss another handful of sticks on the fire, and a fresh flame takes root. The fall weather is getting to me, making me shiver underneath my portable thermal blanket. I need to sleep, but the threat of another attack looms just beyond my firelight. Looking around, I spot a tree against my firelight and I get up, reluctantly leaving the warmth of my fire. My pack is still on my back, and I reach around to my left side pocket to retrieve my utility knife. Luckily, it has survived the earlier assault and remains in place.

I take it, reaching up and cutting off a handful of small branches for my fire. I throw them into the flames, and they catch readily. Seeing this, I find rocks to place around the fire to prevent it from spreading. This forest appears dry enough to catch like a match.

Through the night, I barely catch any sleep. The sounds above and all around keep me alert, and the cold doesn't help. I do, however, manage to find some sleep; With my pistol held tightly in one hand and knife in the other.

As the sun comes up the next day, I awaken from little more than two hours of sleep. My eyelids are heavy, no doubt weighed down by large bags from sleep deprivation. I look around, seeing no sign of danger.that anything was there last night. It brings somewhat a feeling of relief, knowing I had been relatively safe. Then again, perhaps it was just the solid ground and lack of mud to leave tracks that provides me with the false sense of security I’m feeling.

Either way, I cannot stay here, so I pack up what little supplies I have and begin walking once more.

Four days pass like this. Nothing but woods and more woods. One night I am able to find shelter, and the rest I am exposed. Food is scarce, and I can’t afford to waste bullets to hunt. The second night, I had fashioned a wooden spear with my knife and burned the tip for extra strength. Unfortunately, all it has done so far is weigh me down. Nonetheless, I keep it in case it does become useful. I've always hated the feeling of throwing something away, only to need it later.

Finally, on the fourth day nearing noon, I come across my first hint of civilization. 

Two small signs, each engraved with strange symbols is on the edge of a clearly marked path, with the signs themselves being in shapes of arrows pointing to either direction. 



I run up to the signs, looking them over in disbelief. I can’t read them, and they only come up to my chest. The strange symbols that permeate the signs look alien, but I can make out a heart and horseshoe and that’s it. Everything else is just lines and dots. I look to the right, seeing in the distance a brown haze overlooking a massive desert-like wasteland. I shake my head and look to the left. More forest in this direction, but a path to follow this time. I look past the signs, seeing a large hill of rock in the distance with a cave near the far left. I don’t even consider that option as something far bigger than me might already live there.

Shrugging, I follow the sign pointing to the right. My boots finally hit some solid dirt ground as I step onto the trail, jarring me slightly with every step. After walking through dense forest for days, the feel of solid ground has become a luxury. I look up to the sky; A brilliant shade of blue as mid-day sets in. The sun is blocked out by the overhanging foliage, making it a bit colder than it should be. I don’t mind, considering the alternatives. It could be sweltering hot or bitterly cold but to my luck, its neither. I just keep walking, getting used to the new, hard ground beneath my feet.

As I go, I get a good look at the trees. They’re all covered with large, red and yellow leaves that nearly paint the sky their color. It isn’t long, however, before I begin to feel a trembling in the earth. I kneel down, placing a hand on the compacted dirt to confirm the vibrations aren’t just my cramped feet telling me to rest. No, there is definitely something happening. I look around, beginning to see the leaves fall from the trees all around like a rain of red and yellow. The shaking in the ground intensifies, and so does the leafy rain. I can see a cloud of dust over a small hill, and I immediately take cover behind a large bush just off the path.

The rumbling noise associated with the shaking ground eventually separates into the trademark gallop of a horse. Several horses. I stick my head through the leafy bush, still not able to see clearly onto the path. The rumbling reaches a fever pitch as the galloping noise sounds like its right on top of me. Leaves rain all around, and I can just make out a variety of pastel colored figures speeding by. As I try to get a better look, leaves begin to pile up all around me and block my view. All I can do is lay there and remain hidden.

In a matter of seconds, the pounding hooves and strange figures are gone, and the leaves have completely covered me. Not wanting to wait for a tick to find its way behind my ear, I stand, brushing off any foliage that hitched a ride.

I step back onto the trail, hand on my side arm. I stare at the now distant cloud of dust, before looking the opposite way down the path. Did a herd of horses just run down this path? I think to myself as I stare. And if they were running, were they running away from something, or to something?

Thoughts of the wooden creature that attacked me days ago flash through my mind, and I feel myself tremble slightly. Not wanting to stay and find out what they were running from, I retreat into the dense foliage beyond the edge of the path, but this time I keep the path in sight. I decide to wait for anything that may have been following them, gun held at the ready with the safety off.

Two hours pass like this, judging from my watch. Nothing, not even a mosquito has graced me with its annoying presence. Feeling safe enough, I walk back on to the path and walk in the direction the horses had been running away from. I look down, seeing small horseshoe prints. Curious at the size, I bend down and place my palm on the center of one, finding it to be no bigger than the distance from my wrist to my knuckles. Last time I checked, a horse hoof was bigger than the length of my fist.

Shrugging, I stand up and begin walking again.

Another three hours pass like this, walking on and on without the slightest hint of civilization. My stomach feels like a fire is lit inside, and merely standing from a crouched position is enough to give me a head rush.

Malnutrition is something I've only really experienced once, when I had been in the vast deserts of the Middle East. I had run out of MREs and was on the verge of starvation when a helicopter spotted and rescued me. These past few days have made me wish the pilot hadn't spotted me.

I look up again, expecting to see the same sea of red and yellow as before. However, this time there is nothing but naked branches and the bright orange sky of another ending day. Sighing, I return my tired gaze back to the trail ahead. I can see the hill over which the dust cloud had been approaching earlier, and I begin to walk up the steep face.

The uphill battle saps me of what little strength I have left, and I collapse to my knees when I reach the top. My otherwise light backpack is like a lead weight, and my rifle feels its weight in gold. I let them both slide off my shoulders and I lean forward, resting on my hands and knees.

A few deep breaths later, I look up from my crouched position. The sight that graces my eyes is almost foreign, but it rekindles what little hope I have left of finding civilization.

A cottage, looking like something ripped straight out of The Hobbit movies sits among several chicken coops, and a small creek with a bridge to cross runs a few yards out front. There are far more birdhouses than I care to count, and more dens dotting the small landscape than a meerkat exhibit at a zoo. I come to the conclusion that this place must be a haven for pets and rodents alike.

I quickly gather my backpack and rifle, slinging them over my shoulders and stand. Ignoring the blind patches of my sudden head rush, I take up a slow jog toward the beacon of my newfound hope.

My boots pound heavily on the dirt path, and my loosely drawn backpack straps make it dance around on my back. My breath is coming in and out in very strained, ragged bursts and my heart is pounding weakly in my chest. I can see smoke rising from the chimney and a dim light in the small window facing the trail.

Finally making it to the edge of the bridge, I take the first step in crossing when I hear a sudden melodic voice. I freeze, finally realizing that this cottage might not be uninhabited. From here, I can see the double door, and the the top half swings open.

The voice grows louder every passing second, and my feet refuse to move. Instead, my hand flies to my sidearm, pushing the leather strap up and pulling the .45 caliber pistol from its holster and aiming at the door. My hands tremble as my thumb clicks the safety to the 'off' position, and I can see my rapid pulse in my vision.

The singing stops abruptly, and it is replaced with a soft shout as something inside the cottage falls with a crash. The shadow in the window makes me take my attention away from the door, and I finally get ahold of myself again. What good would shoving a gun in someone's face do me? I think as I quickly re-holster the weapon.

Looking around, I spot a small plateau overlooking the cottage. From a good fifty yard away. The singing resumes, and my focus snaps back the door. Through the darkening sky's bright magenta light, a shadowy figure approaches the door's opening. Thinking fast, I make a dive for the small creek and scurry through the shallow water to hide beneath the bridge.

As the water ripples outward from my previous position, I watch and listen for any sign of approaching people or animals. I do my best to tuck my legs and shoulders beneath the narrow bridge while trying to steady my breathing. I hold my hand over my handgun holster, tensed for any sort of fight if discovered.

For what seems like hours, I stay in my crouched position, not daring to move. I listen to the singing going on behind me as the inhabitant of the cottage goes about her routine. All the while, I begin to question my actions as I watch the sun slip beneath the horizon. Why am I hiding? I could be in a warm bed with a full stomach  now if I wasn't so damn suspicious of everything.

It isn't long before the cautious side of my brain interjects.

No, I'm playing this right. I remember the wooden monstrosity that attacked me... And the strange galloping on the path a few hours ago. The leaves were falling like rain as that group passed! That's definitely cause for suspicion...

I shake my head loose of the thoughts that cloud it, and I finally agree with my cautious side. I'll scope the place out from the plateau and decide in the morning whether to approach it.

With my mind made up, I quickly peek out of my position under the small bridge. The singing has ceased and the sun is now completely beneath the horizon. The cover of darkness will give me a chance to run up the steep hill, which looks to be a good five hundred foot run. Gingerly, I step out from the under the small bridge. For some reason, it feels like something is always watching me at whatever I do. The feeling only intensifies as I leave the shelter of the bridge, running for my life up the hill.

Not stopping to look back, I make it to the top and trip over a small rock, landing hard on my side and making the contents of my backpack spill. I grunt as my heart pounds in my ears, and I turn over on my stomach to push myself up. My muscles scream in protest, making me groan as I shed the backpack from my shoulders. Still on my hands and knees, I look around to find that the area is relatively flat and devoid of plants, leaving me with a good sized fifteen by fifteen square foot patch of land for a camp.

I take some time to take a few breaths and listen to my growling stomach. Aside from the deafening crickets and bullfrogs, my stomach emits the only sound that I can recognize in this hellacious forest. Various birds I’ve never heard in my life chirp strange patterns that I can’t tell apart, and the howls of wolves echo through the trees like a ghostly whisper. For now I just stay on my knees, staring at the vast night sky riddled with beautiful stars and an enormous white moon.. 

Well, at least this place has something nice, I think as I stare up at the night sky.

Through the nights I’ve spent in the forest, not once have I had this clear a view of the night sky, or the sky in general. The trees have always blocked my view with their dense fall foliage, keeping my view on the ground. In hindsight I think it was a good thing to not always be looking up, lest I trip over the many stumps and roots that permeate the forest floor.

A sudden yellow flash right in front of my nose makes me jump back and swat at the air. It is quickly joined by several more and soon, they multiply into the hundreds as fireflies swarm the small plateau. I look around in awe, temporarily forgetting my hunger and soreness. The flies swarm around me before spiraling up in a magnificent sparkling corkscrew and dissipating among the treetops. It is now that I finally get a better look at my surroundings. One side of the plateau is flanked by dark woods, while the other provides a perfect overwatch of the small cottage.

I stand, feeling my lead-filled legs aching in heavy protest. Looking around in the bright moonlight, I see what little had fallen from my backpack. My thermo blanket, canteen, and compass lay bare in the dirt along with my knife. Sighing in frustration, I walk over to each item and pick them up, groaning in pain as my muscles bend and stretch in ways they haven’t bent in days. After replacing everything within my backpack, I finally get a chance to sit and enjoy the light of the moon. An hour passes like this, before out of my peripheral vision I see the light in the cottage fade out as if someone had blown out a candle. The scene makes my eyelids feel much heavier and I yawn loudly. That seems like a good idea. I think as I look around my infant campsite. I sigh, knowing that I still have work to do in order to stay safe through the night.

Another hour passes, but in that time I am able to set up a proper campsite with a small but efficient fire. I keep it small to avoid detection; Something I was taught years ago by a close friend. My mind lingers on the fire, and the friend that taught me about it. The same friend that was with me when I was separated from my group. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of them, where they might have gone, what might have happened… or perhaps it was just a matter of getting separated and just looking in all the wrong places. Whatever the circumstances were, they added up to me trekking through a forest larger than I thought any would be possible in my state.

As the minutes tick by with only my thoughts to ride the time away, my gaze settles upon the cottage a few hundred feet down the steep hill of my perch. It seems so very warm and inviting compared to the hard and cold ground I find myself on for yet another night. As a chill creeps up my spine, I begin to doubt my decision to turn down a possibly inviting inhabitant. The singing I heard before sure didn’t seem to indicate hostility, or even a hint of care in the world. With these thoughts, I console my tired and clouded mind that in the morning, I will watch for the inhabitant to exit the cottage and observe him or her through my scope.

As I lay on the hard ground for yet another restless night, my body cries out in hopes that this will be the last before finally getting some much needed relief of the wilds. My eyes finally close as I watch the firelight dance across my thermal blanket, and a sort of eerily soft voice seems to speak to me as I slip from consciousness.