Sunlight filters through the canopy to dance warmly across my skin. I squint at the rustling leaves and blue sky beyond, cottony clouds scattered about. Somewhere below me, a babbling brook tangles through the brush.

For a moment I travel back in time. To ice cream and softball and lazy Saturday mornings. Out on my uncle’s farm down by the stream, sprawling out on meadow grass beneath giant maples. My little brother, Ivan, screaming excitedly about a fish he just caught.

He was just a skinny little kid with freckles, blond hair, and enough imagination to power the whole state of Rhode Island. His infectious grin could light up a room better than a lightbulb and his obsession with magic tricks made him a hit with all the other kids in eighth grade.

I try to sit up and my whole body rebels. Tendrils of pain stretch from my ribs across my side like spidery fingers dragging biting nails deep across my flesh. But I push past it all, gritting my teeth and tossing my bag to the soft, mossy earth below.

When my feet hit the forest floor, I stoop to grab my bag, but as I straighten, a wave of dizziness clouds my vision and I clutch a branch to stay upright. It’s hunger. Or rather, my body’s response to the lack of sufficient food. Two months into my journey east to find my brother, and I’m ashamed to say I may not be the best scavenger. No, scratch that, I’m terrible. I barely find enough to keep myself alive from day to day and this last week proved especially bad. Add to that yesterday’s incredibly high-calorie-burning activities and I can already tell it will be a struggle to get through the daylight hours without passing out.

Since I woke from the stone I’ve survived on nothing but scavanged food from the old world. In the beginning, before I decided to set out to find Ivan, I thought I might try my hand at growing a garden but nothing worked. Even when I managed to find a few ancient seeds packets that didn’t disintegrate in my hands, I couldn’t get anything to grow. I’ve kept an eye open for berry bushes or fruit trees but there’s no trace of any, as if they never existed in the first place. I’m not surprised. Uncle wrote about how the plants changed, nothing about them is edible anymore. In fact, they’re dangerous. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the same thing that caused the stone sleep, or maybe it’s from all of our meddling with genetics and pesticides. Regardless, everyone either scavanges or hunts now.

As I wait for the world to finish prickling back to life, I notice something laying near my feet where my bag had been: a pile of colorful feathers. Beautiful, shiny, and rusty-red with black speckles and a ring of white paired with deep navy. A bird? A dead pheasant. I glance overhead, scanning the area. What killed it?

Flipping it over, I can tell it’s fresh, very fresh. Still warm. The neck flops at an odd angle. Broken. I frown. Did it fly into a branch? How odd. Do birds even do that? I search for any other signs of damage but come up empty. Maybe I crushed it with my bag by accident. The ridiculous thought makes me want to laugh. Well, the meat looks good. As if on cue my stomach rumbles, sending fresh waves of hunger pains gnawing at my middle. I need no more encouragement, a small, smokeless fire won’t draw unwanted attention this far from the raider base.

The first bite is heaven. Truly. I have never tasted anything so good before in my life, and I know what they say: anything tastes good when you’re starving. But this makes me rethink the whole scavenger strategy. Maybe I’ll try hunting instead if only I had a proper gun. At the very least, this will make it hard to swallow another can of expired beans. With my belly full and no leftovers to speak of, I head east. Uncle’s map shows I have at least a four-day walk before I reach the nearest town.

~~~

It took me a while, but my idiot brain finally put the pieces together. At first, I thought I was going crazy. After all, it was just a feeling. A prickle running up my spine. But no matter how much I looked or listened or spied out of the corner of my eye, I saw only forest. Heard only forest. Still, I sensed him. Sensed his eyes on me.

If not for the string of dead wildlife appearing every morning, I would think I was truly losing it. Always at the base of my tree. Left for me.

“I know you’re out there!” I shout into the woods.

Silence.

“I know who you are, too. Go away.”

Still nothing. I suppose I did threaten him with death the last time we met, but I doubt he hides out of fear. That is, if it’s really him. But honestly, who else could it be? A raider would never bother with stalking, and a random passerby would either attack or avoid me. It must be the masked man.

He may just be leaving me breakfast now, but what happens when he grows tired of watching from afar? When he decides it’s not enough. When he wants more?

My mind usher’s up images of the masked man mercilessly cutting down those raiders in the field. Their blood watering the ground. I see the way he took down that bear. A grizzly. I thought raiders were dangerous but I don’t stand a chance against a man like him. He could do whatever he wanted to me and I’d be helpless to stop him. There’s no one to call for help. No 911. No cops. Nothing. I’m completely alone. The thought shoots adrenaline through my veins like fire.

“I mean it! Stop following me.”

But I might as well be yelling at a frog in a mud puddle with the response I get. Nothing.

The next morning, fresh game waits at the base of my tree. This time a young boar. The man is like a cat, leaving dead presents on your doorstep in the morning. Only much more dangerous.

I huff in frustration. The worst part is I actually need the food. Badly. But knowing it came from this stalker nearly takes away my appetite. Nearly. I have half a mind to leave it except hiking through the woods all day on nothing but yesterday’s meal means I can’t. A few days of food doesn’t change the weeks of near starvation I still need to recover from. I lost more weight than I can afford these last few months, and I swear every passing week gives me a new rib to count.

I need a trap.

I could feign injury. He might come out, but even with the element of surprise, I doubt I could touch him. Let alone hurt him. The way he fought down in that pit still sits at the surface of my mind. Maybe I could hole up in a tree and wait him out. Wait until he gets bored and either comes out of hiding or leaves. But I lack the supplies for such an endeavor.

As I nibble on roasted boar and brainstorm ideas, I pull out the map Uncle left me, wiping grease on my shirt before tracing the faded colorful lines with my fingertips. Judging by the mountain range ahead, I should reach the nearest town by the next morning.

I finish my meal, climbing to my feet and stretching out my back and arms. The hazy sky overhead invites humidity, drawing in a world of gray like a warm cloak clinging to my skin as I trudge through squelching mud and scratchy thorny overgrowth.

I stop abruptly. Listening.

Nothing.

Just like every other time I’ve tried to catch sight or sound of him. The masked man is undetectable. Either that or I’m hallucinating, but my satisfied stomach testifies to my sanity. I continue my slog along the crumbling highway and decide to ease my anxious heart the only way I know how.

I sing.

Say what you want about all the things we lost. Airplanes. Internet. Civilization. Plumbing. By far the greatest loss was music. Music is a special kind of art: a marriage of time and the mind. The power of a song—a melody—to reach out and touch the deepest parts of your soul and walk with you through time. In sadness, it eases into the most broken parts of you like a soothing salve. In happiness, it sends you soaring higher than a bird. I love to get lost in my songs, letting the sound of my voice stretch through the space around me.

The interstate leads to a huge ravine where the remains of a cement bridge sit on either side. At least two hundred feet of nothing but empty air lie between me and where I need to be. Luckily, a monkey bridge connects the two sides. It’s the type they teach you to make in boy scouts. The type my uncle showed me how to make when I was a kid. It consists of two rope handrails tied loosely to a single base rope which you walk on. The whole thing effectively making a ‘V’ shape. I rub my hand over the thick rope. Fairly new. Maybe a couple of years old? Not molding or rotting at least. I wonder who made it.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The thought draws my gaze around the open space. No one is around. The other side is clear: nothing but broken pavement and thick forest for as far as the eye can see. Overhead, the sky darkens as a storm rushes in from behind and I smell it—heavy and metallic with undertones of earth and grass. An icy gust steals the warmth from my fingertips and I curl them into the palms of my hands, leaning to peer over the edge. Rocky sides disappear into a haze but the steady roar of angry waters echoes up. My mind conjures up images of jagged black stones jutting up from foaming white water.

With a tight jaw, I lift my foot and set it on the rope base, testing it against my weight. The rope sways in the breeze, and every nervous jerk or clumsy foothold amplifies the movement across the length of the bridge. A sprinkling of raindrops splatter my baseball cap and I grip the rope tighter.

I could turn back. Head south until I find another way across but according to my map it will take at least a day. And the bridge down there may be destroyed too which would end up taking me further away from Ivan. No, I need to take this opportunity. Get to Ivan as quickly as possible.

You can do this.

I fight the tremble in my chest and put one foot in front of the other. The storm gusts up from below, sending the bridge hopping and my heart climbing higher. With every step forward, I must yank my hands’ vice-like grip free for a moment to keep going. Halfway across, the rain grows stronger, turning from tiny specks into giant drops, smacking through my clothes like sharp, icy daggers. The tremble in my chest grows outward into my extremities and my teeth start to chatter.

The bridge jerks in the breeze and my boot slips from the single base rope. I gasp as I slip, my body dropping low. My arms remain stretched out above me, my hands clamped to the wet, arm rail ropes in a death grip. My lungs suck in a breath and forget what to do with it. I glance downward and my stomach lurches. The fog has lifted just enough to reveal angry waters and rocks sharp as teeth below.

I see myself falling. Feel the sudden ‘whoosh’ of air past my ears before I reach the bottom. My bones crack. My head splits open. And then the icy waters swallow me up. The vision makes my heart stutter and grip loosen.

With a shaky exhale, I lift my eyes. I can see the other side. It’s maybe twenty feet away. Normally, I enjoy heights. The view at the end of a hike makes it all worth it. But it’s different when your life is on the line. Not just mine. My brother’s too.

Ivan needs you.

My little brother is somewhere on the other side of this bridge. I won’t die here. I can’t.

I use every last bit of strength to pull myself back upright, steadying myself despite the earthquake coming from my knees. Careful now, I put one foot in front of the other, keeping my eyes ahead. Just ten more feet. Then eight. Then five. Almost there. A small gasp escapes my lips as my feet meet solid ground again.

I stumble forward, falling to my knees and gripping beautiful wet, tufts of grass, digging my fingernails in deep to the damp earth. I bow my head, forehead touching the earth as I focus on breathing. Behind me, the bridge still twitches in the breeze. It’s empty. Lonely and destitute.

Once the shaking in my arms and legs abates, I pull myself up and continue, following the interstate. The rain turns into a torrent. As if Noah returned from the dead and brought the flood with him.

I take shelter under a nearby rundown gas station as the temperature drops. Setting my backpack on the remains of a bench out front of the building, I pull out my jacket from my bag and put it on. And as I zip it up against a rush of cold, I realize my luck. I crossed that bridge just in time, a few more minutes and I would be stuck trying to cross with this mind-numbing cold and blinding rain.

A sudden thought stops my heart.

The bridge. The stalker must cross that bridge too. At least, if he wants to keep up with me. That’s my trap. That’s how I will lose him. My heart speeds up at the very thought.

Grabbing my gun in one hand and knife in the other, I drop my backpack and race back down the interstate, desperately hoping I am not too late and kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner. I should have cut the bridge the moment I crossed it but staring death in the face left me distracted.

As the bridge comes into view, I stumble at the sight.

There, in the middle of the bridge, stands a man clad in black, hands gripping either side. He stares downward, not moving. Frozen.

“Hey!”

I have to scream to be heard over the pouring rain. I level my gun, aiming down my sights. “Stop following me.”

He looks up at me. Every last inch of skin is covered once again, and those red-rimmed goggles stare eerily. He says nothing.

“I mean it!” I pull the hammer back. “Turn back now or I will shoot you.”

But rather than turning back, he takes a step forward. With those endless black voids set on me, I sense determination. I glance around. The storm is the perfect cover I need to shoot this gun. Its boom could be easily assumed to be a crack of thunder.

“If you take another step, I will shoot,” I shout over the storm. I know he hears me, but it seems to encourage him as he steps forward.

I brace myself and pull the trigger.

Click.

Panic settles in my gut.

Click. Click. Click.

Jammed. I should have known better than to expect the ancient hunk of junk to work. In frustration, I chuck it at him. It grazes his shoulder, disappearing into the ravine. I turn to my knife next, cutting at the rope. There are three ropes holding the bridge up. Two handrails and a larger, stronger base rope. I must cut all three to down the bridge so I get started on one of the handrails first.

The rope is thick—thicker around than my fist—and I’m stuck frantically rubbing my dull pocketknife against it. The strong fibers flick, unwinding, slowly but surely. He picks up his pace and my stomach twists. If he reaches me what will he do? I did try to shoot him, and now I’m cutting the rope to the bridge he stands on. He is close, about three-fourths the way across when I heave all my weight into the knife and the last few strings snap free.

The handrail collapses and the bridge goes slack. With only one handrail, everything is unbalanced and loose. The masked man is left clinging in the rain. With one arm looped over the single handrail, his feet dangle in the air as he struggles for a foothold onto the base rope. If I didn’t know better, I would say he looks panicked. Like a black cat who found itself clinging viciously to a tightrope in a circus.

“Just go back,” I shout.

But he finds his footing and his gaze locks onto my side like a marathon runner staring down the finish line. Slowly but surely, he inches my way. So I put the knife on the second handrail rope. Maybe it is the strain of weight with half the bridge gone, or the rope has rot, but this one cuts much easier. My knife slices through like butter and it falls away.

The masked man dangles now, both hands white knuckling the base rope. The rain starts to let up and I stand watching and waiting for him to fall. But instead, he pulls himself up and loops one leg, and then the other, around the remaining rope. He begins to rope traverse my way, keeping three points of contact on it, two hands and one foot. He shuffles his hands and feet alternately, like an upside-down crab, speeding up in his approach.

I drop to my knees, panic searing through my brain as I try to cut the last rope with shaking hands. This one is thicker than the other two, the threads more compact. Harder to slice. My eyes dart between the man and my knife. He’s almost made it. Soon, he'll be close enough I could reach out and touch the top of his head.

I can’t let him reach me. What would he do to me? He’s dangerous and now he’s probably angry, too. Fear frenzies in my mind and then the last few strands of rope snap free.

He falls.

His body disappears with the last of the rope below the fog into the ravine. I stand up, panting and shaking all over. I did it.

He’s gone.

My knees give out and I collapse to the ground in relief, knife falling in the mud. I pull my knees up and hang my head between them. My heart rams against my ribs so hard it hurts. The sun breaks through the clouds, but I shiver, every inch of my body, drenched.

I laugh. A weary, exhausted-sounding laugh straining at the ends—almost choking. The relief is real and yet part of me feels sick. Something deep inside my gut, twists. Did I kill him? I did, didn’t I?

I just killed a man.

My hands clench to fists around my knees. I really did. I didn’t want to. But what else could I do? I told him to go back. I didn’t want to do it. I just wanted him to stop chasing me.

It doesn’t really matter though, does it? Regardless of the reason, a man is dead because of me. And not just any man either, the man who saved me from raiders. The same one I saved from those very same raiders. I see his bruised and beaten, moonlit face, brows scrunched in confusion outside the raider base and bite back sudden, unexpected tears.

Movement pulls my watered, weary gaze.

The remaining rope hanging from the other side of the ravine moves. Jerking.

I blink. Could it be?

The rope tugs a little bit one way and then the other. A head emerges from the fog on the other side of the ravine. Then shoulders. Then a torso.

The man is climbing up the rope.

He’s not dead. I jump to my feet, surprised and frightened all at once. And maybe a little impressed. Will he make it all the way? Can he? The hope sprouting in my chest startles me.

He climbs to the top much too easily reminding me again why I wanted distance from this man. We exchange stares when he stands on the other side with nothing but the ravine between us. The sun breaks through more clouds and fills the space with warm, yellow rays. Any other crossings should be at least a day away according to the map and by then I will be long gone.

I can’t help but smile. He’s alive. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn't kill him. And now I’m free. I pick up my knife and baseball cap which fell in the mud sometime in the fiasco. My sopping wet mess of hair drapes my shoulders, nearly reaching my waist. I give him a parting bow before turning to go.

Goodbye, masked man. May we never meet again.