Before We Die Alone

by Ike Hamill

  “I have water, food, and clothes. I just need shelter and tools?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You came with clothes and you managed to locate food and water. That doesn’t mean you’re independent. Being independent means that you can provide those things for yourself regardless of whether or not they’re available in the immediate environment.”

  “Oh,” I say. My brain is spinning as I try to figure out what that means.

  “You think that over. Try not to die in the night,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say. She’s already gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  * Independence *

  I WAKE UP BEFORE the sun. My brain won’t let me rest—it’s too busy trying to formulate a plan. I’ll start with water. Of all the things on her list, that’s the most important. Without water, I would die in days. How do I know that the stream is safe to drink? How do I know that it doesn’t dry up in the fall, or freeze in the winter? I need other sources of water.

  I spend days on the problem.

  I follow animals and birds to discover the pools they drink from. Downhill from my camp, I use a flat rock to dig a shallow well in the sandy soil. Some of the best water I find is by digging up the roots of a thick-leaved tree. The fluid that flows when I cut the roots is potable. I store water in the cupped leaves that I pull from the trees. The water I get from pools and wells is good even the next day. Root water is not.

  Mentally, I check water off my list.

  Next, I work on food. It’s easiest if I start from the fruit tree. I’m not the only one who eats the skin of the oblong fruit. Gray pigeons peck at it. There are other creatures that look like a mouse but are the size of a German shepherd. It takes a few days before I manage to kill, but I do. I use sharpened sticks, and occasionally get lucky throwing a rock. It takes me as long to figure out how to clean and cook the animals as it did to kill them. Eventually, I get it right and the meat is a welcome relief to eating fruit.

  With two things checked off my list, I’m feeling pretty cocky as I cross the stream and go exploring on the other side of the hill. I always try to climb, so I can flee downhill back to my camp in case I meet another pack of those bugs. The woman called them “nut beetles,” but I still don’t know why. I would ask her if she ever bothered to show up again.

  My heart nearly stops when I catch sight of the giant squirrel. It’s sitting below one of the trees that produces the yellow fruit. The woman asked me to imagine a tree-climbing horse. That was an understatement.

  This thing looks like two horses smushed together into one giant thing. It sits back on its four hind legs, while its arms stuff yellow fruit into its cheeks. The thing’s eyes are the size of black dinner plates, and they scan the forest until they land on me. The thing freezes. We’re stuck in this standoff—two frozen creatures regarding each other.

  The woman suggested that she had killed one of these things. I’m not sure how that’s possible, unless she had a machine gun. I would run if I could move my legs. Instead, I just stand there. After a minute of staring, the thing goes back to collecting fruit. It picks them from the tree and stuffs the fruit carefully into its cheeks. The fur is a plush brown and black, except for the tufted ears. If it didn’t have six legs, I would say it looks like it could be from Earth. Between the legs and size, it’s a hard thing to look at.

  Eventually, with both cheeks stuffed, the thing turns and bounds away through the trees. As big as it is, it moves pretty quietly. I’m finally able to breathe normally once it disappears.

  I move slowly to where it gathered fruit. I find some hairs on the scattered leaves. They’re long—as long as my arm. They must have been from the thing’s tail. They give me an idea.

  It takes about an hour, but I finally find the thing’s nest. I can see the woven branches, way up in the limbs overhead. The nest has been constructed by tying together the tops of several trees. They’ve been pulled towards each other and secured with branches woven between. I find what I need around the forest floor. I collect a big bunch of the hair. A single strand is incredibly strong. Woven together, I think it will help me achieve my next goal.

  ---- * ----

  I check my trap several times a day for the first couple of days. There’s no sign that the Higg squirrel has returned to the fruit tree. Maybe I scared it away with all my activity. My snare is high enough and big enough that nothing else would get caught in it, so I’m not surprised that my trap is undisturbed.

  After all those trips that ended in disappointment, I return my attention to killing the smaller mouse-like things. I try to make the skins into a shirt, but it’s impossible. The skin always falls apart within a day or two. It’s a disgusting attempt at clothing.

  I’m shocked when I return one day and find the squirrel there. It’s packing fruit into its cheeks and standing just a pace away from my snare. I see the problem instantly, but there’s nothing I can do. The squirrel has no reason to move through my loop of handmade rope. It can stop and gather without going near the thing. I have an idea.

  It takes about fifteen minutes, but I manage to creep around him.

  Without giving myself too much chance to think about it, I run out from my position, yelling and waving my arms.

  The result is the opposite of what I had hoped. Instead of running away, and getting caught in my snare, the thing charges me. It rears up on its back four legs and runs forward with its ears flattened back.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I run backwards trip and fall on my butt. I wriggle and pull out my knife just as the thing descends on me.

  I’m already imagining a heroic stab to the heart of the beast as it falls upon me with gnashing jaws. In reality, it wants nothing to do with me. I’ve startled it, and it wants to run. Only its idea of safety happens to be on a path that takes it right over me. I have no idea how much weight each of its six legs carry. But I’m guessing it’s enough to crush me. As a charging foot descends towards my stomach, I slash at the ankle with my knife.

  The blade bounces off of the thing’s boney joint, maybe slicing the skin a little. The foot still comes down on me, although I don’t think it put much weight on it.

  The minor injury is enough to dissuade the creature from continuing my direction. It pushes off, driving the air from my chest, and reverses course. It heads right for my snare.

  It’s not a perfect capture. Instead of catching its head in the loop and pulling it tight around its throat, it gets one leg and a shoulder in there. Still, the woven hair holds, and the loop tightens. The tree bends as the Higg squirrel tugs at the tether. My slipknot cinches around the limb, and the thing rears back again. While it’s thrashing, I find a way to crawl backwards across the leaves and take cover behind some trees. I watch the thing reverse direction and pull on the restraint. The loop moves from its shoulder and down to its elbow. In an unfortunate twist for the animal, it pulls the wrong direction and tightens the loop more instead of simply backing out of it.

  My tether secures around the creature’s wrist.

  It moves into a full panic and whips its body back and forth. For a horrible moment, I think it’s going to pull its own arm off. I intend to see the thing dead by my hands, but I would hate to see a limb torn from a body.

  When it flips over on its back, I’m certain that something is going to give. Either the braided hair is going to snap, or the tree is. Yellow fruit flies every direction as the tree is tossed from side to side.

  I can see its chest heaving in and out as it slows down and begins to really inspect its predicament. The Higg squirrel sniffs at the hair tether, and sniffs at the tree. This is pure speculation on my part, but I think I’ve been incredibly lucky. Something tells me that the beast can’t settle on why it’s trapped because I’ve used its own hair to trap it. If my rope had been vines or nylon, it might have tried to chew its way out. But I’ve captured it with its own hair.

  Regardless, I don’t need him to be calm. I need
pure panic.

  I stand up and yell. I throw rocks at the beast. It hurts my soul a little to torment a trapped animal, but it also excites my hunting instincts. This is my prey. Its life stands between me and survival.

  The thing is skittish. It doesn’t take much prodding to whip it back up into a frenzy, and for a second I’m afraid I’ve done too much. The tree snaps and the animal gets a little more slack to play with. It doesn’t matter. The branch it’s tethered to is too tied up with the other parts of the trunk. Even though it’s breaking, it won’t free the animal.

  I keep pressing forward, hitting the Higg squirrel with rocks and branches. I keep him moving and thrashing until he is breathing so hard that his mouth hangs open and its tongue lolls to the side. If this thing evolved completely separately from Earth creatures, it’s amazing. Aside from the six legs, it looks like a giant squirrel.

  It whips its head around and the teeth snap way too close to my face. In my curiosity, I haven’t been very careful. I jump back and circle, trying to figure out my next move.

  Maybe it was saving some strength for a final attack. The thing spins and watches me. Every time I get too close, it lunges.

  I suppose I’m imagining it, but I see hatred in its giant eyes.

  I grip the knife in both hands and rush the thing. It batters me with blows from its free front leg, but it’s at an awkward angle and I suppose it doesn’t get much strength behind the hit. I stab my knife into the thing’s chest and I back away, leaving the knife there. The animal doesn’t even really seem to notice. It knocks the knife away with its arm and then spins and sends a kick my direction. It hits me in the hip and I fly backwards to land in a heap.

  Sure, there’s blood seeping from the wound, but I don’t think I’ve done much to hurt the thing. Having tasted a small victory in the kick, the thing turns its back to me and I have to duck away from another kick. I back away farther.

  I’ve lost my knife. I went in so confident that I was going to take the thing’s life, that I didn’t hold on to my only weapon. Now I’m starting to panic. I use that knife for everything—cutting open nuts, cleaning the birds and giant mice. I get up and start throwing rocks again. I’m not trying to scare the thing anymore, I’m aiming for its head and I’m trying to kill it.

  I only succeed in wearing out my arm and harassing the thing into turning its back to me whenever I approach. I grab a big branch and try to beat the thing, but its spine seems stronger than any stick I can swing. Still, I seem to be tiring the beast out. That can’t be all bad. I set to work on its legs. The cruelty of my actions is tearing at me, but I’m in some sort of survival mode. I’m seeing the animal as a biological machine—its joints and muscles are conspiring to defeat me, and I will not be defeated. Sympathy is replaced by determination. I use a stout stick to smash one of the animal’s knees and it goes down on its side.

  I see my knife.

  Darting between its kicking legs, I grab my knife.

  This time, I don’t stab. I slice across its neck and I retreat with my knife firmly in my grip.

  I watch it bleed.

  When it slows down, I run forward and cut it again.

  Its blood sprays on me and I wipe blood and tears from my face with the back of my arm.

  The thing collapses with its last breath. One leg is held up in the air by the hair sling I made. It looks like it is reaching for the sky as it expires.

  Once it’s dead, I work on taking it apart. Its anatomy is a puzzle that I have to deconstruct.

  ---- * ----

  Back at my camp, I’m too preoccupied with my spoils to worry about my checklist. I have too much meat and fur. I don’t know what to do with it all. Is that why they call it spoils? Does having a lot of treasure guarantee that I’m not going to be able to use it before it all goes bad? That’s what it feels like. I’ve vanquished one problem to encounter another.

  I have a vague idea about smoking and curing. I have thoughts that cooked meat will last longer than raw. Of course, I don’t know if I butchered it correctly. I don’t know what I don’t know. Everything is new. Native Americans utilized every part of the animal. I’m struggling to successfully utilize any of it.

  Once I’ve cooked and tasted some of the gamey meat, I’m able to think more clearly.

  I have my rope—that’s a tool.

  I have a big, disgusting fur. I suppose I can figure out some way to scrape all the fat and sinew from it. It might be usable as clothing at some point. Water, food, shelter, tools, and clothes were on my list. I need to improve my tool set. The crisis of losing the knife resonates with me. If I hadn’t found it again, I don’t know what I would have done.

  I wipe the blade on the fur of the defeated Higg squirrel and think about the problem. Could I find ore and somehow extract the metal? Could I build a forge and make my own blades? It’s impossible. I would be better off focusing on making stone weapons. I haven’t evolved into the metal age. Still, I might be able to survive with sticks and stones.

  A better solution is staring right at me. I have giant bones from the Higg squirrel. I could sharpen the leg bones into spear tips, and maybe make a scraping tool from a hip or shoulder. I might have to dry them out first, but I’m certain I can find uses for the bones. And I have a lot more hair now. I can certainly begin weaving more rope. This one animal could yield enough tools to last me quite a while.

  “That’s going to be rancid pretty quick,” she says.

  I look up. The woman has snuck up and is standing near my pile of meat.

  Honestly, I don’t feel the need to defend my stash. She has a great point. I won’t be able to use much of it before it goes bad. I feel more possessive about the fur, hair, and bones.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Invite your neighbors over for a feast,” she says without hesitation.

  I nod.

  “I don’t happen to know many of my neighbors. I don’t suppose you could help with that?”

  She looks up, confused.

  “Could you help with that?” I ask.

  She nods. “Of course. Gather as much wood as you can carry. You’re going to need it.”

  I glance over at my wood pile. She’s right. I only keep enough to sustain the embers during the night. When I look back up, she has gone. I need to study the way she moves so I can figure out how she passes so silently over the forest floor.

  ---- * ----

  I clear out an area and build a big fire. Using green sticks, I spitted some of the meat and set it over the flames to roast. By the time the first people arrive, I’m getting nervous about my big fire. It seems like all the smoke and smells of roasting meat are a dangerous signal to be broadcasting to the forest. I’ve spent weeks trying to keep small and unnoticeable. Now, anyone could just follow their nose to my camp. And they seem to be doing just that. Fortunately, the people arrive wearing smiles and seem to be friendly. They don’t introduce themselves, but they wave and nod.

  I offer meat and they take it.

  Most people have knives like mine.

  Some use stone or bone implements to cut off hunks. I nod and casually inspect their craftsmanship, trying to pick up pointers just from observation. I get a sense of the type of rock that people can sharpen, and the look of a bone tool.

  Most of the people wear clothes that look roughly like mine. Some have augmented their textiles with furs patches, or hair straps. From the looks of these folks, it seems like I’m on the right track with my survival skills.

  When the woman I have been talking to arrives, she’s a familiar face and I gravitate towards her.

  “Thank you for inviting everyone,” I say.

  “I didn’t talk to most of these people,” she says. “Either word spread, or they smelled your cooking. This is a decent turnout. More than I expected.”

  It seems that dozens of people have filtered in from various directions. There’s plenty of meat to go around. Some have chosen pieces to chew on raw. I can’t look at that
—it makes me queasy. One older guy is picking through the organs I dragged back in the torso. I wasn’t sure what to do with them, but he seems to know his way around a corpse.

  I’m proud to have so many people show up to my first dinner party in the woods.

  “Can you introduce me around?” I ask the woman. “I don’t know anyone’s name.”

  “Their names are not mine to give,” she says.

  It’s a crazy thing to say. Everyone here speaks English. They all appear to be the same species that I am. I can’t imagine why they would have such a strange custom about names. Nobody has asked my name, and I don’t hear any being used, so I have no doubt that she’s telling the truth, but it’s a hard truth to accept.

  I shrug. What else can I do.

  If I had nothing to lose, I would just go around introducing myself and pressuring people into giving their names. But I want something from these folks. I want answers, and I’ve been told the path to get them. That’s what I need to focus on.

  She’s chewing on a piece of meat. I have to wait for her to swallow before she can answer my next question.

  “Okay, so I’ve proved myself self-sufficient. Who can I ask about the guy who got out of here?”

  She changes the subject.

  “By the way, you’ve done very well for yourself. I’ve never heard of someone taking on a Higg squirrel alone after only being here a matter of weeks. They’re dangerous beasts. You could have been gravely wounded or killed. What was your approach?”

  “I made a snare. So who told you about the guy who escaped?”

  “It’s an old story,” she says. “What kind of snare?”

  Her question attracts the attention of a young man and woman. They join her in waiting for an answer.

  “I collected tail hair from the squirrel and then weaved them together to make a snare. I attached to a limb of the fruit tree the squirrel was eating from.”