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.
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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.
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.
A WHOLE TWO DAYS UNTIL YOUR NEXT POST?
AGHAGBLABHGLBHAGLHGHG.
I'll live, I promise. Go do your thing. Cheers, yo.
AGHAGBLABHGLBHAGLHGHG.
I'll live, I promise. Go do your thing. Cheers, yo.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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