It was always difficult to see Portland from the Cascades. The heavy canopy of pines and oaks circling the ranges, coupled with the fog banks that rolled in from the sea, usually made it a hazard for all but the most reckless of hiker who wanted to take photos of the modern city of light and amusement. It was over seventy miles to the city center, but if one were to bravely grapple his or her way up one of the towering pines, one could eventually see the city center with a good enough set of glass.

A particular man was doing just that. He did it every time there was a power outage. Not so much over fear of the unknown, but of general interest in seeing when the power might come back on. If the entire grid that Portland and the surrounding rural areas relied upon was out, it would take weeks for cherry picker trucks to come by his remote road to turn the power back on. There was always more interest in making sure that Portland was running. They had to keep the unloading ships at the harbor and the hipsters busy somehow.

What this man saw was troubling to him. He had seen Portland basked in darkness time and time again, but never to this extent. True, the city could be dark, but it could never be absent light. Power or no power, cars always made rings around the city as people made their way to and from work. Hospitals would still be burning diesel in generators to keep their facilities running. The bearded fellow peered through an old collapsing telescope high up in one of the pine trees. Nothing. The little hamsters in his head were starting to turn their wheels at an increased speed, though he brushed it off. The reasonable man in him looked down at the telescope, turning it around in his hands.

“Vanhaa lasia. Siinä kaikki,” he reassured himself. The glass was old, so it very well might not pick up the light of the cars anymore. He would need to buy a new one when he could.

It took him some time to clamber down from the tree. It was slow going in the dark, though the absence of city light only intensified the light from the skies. It was past eight o’clock in the evening, and the Milky Way and full moon were impressive above him. It would have been a photographer’s wet dream. Boots finding grip on branches underneath him, he figured he might as well buy a camera, too. It wasn't like he was suffering from a lack of funds. The State of Oregon and the Government of Finland had seen to that.

He made his way to ground level, taking a moment to look around him. Grizzly bear had grown more common in the area the past few years. It was his job to count their numbers, at least the ones that had not already been electronically tagged by the state. The Finn had a knack of telling the others apart. The state compensated him handsomely for the lonesome job, but he did not mind. He enjoyed sitting in a quiet field, watching grizzly cubs play with their mother. It was peaceful.

That was not to say that he was another Timothy Treadwell, relying upon the good nature of some of the largest land predators in the world. He leaned down, picking a rifle up off the ground. It was always good to have some option when a bear came charging, other than bear spray. His was perhaps a bit orthodoxical, but it was a rifle he trusted. Unlike modern rifles of plastic and space-aged metals, this one was made of brass and iron. It was hand-made in Kentucky, with flowing lines and perfect woodwork. Based off of a 1770s-era Jaeger Rifle, it was a rifled musket. Short for rifles of the age, with two independent triggers for the single barrel – one to lighten the pull of the second, for more accurate shots. The .54 caliber ball it fired was more than enough to make the largest of grizzlies think twice.

He hiked his way back to his cabin. He had left a hurricane lamp on outside the front using a tinderbox. The shielded lamp burned bright, giving him a beacon to find his way back through the underbrush. He stopped every few feet to listen around him, before continuing onward. He walked into the halo of light, looking like some sort of lumberjack. The Finn was large, with a barrel chest and full beard. A black and white flannel shirt hung taught to his chest, with the sleeves rolled to expose thick flesh. These were not the muscles of a man who spent hours in a gym perfecting them. They were the ones earned through manual labor and good food.

He wished the radio worked. He wanted to know what was going on.

Sixty hours and handful of minutes ago, Allison Fuller had left Boston in pursuit of a new and better life. After working so hard through college and medical school at Harvard, surviving a failed engagement and gracefully deflecting pity left and right, she was ready to move on and start her residency. Ideally, it should have been somewhere closer to home where she could have been surrounded by her friends and family, still kept some semblance of a social life, but starting over seemed appealing. It was time to branch out, do something new and leave the bubble that had become Cambridge, Massachusetts. Portland was all the way across the country, a new extreme with new challenges to tackle and new work to keep her mind more busy than it usually was. Allison told herself that this was where life started to get good.

After two days on the road and stopping at motels along the way for rest and a shower, Allison was only two hours outside of the city. It was close enough that she could be excited, and she was looking forward to checking out her new apartment and getting settled in. She had never actually set foot in place, just taken one of those virtual tours online and decided that the one bedroom with a modest kitchen and living area would be enough for her. It wasn't as though she expected to spend a ton of time there and already knew how busy she would be with a new job and actual time in the ER. To Allison, home was the hospital, an apartment was just a place she kept her clothes; a glorified storage locker.

The GPS in her black SUV had routed her through the Cascade mountains. Allison had never been an outdoorsy person, but she wasn't above appreciating the view as she drove along through the winding curves of the road. It didn't take long for her to fall in love with the landscape, thinking it was better than the congested nature of Boston, this was unspoiled, untouched by man. Alone in her car, Allison finally felt as though she could breathe, as though it was okay to leave her old self behind and become a better version of herself out here. On the radio, a popular song from the 90s filled the silence and Allison hummed along as she continued her drive. It was starting to get dark out, and she flipped on her headlights after going around yet another steep curve.

In place of Alanis Morissette's Irony came the noisy buzz of static. This wasn't the first time that Allison had lost a good radio station on her drive, and it had become a habit to mindlessly turn the dial until something new popped up to take the place of the last song. Strange, however, Allison couldn't seem to find anything but static. Assuming she was just out of range, the dark-haired woman turned it off, thinking that she would be out of the mountains and arriving at her new apartment soon enough. Her eyes shifted, looking at her GPS for a time estimation, only to find that the screen was completely black. Immediate panic set in, and Alison couldn't help but think of all the hikers who got lost in the woods each year, or those people who ran out of gas and got stranded, only to be eaten by a cougar or mauled by a bear.

She shook her head at herself, hating that she jumped to extreme conclusions whenever something went wrong. Reaching over into the passenger seat, Allison grabbed her cell phone, but was met with no signal. The thing was useless now, just a paper weight until she got out of the mountains.

Fifteen more minutes of driving brought Allison to a stretch of road and she peered through the darkened trees looking for any signs of life. If she could just find someone and ask them for directions, everything would be okay. In the distance, she saw a light and breathed a sigh of relief as she quickly pulled over to the side of the road and left her car. The cabin wasn't far off, and Allison half-jogged over to the door, just praying someone was inside and willing to help send her in the right direction. She ignored the the grim fact that this was how most low budget horror movies started, and subconsciously pulled her sweater a little closer to her body for comfort.

The cabin looked solid and resilient, probably built by hand decades ago. Allison hesitated for a moment before knocking her first against the sturdy wood a handful of times. "Hello?" she called, knocking again. "Is anyone in there? I'm a little lost..." She cursed herself for not stopping to get a physical map the night before when she had gotten into Oregon, but Harvard had never offered a course on common sense.

It spread across the Earth like an increasing static. First GPS and cellphone signals were lost. Radios were unable to generate FM or AM bands. Military units, fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, soon found that they were unable to talk to each other. The static in the air grew stronger with each passing moment, until entire power stations went offline. Vehicles with expensive electronic ignitions ground to a halt, unable to start or move. Within minutes the static grew stronger yet, until all electronics refused to cooperate. Cellphones fried and turned off for the last time. A laptop in Portland caught fire on a woman’s bed and started a fire.

Still the static was not done. It grew stronger and stronger, unseen and unheard by humanity. Even older cars, relying primarily on mechanical means of propulsion, began to fail. Oil pumps in Texas ceased turning. Police officers in Portland, issuing an arrest for a drug dealer in the blackout, opened fire on the man when he turned on them with a knife. Their weapons refused to operate. Two police officers were the first to be a statistic for the setting back of the technological watch.

Yet, high up in the Cascade Mountains, it was difficult to know what Hell was being unleashed on the city below. Torsten, walking around to the front of his cabin, was more interested in the ‘lost’ woman who was banging on his door. She stood in front of a cabin that, indeed, had been built decades ago by the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. It was originally used to give Park Rangers respite when storms grew too strong on their patrols. It was now his home. He hadn't been inside when she called him, having been trying to figure out what was going down below them. He raised a free hand in greeting. ” Hei! Voinko auttaa sinua?”

The Finn grinned for a moment, shaking his hand, “So sorry. It is a habit. Can I help you?” He tried to correct himself. The poor thing looked frightened out of her mind. He looked down the dirt road that led to his house. Had she walked from the road to his cabin? What was she doing out this way? He walked up on to the porch, setting his archaic rifle down next to the door frame. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

Being alone and possibly stranded in the mountains after driving across the country for the last two days wasn't doing anything to calm Allison's slightly frayed nerves. In fact, the long days and few hours of sleep only served to make the young doctor all the more on edge and jumpy. That would have explained the gasp she let out and the shiver that jolted through her entire person when she was spoken to from behind. Whipping around, her back now to the door of the cabin, Allison clasped a hand over her rapidly beating heart. Now, she was faced with the sight of a man who had an impressive beard and an ominous looking gun. Again, Allison couldn't help but think that this was how horror movies started; the situation was cliché and typical so far—all around bad.

It was much to Allison's surprise, however, this this man seemed friendly. In spite being shouted to in what she thought might have been Swedish, he was now offering her something to drink, and his pleasantly rough voice sounded genuinely concerned. Just from looking at him, Allison thought this man could have been a park ranger, and he more than likely wasn't some loon that had plans to kidnap her and keep her in his basement.

“No,” she breathed a soft laugh, tense shoulders finally relaxing, “thank you, though. I'm trying to get down to Portland, and my GPS quit on me. I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction?”

Allison was completely unaware of what was going on below the Cascades. Little did she know that she was safer stranded than trying to continue on into the city where small waves of panic was already setting in. A grid failure had been talked about by the military for years just to keep the public on their toes, but the majority of people in the US didn't take that sort of thing seriously. When disaster was at their doorstep, no one had the first clue what to do.

If Torsten had known more of the facts, he likely would have at least deduced that an Electromagnetic Pulse had occurred. He had trained in the Finnish Army for years for that eventuality. It was always surmised that the Russians would one day cross the Finnish frontier in an attempt to outflank NATO forces to the north through Norway. It was also surmised that they wouldn't get far in Finland, like they had done in the Winter War. They’d resort to EMP and tactical nuclear weapons to get their point across. Torsten would have been one of the few to cross the Russian border to stop these nuclear arms from being taken to the front.

Instead, he was in Oregon talking to a pretty woman on his doorstep. As far as he knew, another computer hacker had twisted the megabits, or whatever they were called, in some far-flung code. His parents would have known what it was, if they were still alive. He listened to the woman, giving an understanding nod. “Of course. These roads are usually this dark at night. Hard to find your way. You came through on Washington Route-503, correct? If you continue down it, I promise that you’ll reach Portland.”

He was at least smart around the woman. He kept a pleasant smile on his face and made sure that his hands were always where she could see them. He stayed in the light and kept his mitts off the rifle that was leaning against the doorway. Not that it seemed like he would need it, but the man appeared to be a gentle giant. It was true, at least. Torsten had seen war, violence and death – he most certainly did not want to see it again.

He motioned with his hand towards the south. Little did he know that anarchy was beginning to take over in Portland. Little by little, the static was reaching its apex. Those without power had slowly begun to realize that their flashlights and their lighters were not working. Panic was beginning to sink in. Mouths would turn dry and stomachs would churn with anticipation. Not so much in the mountains, where it was still a beautiful night. “They’re having a power outage, I think,” he waved his hand again. “Would you like me to walk you back to your car? Bear are plentiful this time of year. They’re starting to fatten up for the coming winter, so they’re out at all hours.”

If Torsten had known more of the facts, he likely would have at least deduced that an Electromagnetic Pulse had occurred. He had trained in the Finnish Army for years for that eventuality. It was always surmised that the Russians would one day cross the Finnish frontier in an attempt to outflank NATO forces to the north through Norway. It was also surmised that they wouldn't get far in Finland, like they had done in the Winter War. They’d resort to EMP and tactical nuclear weapons to get their point across. Torsten would have been one of the few to cross the Russian border to stop these nuclear arms from being taken to the front.

Instead, he was in Oregon talking to a pretty woman on his doorstep. As far as he knew, another computer hacker had twisted the megabits, or whatever they were called, in some far-flung code. His parents would have known what it was, if they were still alive. He listened to the woman, giving an understanding nod. “Of course. These roads are usually this dark at night. Hard to find your way. You came through on Washington Route-503, correct? If you continue down it, I promise that you’ll reach Portland.”

He was at least smart around the woman. He kept a pleasant smile on his face and made sure that his hands were always where she could see them. He stayed in the light and kept his mitts off the rifle that was leaning against the doorway. Not that it seemed like he would need it, but the man appeared to be a gentle giant. It was true, at least. Torsten had seen war, violence and death – he most certainly did not want to see it again.

He motioned with his hand towards the south. Little did he know that anarchy was beginning to take over in Portland. Little by little, the static was reaching its apex. Those without power had slowly begun to realize that their flashlights and their lighters were not working. Panic was beginning to sink in. Mouths would turn dry and stomachs would churn with anticipation. Not so much in the mountains, where it was still a beautiful night. “They’re having a power outage, I think,” he waved his hand again. “Would you like me to walk you back to your car? Bear are plentiful this time of year. They’re starting to fatten up for the coming winter, so they’re out at all hours.”

Among the thick trees and under the stars, the darkness began to make itself known. Back in Boston, there wasn't a night that went by where a person couldn't see at least a mile down the road, but Oregon was different. If it hadn't been for the hurricane lamp hanging on the porch, Allison wouldn't have been able to see anything at all. Although it was unsettling, the doctor felt that it was something she would get used to and reasoned that she probably wouldn't be back through the mountains anytime soon. Portland was where she was going to be living, and that was urban as any other city around the United States.

Upon hearing that she wasn't as lost as had originally suspected, Allison felt a little silly. It was very typical for her to panic and assume the worst when she wasn't in control of something. That was different when it came to her work, she was calm and collected during her nights in the ER and never batted an eyelash when it came to pressure there. She supposed that change scared her, but it was a necessary evil.

“Is that something that happens often?” Allison asked, tilting her head slightly in order to look the man in the eye. He was a great deal taller than she was, and looked as though he often wrestled the bears he had just spoken of. She was happy to have him walk her back to her car.

She motioned toward the direction of the SUV that she had left unlocked up the road, and slid her hands into the pockets of her burgundy sweater as they walked. “Portland doesn't seem like a city with electrical problems,” she mused.

Reaching her car, Allison got into the drivers side and left the door open as she stuck her key into the ignition. “Thanks for walking me,” she smiled as she turned her key. There was no sound of an engine roaring to life, no headlights automatically turning on, and no annoying dinging sound that indicated a lack of seat belt; there was only silence. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion and Allison tried her key again, but nothing had changed. “I think my battery is dead?” She looked to the bearded man, clearly baffled. She hadn't left anything on when she had went up to his cabin for help, and it was hard to believe that a battery could die that quickly.

The failure of her GPS, the lack of signal on her cell phone and the dead battery in her car were just a series of unfortunate coincidences, the events had nothing to do with the large power outage in Portland. Rather, that was what Allison told herself.

The wilderness was a lonely place at night. Except for the few Park Rangers that would visit, or the lost hikers, it was not often that Torsten would see anyone coming up to his mountain abode. It was a welcome change of pace, he figured, to have someone to walk with. He motioned his hand towards the city at her questions, “Not really. The city is a technology hub. Not many power outages. It is filled with.. how do you say.. hippiesters?” The Finn had obviously not gotten a strong grasp on Yankee terminology for its ‘cool’ younger generations. Skinny jeans and ironic haircuts weren’t cool in Finland. Drifting cars over ice lakes was cool in Finland.

Torsten bounced on the balls of his feet when she made it back to her car. He gave a cheerful smile and a little wave. “It was my pleasure. Have a good night and good luck in Portland!” He called to her, deciding it best to wait until she got going. He waited.. and waited. His eyebrows furrowed together at the silence of her car. The dome light didn’t even turn on. Maybe she had a bad battery or alternator? He clucked his tongue, before giving a hopeless shrug. “Maybe I could jump you? I have a motorcycle that could charge your battery, if you would like. Let me go grab it. Just shut your door, you’ll be fine,” he told her. He knew she would be frightened of every shadow once he was ‘gone.’ She was obviously not from the countryside.

The Finn made his way back to his cabin, walking around to the back. He had never owned a car while in the United States, but he had owned multiple motorcycles. The American winters, at least to him, were never severe. He’d even ridden the things in deep snowfall. Americans called him crazy. He called them lazy. Behind the house sat an old Russian motorcycle – a Ural Solo. If something was rotten in the state of Denmark, the Ural would most certainly tell him. It was always reliable. Always firing up. Sure, it required maintenance every thousand miles, but it meant no roadside breakdowns. Torsten mounted it, hitting the electronic start.

The wilderness was silent. He hit it again; making sure the key was in the correct position in the pitch dark. Nothing. “Weird,” he mumbled to himself. That was fine. The bike had a kick start, making it able to start even if the battery were flat. He stood on one peg, his foot finding the kick lever. He eased down on it, but found no resistance point. Kick starts would always ‘break’ at a certain point. That’s where you knew when to hammer down on it. This one seemed to be missing. He resorted to kicking again and again. The motor did not spool. He broke into a sweat, before opting to stop.

Military instinct caused him to look up at the sky. Was there a war on? He knew relations between the US and Russia were tense, but not this tense. A solar flare? It would explain the outages. He looked back down at the Ural. It wouldn’t explain that. The kick start was a mechanical start. No electronics, which would have been fried in an EMP, were there. It should have started. He licked his lips, before turning to make his way back down the dirt driveway to find the woman’s SUV.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “My bike won’t start. Listen, you can’t get down off the mountain in the dark. You can spend the night in my cabin – I’ll make you dinner and I’ll get a fire going. I’ll walk you down to Portland tomorrow, if you have good boots.”

Before leaving for Portland, Allison had made peace with the fact that there would be a few bumps on the road, but she hadn't expected anything such as this to happen. More had gone wrong within the last hour than the last fifty-nine combined, and the failures were all too specific to be completely random. Then, there was the issue of the blackout in Portland. Allison wondered if that too could be related to the lack of cell phone or GPS signal, or even the static on the radio. If only she could have gotten into contact with someone and find out what was actually going on; that would have put her mind at ease.

Luckily, all didn't appear to be lost thanks to the kind Scandinavian man. “That would be great. Thank you,” said Allison with much gratitude in her voice. He didn't have to do anything for her, after all, she was just some stranger who had wandered up to his house.

As the man's form disappeared into the surrounding darkness, Allison relaxed back into her seat. Within the confines of her car, she wasn't as worried, but her nerves were getting close to fried. She hoped that with a jump from this man's motorcycle, she would be on her way once more. The dark-haired woman was looking forward to getting something to eat and crawling into bed for the night. The looming promise of a good night's sleep and putting this ordeal behind her had Allison forgetting just how odd her current circumstances were. Without thinking, she reached over for her cell phone and pushed the home screen button, expecting the device to illuminate to life, but just the same as with her car, her phone was dead. “Son of a...” she trailed off without finished her curse, sighing in frustration as she tossed the phone back into her purse.

Allison had barely mourned the loss of the most essentials when the helpful mountain man returned to her car without his motorcycle and more bad news. The idea of spending the night with a stranger, no matter how helpful he was, didn't exactly appeal to Allison, but it didn't seem like she had much of a choice for the time being. The worried frown that had graced her lips was soon replaced by an easy smile as she nodded and agreed to stay the night.

“I don't have any boots,” Allison told him over her shoulder as she locked the doors to her SUV. Just because it didn't run didn't mean it couldn't be stolen. “Most of my stuff was already shipped to my new apartment, and I only have what I'm wearing and some stuff in an overnight bag.” Her current outfit was far from glamorous—a sweater, an old pair of comfortable blue jeans and running shoes that were at least three years old. They probably weren't ideal for hiking anywhere.

Turning back to him, Allison waited for him to lead the way back to the cabin. “I'm Allison, by the way,” she mentioned and held out her hand. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Though the Finn might have looked confident, he most assuredly wasn’t. The fact that his motorcycle, which he knew ran only a few hours ago and had a kick start in working condition, wasn’t running made him on edge. No EMP could have damaged that. No sort of fiery cataclysm shooting from the sun or atomic weapon bursting high in the atmosphere. His parents had taught him, when he had eager little questions as a child, all about electromagnetic pulse. They fried electronics and unprotected electrical lines.

He gladly took the woman’s hand. Unlike most men, that tried to rip hands off with death grips, the large Finn gently grasped her hand, “I wish we would have met in better circumstance, Allison. I’m Torsten. Torsten Stålhandske. I will not require you to pronounce last name,” he smiled knowingly. It was always funny when the Department of Fish and Wildlife called him. Some poor secretary would have to sit on the other end and agonize over how one pronounces that A with the funny little circle around it.

He led her back to his cabin, dry leaves crunching under his boots. “Do not worry about boots. There is a camping store a few miles down road.” There was no use dragging her down fifty miles of road if her feet would be left blistered and sore at the end of it. This night was turning away from the type to spend out on his porch reading a good book; it was turning into one where he would need to take stock in what he had in the cabin. He did not wish to stress the woman out with his concerns as of yet. Better to ease the situation onto her; if a situation was even happening. As far as he knew, it was all a series of terrible coincidences.

The hurricane lamp gave them a beacon to follow, though the moon and stars did a remarkable job of illuminating the path when there was no light pollution from Portland to interfere. He led her to the front door, where he grabbed the hurricane lamp to give them some illumination inside. He figured the lights wouldn’t flick on. He held the door open for her, the lamp bathing the single room cabin in a warm glow. It was not necessarily as small as a studio apartment in a big city, but it most certainly was not big. A kitchen was in one corner, with ample shelves and cooking space. A bed was not far from it, which was shadowed by a wardrobe. On the opposite side was what could be humorously coined a ‘living room.’ A table with two rickety chairs and a long sofa sat in front of a cold fireplace.

He locked the door behind them after retrieving the rifle from outside. It now sat on the inside of the mantelpiece. It did not appear to be the only weapon inside of the house. Various antique arms were proudly displayed on the walls. Torsten gestured to the couch, “Please, please. Have a seat. I’ll get a fire going.”

If there was one thing he was good at, it was lighting a fire. He took the hurricane lamp with him, deciding to choose the ‘cheap and easy’ way of starting a roaring fire in the fireplace. There were two wooden boxes sitting next to the fireplace; one small and one big. He reached into the small box, withdrawing a bird’s nest of assorted kindling and tinder. He opened the hurricane lamp, placing a piece of fatwood in it, allowing the precious tinder to catch, before putting it into the bird’s nest. He breathed fire into it, placing it inside of the fireplace. The large box provided larger and larger sticks of wood, until a roaring fire danced across their faces.

“There!” He exclaimed happily, dusting his hands off. “Now, have you eaten? I could make us stew.” He seemed positively giddy to cook for someone else for once. There was some sort of apprehension on how good that cooking may be, however.

Without having much of a choice, Allison was forced to quickly accept the fact that she wouldn't be seeing Portland that night, and all of her plans for the rest of the night had been shot to hell. She supposed that if she had to be stuck in the middle of the woods with a total stranger, he at least seemed friendly and harmless enough. Pushing every horror movie cliché from her mind, the dark-haired doctor put her faith in this man, and hoped that by morning, things would be back on schedule. As it was, she had given herself the weekend to get to Oregon, and Monday was only a day away when she was supposed to be at the hospital for the beginning of her residency program. Missing it would render the last ten years of her life completely useless, and Allison had worked too hard to let all of it go to waste. She was determined to get to the city tomorrow by any means—even if that meant a long hike.

“Where are you from?” she asked curiously as she walked beside him toward the cabin. Allison didn't think that she had ever heard a name that complicated before, although she could tell that he wasn't American. It was sort of funny, she supposed, their accents were so different and their conversation probably would have sounded ridiculous to anyone who was just passing by.

The cabin was cozy, and Allison was happy to take a look around with assistance from the hurricane lamp. For the space being on the small side, the interior was warm and welcoming, and the couch looked comfortable, a nice place to curl up with a book. The chairs, however, left little to the imagination, and Allison thought that her back hurt from simply looking from them. That could have been from all the driving she had done in the last two days, though, and let the thought slip from her mind.

As the fire roared to life, the room quickly became bathed in a pleasant, orange, glow and Allison warmed her hands by the flames after perching herself on the edge of the couch. The bearded man seemed pleased with himself, and happy in general to have some company. She supposed that he didn't get many visitors up there in the mountains, and his excitement was rather sweet. Allison found herself smiling, but her expression quickly changed to something of need when he mentioned food. It had been hours since she had eaten, and even then, it had just been a greasy burger from a fast food window.

“I'm starving,” she admitted, looking thankful that he had even offered her anything. “I was going to get something when I got into the city.” Standing from the couch, Allison rubbed her warm palms against her jeans, feeling they were a little too warm from the fire. “Do you need any help?” The least she could do was offer when he was being so accommodating.

It was easy to forget that something strange was going on when faced with the opportunity for distraction, and safe from the outside world in the sturdy cabin. More than likely, it was better for the two of them to be up in the mountains and away from the chaos of the city in its shadow.

“Finland,” he explained when inquired. He thought it best not to try to make her remember the name of the village that he was born at. It wasn’t like she’d be able to pronounce it, anyhow. “My parents were physicists. Worked at one of our nuclear power plants.” He had been retrieving utensils from one of the cabinets by the time he had finished his explanation of his upbringing. “I spent some time in the Finnish Army. Did not do much of anything important.”

That was the understatement of the century. Even in his home, alongside the hanging antique firearms, were pictures of his past. They told a tale of a young lad enlisting at eighteen as a conscript, grinning wide in a dated photograph. He wore plain fatigues and a Valmet M76 rifle that seemed too small for him. Continuing along the line of photographs, he grew older – until the wintry photos of men practicing war turned into photographs of men engaging in war. They were pictures of him in the deserts of Afghanistan. It was obviously a dark time for the Finn. He did not smile, but stood ragged and bearded in an accoutrement of military gear. Gone was the surplus rifle of his youth, replaced by the Finnish-licensed copy of the Barrett M82A1 rifle.

The Finn who stood before her was more like the boy of his youth than the hardened man in the desert of Afghanistan and the jungles of Africa. Sure, he looked like that hardened man, but a smile came easily to his face. As to whether he was trying to hide that past under a façade of happiness was anyone’s guess.

“Of course, of course!” He exclaimed happily at her help. He waved her next to him. He handed a hickory-handled kitchen knife to her butt first. “Carrots, onions, tomatoes, and garlic please.”

Little did Torsten know how lucky he was. Water pumps throughout the globe were failing, but his own was working fine. An old waterwheel setup next to a creek by his cabin pumped water up from a natural spring underneath the ground. It had been setup by the local Amish community that lived close by. Water came pouring out of his sink, allowing him to fill a pot with water. Of course, he was unable to balance the temperature of the water. He had no water heater in the cabin. He worked alongside Allison, dumping venison and the batch of ingredients within the pot, before carrying it over to the fireplace.

A hook hung along the top, which he hooked the pot on. “I have a Dutch oven,” he explains, “but no need to have two fires at the same time.” It would take at least twenty minutes for the stew to boil and thoroughly cook the venison. It would have been a bad time to come down with food poisoning. He sat near to the fire, so he could keep a close eye on it. The cabin was slowly beginning to become overwhelmed by the smell of cooking venison.

“So, Allison. What adventure brings you to Portland? Do you have job?” He asked. In a way, his accent and way of speech was funny. He seemingly forgot some words, all the while appearing to have perfect diction – other than sounding a bit like Count Dracula, of course.

During her time at school, Allison had met people from all around the world, but she had yet to meet a person from Finland. Torsten was the first, and she suspected he would be the only one for quite some time, but he certainly represented his people well. If all Finns were this nice and courteous, she may just have to visit the country one day. It was also rather interesting that his parents were physicists, and she imagined that the bearded man had grown up with a second hand knowledge of nuclear power, the same way she had with knowledge of a courtroom and the judicial process. Those two subjects couldn't have been further apart.

Accepting the knife from him, Allison got to work on slicing the vegetables. Her steady hand produced straight and consistent cuts each time, coming from years of hands on practice and nights spent in the lab building up the necessary hours to earn a credit. Medicine and surgery came naturally to Allison, but cooking did not. Most often than the young doctor would have liked to admit, she ended up eating whatever was around and quick. It wasn't the most healthy diet in the world, which was ironic, but not uncommon in her field—especially among people her age. A home cooked meal sounded like heaven, and Allison was only happy to contribute.

As the stew simmered away over the fire, Allison started to clean up, figuring it was the polite thing to do. The water that ran from the tap flowed freely, without interruption and the only indication that something wasn't quite right was the temperature. No matter which was she turned the faucet handle, the water stayed the same temperature. Always one to reason things away, deduce and minimize, Allison equated the cold water with the mountains. Torsten probably didn't have the most up to date plumbing system, so Allison settled for giving the knife a rinse.

That accent of his was quite endearing, and Allison found herself smiling as she nodded. “I do. I start my residency at the OHSU teaching hospital on Monday,” she explained. “I was coming from Boston,” she gestured in the appropriate direction of the city, thousands of miles away now.

Crossing from the kitchen back into the living space, the dark-haired woman was drawn to the pictures on the walls. The photographs told a story and Allison easy got a sense of who Torsten was; adventurous, hard working and very brave. She turned back to him, hands settling into her pockets once more. “What do you do?” she asked, wondering if he was a scientist like his parents, but studying in a different field, or if he had just decided to live in the a beautiful, secluded place after his tour of duty. Allison didn't have much experience when it came to psychology, and she knew that many soldiers were left with invisible wounds from the war. Torsten seemed to have it all together.

Torsten had met many people in America. It was the melting pot of the world, regardless of what some might say about racism and diversity in the country. Never before had he seen such a dramatic difference in his life. Back in Finland, life was so homogenized. Unless you lived in Helsinki, the capital of Finland, you would never have seen a black man or an Arab. In America, they seemingly grew off trees.

His face appeared to brighten at her mentioning her residency. “Oh, you are doctor?” He asked happily. “I will make sure to tell everyone to come see you. ‘Doctor Allison,’ I’ll say, ‘Is nicest doctor! Very smart.’” He would have said more, but Torsten considered himself a gentleman. He used a wooden ladle to continually stir the pot as the stew came to a simmer. He would allow it to boil for a few moments, before taking it off. Using a pair of thick leather gloves, he hoisted the pot out and carried it across to the kitchen.

“I record the grizzly population for this part of the Cascades,” he retrieved bowls and utensils for the both of them. “When one becomes a problem, I call in Washington or Oregon State Police to take care of it.” Why the Finn didn’t do it was anybody’s guess. To tell the truth, ever since his service, he considered himself a pacifist. He never again wanted to pick up a rifle and shoot something – not even wildlife. He would gladly buy venison off of hunters, but refused to take the game himself. His days of killing were long over.

He handed her a bowl of the steaming venison stew, before pouring his own. “We will go south tomorrow morning. There is an Amish community not far from here. They have an outdoors store that they opened for tourists – to make a little money to support their church. We can get you boots there.” He already assumed the woman likely wouldn’t have cash on her. Most young adults these days didn’t. That was fine. There was plenty of cash in his wallet for her to borrow. Allison seemed to be an upstanding individual; he did not mind to loan the money out to her.

He sat down on the sofa to enjoy his stew, blowing on it to prevent it from causing any horrific burns on lips or tongue. “You can have bed tonight. I will take hammock outside.”

Allison was used to people being impressed when she mentioned her career. It wasn't that she was full of herself, or that she had gone into medicine looking for praise, but doctors and scientists were often valued across the world. There was something a little different about Torsten's recognition, though, it seemed a little more genuine and the tone he conveyed was refreshing. If only she was the kind of doctor he was thinking of, she would have promised not to let him down. “Thank you,” she smiled modestly. “I'm studying to be a surgeon, actually. More specifically in the ER.” There was something very soothing about high pressure situations, and Allison tended to thrive. That path only seemed natural in her career.

When the stew was ready, Allison moved about the kitchen, not wanting to get in Torsten's way as he served them dinner. It smelled delicious, and after a long day on the road full of strange events, she was more than ready to eat. “Do you like it?” she asked, curious about his work with the bears. Knowing that his parents had been physicists, Allison wondered why he hadn't gone into that field himself, or at least something to do with science. She wanted to ask, but didn't feel as though it was her place.

She settled down on the couch with him and dipped her spoon into the stew, blowing on it before taking a bite. It was just as savory and satisfying as it smelled, and Allison didn't even mind that the meat was venison. Back east, she was used to seafood, but she was always more than willing to try new things. Taking another bite, she nodded as Torsten spoke of the plan for tomorrow. Walking to the Amish community didn't seem all that bad, and she doubted the boots were going to break the bank. She had plenty of money on her credit card, hardly one to carry cash when plastic was just easier.

“Outside with the bears?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow. Allison thought it was kind of him to offer her the bed for the night, but this was his house and that hardly seemed fair. “I can sleep on the couch,” she told him, balancing her bowl of stew on her thigh as she pressed down on the fabric with her free hand. It was still springy and resistant, comfortable enough for a night. “Really, you don't have to give me your bed.” Truthfully, she was just thankful that she wouldn't have to camp out in her car.

Torsten had a lot to thank doctors for. Especially German ones in Afghanistan, but that was besides the point. His eyebrows disappeared in his shock of black hair at her admitting to going into emergency surgery. "There is not enough room in this cabin for your brains, I think," he told her with a smile upon his lips. He sat there, trying to finish his stew. He figured she would want some rest, so he did not want to pester her for the rest of the night. Especially since she might want to balk at the time he wanted to leave. Most people were not early risers like he was. He was appreciative of her presence. It felt warming to be able to 'care' for someone. To tell the truth, it had been something that he had missed. Granted, it felt different from caring for soldiers he had been responsible for. There was less heartache in this.

He had finished his stew by the time she asked if he liked 'it.' He nodded his head sagely, "Of course. I am good cook," he replied, mistaking her question as to whether or not he liked the stew. Well, of course he did. He made it. It was a few moments, before the hamsters in his head started to turn the wheels. Oh. He nearly jumped at the realization. "Oh! Oh! You meant my job, Kyllä? I like it. It isn't very stressful. Go out in the mornings and track bear. Greet tourists. Read books. It is a rewarding life. It does get lonely, though." He frowned, before his smile opted to return. There was no need for pity under his cabin.

He waited until she finished, helpfully taking the bowl from her and taking it to the sink. Like most things in his cabin, the soap was not modern. It was lye soap he had purchased from the same Amish they would meet tomorrow. The stuff was rough on the hands, but Torsten's was already calloused and rough from a life of labor and hardship. "The bears do not come close to the cabin," he replied to her, setting the dishes back into their respective cabinet. He was drying his hands by the time he opened the chest next to his bed. He retrieved a small box from within. He withdrew a small, archaic revolver from within. It was unlike the hammerless wonders that currently existed. It was old, with a patina to the barrel and a roughness to the hickory grip. He placed it behind his waist, wedging it between belt and trousers.

There was something about the night that worried him. Not that he was certain that danger was nearby, but that he felt it. As odd as it might sound, he felt more secure in being outside the house. Dangers to himself wouldn't expect him to be outside waiting for him. That, coupled with the fact that his upbringing made him think it would be 'inappropriate' for the two to share a room forced him to choose the wild night to spending the night in the cabin with Allison. He grabbed a rolled hammock from his wardrobe, before shaking his head, "It would be bad to spend the night in the same room. It is... sopimaton?" He couldn't quite find the word for it. He motioned with his hand, "There is shower in small room beside bed. You can use it in the morning. I will wake you by knocking the door -- we will be leaving right at five, so be ready to be up by four."

He turned, going out through the front door. He turned the lock, sticking his head in long enough to say, "Please, sleep tight. I will make sure you are at your new apartment tomorrow. Hyvää yötä." He closed the door behind him.

The loneliness of the Cascades compared to all of those solitary nights spent in the lab back at Harvard, and Allison couldn't help but sympathize with Torsten. Still, the thought of being able to be in such a beautiful place would have made up for the lack of socialization. After all, Allison had spent the last eight years rather isolated between college and then medical school, always bogged down with classes and studying, not to mention the late night labs. It was hard to remember the last time she had had a spare moment to be a real person, to go out and have a little fun. Torsten didn't seem like the partying type, but he had a warm personality, the type of guy who should have had all the friends in the world.

After dinner, Allison rose from the couch, wanting to help Torsten with the dishes. She felt guilty for imposing on him this way, and he had been so kind to her. “Are you sure?” she asked, ending up leaned against the counter in the small kitchen. The thought of her host being mauled by bears wasn't pleasant, and she didn't like that he felt the need to give up his bed just for her. Still, he seemed to insist and thought nothing of it as he moved about the cabin and drew a gun from a small box hidden in a chest by the bed. He certainly did have a lot of weapons, but Allison wasn't afraid.

Torsten's explanation left Allison feeling a bit embarrassed, having not realized he was so traditional. She supposed she forgot that some people weren't comfortable sharing a space with someone of the opposite sex, and she respected his decision, smiling at the bits of Finnish peeking into his sentences. “Thank you,” she returned his goodnight with a smile, “sleep well.”

The thought of being up by four in the morning caused Allison to frown, but she was tired enough from the drive and commotion to sleep through the night. Whatever time it was, she would get a few good hours in before morning, and be good to go with Torsten to the Amish community. She was ready to get to her apartment, feeling that she would finally be able to relax once she was in Portland. Putting the notion of never getting there out of her mind, Allison turned down the heavy quilt on the bed and slipped her shoes off before getting beneath the covers. Sleeping in her jeans wasn't comfortable, but she would have felt disrespectful to be sleeping in anything else.

Rest came easily that night, and Allison didn't dream at all she slept peacefully, warm and cozy in a modest bed. A knock on the door jarred her from her sleep, and Allison gave a displeased huff into the pillow, before turning over and getting up. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looking out the window, Allison could see that it was still dark outside—it must have been four o'clock. “I'm up,” she called, hoping Torsten would be able to hear her.

The army had taught him to do without sleep. In some places, it was impossible. Only until a person was on the ragged edge could they fall asleep in a frozen trench. Otherwise, the cold (and frostbite) usually kept you up. It wasn’t hardship that woke Torsten from his slumber early outside. It was worry. The idea that there was something more than a simple power outage afoot.

He awoke from around two. He turned his head towards the south in the hammock. His heart began to sink. Years of living at the cabin had taught him exactly what the Portland skyline looked like. On most nights it was a bright white light that did its best to drown out the Milky Way above. Never was it a roiling, amber color. The stars above the imprint of the city were obscured in the clear light. Though Torsten did not need to see what was happening to know, he still dutifully hiked through the wilderness to clamber up the same pine tree as before to turn the telescope towards the city.

“Perkele,” he muttered the malediction in Finnish. Through the glass lens, the city was starting to burn. The fire had started in the suburbs to the northwest, spreading in tiny fingers towards the city center and around it. A full tenth of the city burned in the night, giving it a nightly glow that was unnatural. A certain amount of dryness pained the Finn’s mouth, as nervous eyes peered back at his cabin. He couldn’t know if her apartment was amongst the flames. Possessions disappearing in crackling smoke and light. Should he worry her over it?

He would need to tell a half-truth. She did not need heartache on the trip to Portland. When was the last time he had dealt with a crying woman?

There were things to do, however. The cabin was secluded on the dirt road, but the driveway (and Allison’s car) were plain to any passersby. The cabin would be a dream for those who might want to loot or pilfer. Clambering down from the tree, Torsten began the work that needed to be complete before Allison awoke. Lacking any means to deactivate the parking brake, he used a bit of tow rope and a manual winch to tow the car – little by little as its tires ground and resisted in the dirt and grass – until it was nearer to the cabin, out of sight from the main road. Concealing the entrance was easier. He drug two felled, dead trees to the entrance, blocking it from easy access. Dried leaves and maneuvering of dirt made it appear as though it were a natural break in the treeline. One would have to look very carefully to know that it was a driveway.

He told time by the moon. It was beginning to fade, with the rise of the sun. He figured it was at least a little past four. He knocked gently on the door, trusting the woman to wake. He packed his hammock, waiting outside on the porch for her to open the door for him. There were a few things that he needed to do before he was ready to leave.

Four AM was an unholy hour. Allison hadn't been up this early in years, and more often than not, four in the morning had been her bedtime after a long night spent in the lab. She was far from happy, but at the very least, Torsten's bed had been warm and comfortable, easy to fall asleep in and stay asleep in spite of her anxieties about not being able to get to Portland the day before. She had every bit of confidence in the Finn and his ability to get her down to the city before Monday morning, and truthfully, Allison was just thankful that he was being so gracious. He very well could have turned her away and forced her to fend for herself in this unfamiliar place with little survival skills.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Allison turned back the warm covers from the bed and slipped her shoes back on before padding over to the door. She comber her fingers back through her hair, not wanting to look a mess in front of her host. She may have been a stranger, and while she doubted Torsten cared much for her appearance, it still meant something to Allison. After a short moment, she unlocked the door and was greeted with the early morning chill of the mountains. Shivering slightly, she pulled her sweater over her fingers.

“Good morning,” she greeted him with a soft smile and stepped aside to let him in. “Did you sleep okay out there?” Allison still felt bad for displacing him like that, and she hoped he hadn't been too cold.

Wanting to be a good guest, Allison moved back over to the bed and began to make it up—straightening out the sheets and tucking the covers back under the newly fluffed pillows. She wanted to take a shower before they started on their way to the Amish community, and the water would do her some good as well. Although she felt a bit awkward asking when the cabin was only one room, and Torsten looked as though he needed to be milling about. She combed out her hair with her fingers again, frowing at the tangles from sleep.

“Do you think I could shower before we go?” It wouldn't hurt to ask.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, the towering Finn thought. He bit on the nail of his thumb, glancing back at the amber hue in the night sky, before the door opened. He put away the worry on his face, replacing it with a comforting smile. There was no reason to make the woman anxious. At least not yet. After all, had she not had years and years of stress through school? She deserved a minute break from it. A good hike in the wilderness would do her some good.

“Oh, except for being mauled by many grizzly, I slept fine. I hope you slept well?” He asked genuinely after the bad attempt at a joke. He walked past her, heading towards the wardrobe. He spoke to her while he rifled through it. “Of course! Of course. Though, it might be cold,” he motioned behind him towards the fire, “You can make some water hot in the fire if you want.” He’d have gladly done it himself, but he had other things to do.

Chief of them was to prepare for the day at hand. At most, he would only be two days away from home. A day’s hike there and a day’s hike back. Luckily for him, the Amish settlement made a perfect way-station for him. Their settlement ran for miles in each direction, filled with crops and cattle. The Amish had always been pleased to trade with him, so long as he kept his firearms out of their homes. He didn’t imagine that would change now.

He withdrew a woolen, button-up shirt. It was drawing close to a black, though its true color was blue. He opted that it was best not to change in front of the woman, to be polite. A woolen vest was thrown on top of it. Not so much for core warmth, but for the convenient pockets. One could never have enough pockets. He could wear the trousers and the boots that wrapped his feet.

He retrieved a belt, with a leather strap that went over one shoulder, from the wardrobe as well. Sitting in a cross-draw holster was another revolver. The 1847 Colt Walker was the epitome of revolvers at that time. Large enough to knock down an elk, it was well-suited to the large-statured Finn. The belt also had a tomahawk and hickory-handled knife sheathed on it. He threw the shoulder sash over one shoulder, grabbing the clothes with a free hand. He hurriedly walked across the cabin, before reaching the fireplace. There was another chest next to it, which he opened and grabbed more equipment for the day.

Two possible bags, leather bags that were originally used to carry odds-and-ends in the 1800s, were thrown over each shoulder. A cartridge box, loaded with paper cartridges, was removed as well. He maneuvered everything into one arm, before reaching up to grab the last object he needed – a rifle. It was an odd weapon. One of the few breech-loading firearms in the Civil War, it fired a paper cartridge and was ignited by a percussion cap that was placed underneath the hammer. Historically, the .54-caliber firearm had been fired with 64grains of blackpowder. Torsten’s, however, had been case-hardened and made of modern metalwork. It was capable of firing with 144grains of blackpowder. It was enough to throw a smaller man on his rump, but the towering Finn was obviously capable of handling it.

He smiled at the woman again, before looking down at the rifle. He wasn’t bringing it for the bears. He was more worried about the predator with two legs. If Portland was burning, who knows what they might see on the road? “Bears,” he told her the lie, before heading out the door.