Lon Setnik 2024-11-28 #fiction/publish | #on/decisions | #on/action | #note/sharing My eyes opened. A gentle but cold kiss on the top of my head told me it was snowing. Steaming exhalations of dragon-like breath told me it was cold. The twisted arms of wind-stunted pines told me I was in the mountains. So, why was I lying on my back? How had I gotten here? Where was I? A trickling of wet streamed down my neck and back inspiring me to sit up. My head hurt, my back hurt, my legs were tired. My left elbow ached, but everything seemed to work, except my memory, so far. Now standing, I realized I was on a trail, in the mountains. Which mountains? Where? Why? When? I needed to take inventory. My backpack was small, likely meant for a day trip. I unslung the pack and put it on the ground. I looked up the trail. It was well-trodden. I couldn’t tell my footprints from others. There was a big body print on the ground and a little blood. Ok, I had slipped and fallen, hit my head. I was on a hike. I pulled my mittens off and kneeled on them with just my right knee in a practiced fashion, and dug through the pack. The brain of the pack held a Snickers bar, a first-aid kit with a knife and wind-proof matches, and some lip balm with 50 feet of 4 mm parachute cord. I continued to dig through the pack. Three one-gallon Ziploc bags held dry socks, a hat, and gloves, a pair of long underwear, and a moderately worn black wool sweater. There were words, a golden seal, and patches on it. Beneath the clothes, an InReach GPS blinked steadily, transmitting my location, but to whom? Next I found a water bottle, a micro stove and pot and fuel for a couple boils. Then a Glock 9mm fell into my hand like an old friend—a strange comfort when nothing else made sense. It felt like rolling over in bed asleep and being soothed by a long-time lover. A handgun, while hiking, and it felt good, huh. Thinking back to the blood on the trail, I reached up to feel my head, my hair was cut short under the winter cap. My fingers came away with sticky blood on them. I felt a small hole in the middle of the back of my head. It was painful. Just above that hole, I could feel something between my scalp and my skull. I pushed it, and it popped out. It was a slug, deformed, probably 9 mm as well. How did I know? I just knew. I looked left and right, gathered everything back into the pack, and pulled myself up, mittens on, and backed off the trail. My eyes scanned back and forth. Nothing. No one. Should I activate the InReach? Was this my pack? Was I being tracked? Watched? Had someone tried to kill me? My head throbbed, and I threw up. My off-trail tracks were obvious; there was no covering them up. I might as well go back to the trail; at least the footing was good there. I placed the bullet that I had pulled out of my head into the fifth pocket on my pants and looked left and right again, up and down the trail—or up and up more accurately. It looked uphill in both directions. I was in a col, a saddle point. Ok, what did I know? I looked at my hands: strong, well-kept, little fine hairs only, nails done, no rings. She, was I she? I seem like a she. She or he, I didn’t know, but I knew I’m me. But who is me? What should I do? Where should I go? Or should I stay where I am? I felt the urge to urinate, strongly now. Ok, I’m she. And I have a Glock that I seem to know very well, and a bullet in the back of my head, and I’m in the mountains, in the snow, with a Snickers and less than two liters of water, and a stove. No map, no phone, no plan, no clue. And now, I’m feeling cold. The sun is not above me and seems lower than when I woke on my back. I have a watch, a Casio digital G-Shock which reads 3:45 PM. The wind is biting my legs through my pants, the sun is going down. I want to stay and think, but I don't have that kind of time. I need to move, but I'm frozen by fear. Will I walk into whoever shot me? Will I walk further from help, or off the trails into the mountains? Moving will give me information. Moving might save me - or it will kill me. My breath quickened. My heart pounded. I looked right, turned left, and started walking.