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.