The monotony of the days was interminable. Every day he rose, walked, ate, and slept when it got dark. Each step forward was a battle with consuming loneliness. It was eating him alive. Just when he thought he’d gotten used to not having the voices around, he would have another nightmare or be awakened again by the silence.
He knew the isolation would eventually drive him mad. Perhaps it already had. How long had he been travelling? The man he was looking for—it was a man, he now knew—could he be certain that man existed?
He still couldn’t remember who the man was, but he knew he had to find him. That man had existed once, of that he was sure. He could only hope that the man was still alive. And that he could find him before his own madness set in. If only he could find even one other person…
He crested a hill and started down the other side. His feet stopped dead, but his heart pounded against his rib cage. It was the most alive he’d felt in days.
In the shallow valley between the hill he stood on and the next one farther on, a man crouched warily beside a small campfire. It gave off so little smoke, he hadn’t smelled it. Three dark mounds lay horizontal behind the man, unmoving. The man stood upon seeing him, hand clutching something that hung at his belt.
The two of them regarded each other warily for several minutes. He concluded that if this man was going to kill him, there was nothing for it. He’d already been seen. All he could do was take the chance that the man would let him live. He was in no position to defend himself, much less attack.
He limped crookedly to the fire—he’d fallen and injured his leg some days before. It wasn’t serious, but it hadn’t healed all the way either—and sat down hard in the dirt near the rock-lined pit. The man, who sported a shaggy, unkempt beard, watched him with wide eyes and furrowed brows until he sat down, but then the hand on the weapon—it looked like a crude hatchet—relaxed. After a moment the man bent his knees, falling into a crouch.
Without a word, Shaggy Beard reached into a cloth bag beside him and pulled out a fist-sized bundle. The sight of real bread was mouthwatering. Shaggy Beard broke a chunk off and passed it to his guest.
The man kept his eyes on Shaggy Beard as he devoured the bread, not caring if it could be poisoned. He hadn’t had enough to eat since leaving the Union to have the luxury of caution.
“So,” Shaggy Beard said.
It startled him so much he jumped. It was the first human voice he’d heard in more than ten years.
“Where you from, mister?”
He heard and understood, but he realized Shaggy Beard was expecting a verbal response. It had been ten years since he’d spoken as well. He hadn’t thought to practice on his journey. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. Now he tried to force air through his voice box but could only make a vague hissing noise.
“Can’t you talk?”
The man glanced at Shaggy Beard, considering how to answer.
“Can you hear me? Do you understand?”
He looked around for a way to communicate. It was so much easier in the Union when all minds were one. With a single glance, he and Shaggy Beard could have spoken, understood one another’s intentions, purpose, and entire life stories.
Shaggy Beard shook his head, and the man recognized the gesture. He shook his head then nodded it, testing out the motion. It was easy enough. Shaggy Beard raised an eyebrow.
He pointed to his own chest then his ears and nodded. Then he pointed to his throat and shook his head.
Shaggy Beard nodded. “So you can hear and understand but can’t talk?”
He nodded.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me where you come from?”
He considered but couldn’t think of a way to communicate it, so he shook his head.
Shaggy Beard nodded. “Are you alone?”
He nodded, sadness creeping over him. He knew that word—Alone—didn’t hold the same meaning for Shaggy Beard as it did for him.
Shaggy Beard stared at him for a long time before speaking again. “As you can see, I’m not. My woman and our children are asleep. I usually wait until the sun is up before rousing them. We are headed west. There’s an organized resistance there.” He sighed and scratched his beard. “Look, mister. I don’t think it’s good for a man to be alone for too long. You can travel with us. You appear harmless enough. But understand this. If I so much as sense a threat of any kind from you, I won’t hesitate to protect my family. They are my only priority. You…understand?” He nodded.
“I’ll expect you to pull your own weight. How have you been eating?”
He pulled out one of his homemade vine traps. It was one of the few skills he remembered from his life before the Union. The small acts of creation in weaving the traps had kept him moving forward day after day through the bleak terrain.
Shaggy Beard held out his hand, and the man tossed it to him across the fire. Shaggy Beard pulled it in every direction, testing its strength and efficiency.
“It’s a well-constructed trap. Yes, this could come in handy for small game. I’m Nat. What should I call you?”
The man frowned. He’d had a name once. It was lost to him when he joined the Union. He couldn’t remember it now. The memory of his former life was just behind a thin partition. He could feel it getting thinner and thinner. Eventually he’d break through it, but he couldn’t just yet.
And simply having a conversation—even a verbal one—with another human being was enough to make him feel more grounded. He tried to force air through his throat again but didn’t produce any recognizable sounds.
“How about if I just call you Trap?” He held up the vine-trap as explanation.
He nodded. Trap. It was a good a name until he could remember his own.
“I’ll wake my family, introduce you to them. Then we need to get moving.”