The Embattled Apache Wells (Part 1)

[Deatu]

"The Green Mist burnt my eyes. I mean it REALLY burnt the eyes, worse than sweat, worse than any sand... What was it? The smell was horrendous too, like Sulphur…. At least the higher I go up the Sierra Nevada's, the less noxious it becomes. My only hope is that my family survived... my god, my head feels like I sustained a concussion," Koal's internal thoughts were all he had left to keep him sane and feeling human as he wandered down the riverbed of the muddy waters of Glenbrook Creek, disoriented, confused and fatigued. In a state of shock, he staggered down the mountain side. Once familiar area fly-fished by Koal, he found the mist-shroud peaks confusing and foreign. A sense of relief overcame him as the mist cleared and the green haze parted miles to the horizon, revealing the blue expanse of Tahoe Lake. Again Koal thought to himself, “It’s so far… but I have no other choice but to drive on.”

In another past, this place was known as Deadman Point, but the current state of apocalypse and Koal’s mental aptitude to understand and humanize the events that were utterly impossible previously to comprehend created shock and stupor. The world had been turned upside down and Koal found himself solely focused on the dichotomy of what he witnessed with the Mist versus his eyes which were locked on the placid, deep blue water that greeted the boulder-ridden beach. Stumbling to the last boulder above water, Koal collapsed to his stomach and stuck his face into the ice-cold lake. Nearly drowning himself to get a drink of the crisp, cool water, he shot up, gasping for air and coughing, “Ah! Oh damn!” As the sweat and water ran from his eyes, his vision slowly regained focus. Standing on the rocks above him, was a silhouette of a much smaller person than his six foot, five inch, two hundred and thirty-five pound frame. A smirking, coy silhouette.

“The names Wyldstorm. Are you friendly?” the figure asked. Koal grabbed the front of his untucked flannel shirt and wiped the water from his face before responding, “You aren’t going to kill me?” The figure was in plain view now. Koal could clearly see a small brunette, perhaps five feet total, but she stood with a wide stance, had very clear tone to her shoulders and short but muscular legs. He wondered if perhaps she had been a gymnast in her past… “FWAP!” A shovel smacked Koal across his jaw, the sheer shock of the force immediately overwhelmed his senses as his vision blurred and reverted to black.

“Wakey, wakey” the voice stated, as a stick poked into Koals kidneys, “Wake up!” Suddenly aware of the reality of the voice, Koal jolted awake. His surroundings were unfamiliar, it was dark. The only views that were not black, was the glow of the fire he sat in front of, the crackling and sparks flying effortlessly into the cold night. Occasionally the glare highlighted black granite walls. Seemingly out of the darkness emerged Wyldstorm again, this time with a water skin and food she had on a skewer. “Here, eat this liver and onions, drink when you can,” she demanded. “Why did you whack me with your shovel?!?” Koal asked. “Because I didn’t want to take the risk, you can’t trust people these days, now eat,” Wyldstorms voice became more sincere than demanding. Koal asked again, “So, you never answered my question. Are you friendly or not?” Wyldstorm laughed and said, “Do you want me to whack you again or did the first shovel answer your question?” Koal laughed, but it hurt. Everywhere. “The names Koal, pleasure to meet you. Where am I?” “Apache Wells, though I thought at some point this place had some religious context. Some abbey or something? All I know is this place has hot fresh water.” Wyldstorm responded. Koal laughed again, and again was greeted with the same pain as a few moments before.

As Wyldstorm and Koal’s chance greeting continued through to dawn, it was apparent where they were. As dawn broke, the towering, ruined mass of stone that hundreds of Apache had chipped to create the old, unfinished monastery stood above rocky beach like a sentinal. The old wharf district on the water was nothing but rotting pylons and stone foundations. The river district to the north was not much better, only the stone streets and floors remained. The old Apache steam-vent which was coveted by the medicine men, and was piped over from the Friars to collect steam for a stove remained.

For five years Wyldstorm and Koal, with the help of twenty other survivors, improved the tribal lands and each year brought new travelers, and new foes. Each year Apache Wells improved the surrounding areas, beyond the efforts of the old monks even. Though restoration efforts were underway on the districts surrounding ‘The Abbey’ as they referred to it, the districts remained unfinished before the sixth year. That particular year Koal had broken his ankle from a fall between the boulders at the beach while fishing and had to remain on tribal ground while the annual hunting party was guided by Wyldstrom, who preferred the comforts of the surrounding tribal land over the pursuit of Shadow Bear at the reaches of the green mist to the east. As the hunting party sharpened their picks and axes around the fire, Wyldstrom honed the edge on her shovel. Koal limped down from his hammock to wish everyone a good hunt that day, as was customary.

“I wish you all well, with full meat baskets and fur pelts on return!” Koal proclaimed to the hunting party. The tribemates cheered and drank to their health, while Wyldstorm smirked and nodded in approval. “We will return in a fortnight, if we aren’t back by dusk, check up to the saddles. If we are gone longer than that, begin to worry.” Wyldstorm stated bluntly. Koal laughed and responded, “Well we have never been late to the return home. Let’s pray that the hunt on the Washo grounds are fruitful and you return before that…” Wyldstorm turned to Koal and said, “By the way, did I ever mention to you that I have Washo blood in my veins?” Koal, looking surprised responded, “I did not! What are the odds you would be leading our tribe to a hunt in your old grounds. I’m sure your ancestors would be proud of you.” Koal patted his hand on Wyld’s shoulder in fellowship, “All right then, best of luck in the hunt!”

All but Koal left with a quick step outside the gates. It had been part of their custom to hunt each year. As part of that dependence on one another for survival, the forge the hunt provided galvanized their tribe. It pained Koal to see everyone so excited to partake but himself. It was wildly addicting to hunt Shadow Bear, though inherently very dangerous, it wasn’t new to the hunting party. Koal limped back to the log pile, tossed a small aspen log into the fire for the light before retiring back to the hammock to elevate his swollen ankle. As the gentle evening breeze swayed his net hammock back and forth, the crickets serenaded him to sleep.

Each week that passed by, Koal marked on his stick. Each week he slowly worked his way up the Abby’s stairs to check the saddles and old roads. Each week the hunting party did not return. “How many weeks has this been? It must be over forty days…” Koal thought. He counted the stick again, “Crap… damn…” Forty-eight notches in the stick, forty-eight days. Gathering his pack, armor and axes, Koal locked the gate to Apache Wells before checking his pockets for flint, steel, and provisions. “Ok, let’s hope they are so overladen with bear that they are just slow to return.” Koal thought. It took him the remainder of the evening to crest the saddle before posting up on a rock at the top to sleep the remaining four hours before dawn. “Still no sign of them, but the creek beds on the other side of the mountains were always more productive, I will head down there next I suppose, though the terrain still pains my ankle. If I just take it easy everything should be ok.” Koal began thinking as he woke up. The morning was spent carefully navigating the previous year’s hunting grounds, working diligently to avoid rousing any wildlife or mutants. Being in a hunting party versus solo was unnerving to him.

For three days he descended to the edges of the mist, and still saw no sign of the hunting party. The only sign was at the very edge of the mist was a weeks old fire-ring that held no warmth. Disheartened, Koal began to consider that perhaps the party had decided to hunt further to the north to avoid impacting last year’s hunting grounds. Retracing his steps, he began to work his way back to Apache Wells, half expecting to run across the party on the way home, or even more of a relief by having them greet him at the gates, knowing the plan he and Wyld worked out.

“So, here we go. No sign of fires, but it is late morning. Though with the coolness of fall approaching, you’d think I would see smoke or smell cooking food or hear some activity.” Koal thought as he approached the Apache Wells gatehouse. “Hello!?! Anyone!!?!” Nothing… Koal heard nothing. Panicked, Koal limped back to the tribe, he canvased the districts, he went to the Abbey, no signs of any life whatsoever. He went back to the waterfront and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Apache! Ayie! Ayie!” their war-song. No response. Koal felt his eyes swell with hopelessness. Distraught, he tried to remain calm and struck a new fire at their central fire ring. As the flint sparked against the steel of his blade, the shavings began to ignite before the cold lake-front wind blew out the spark. “Damnit, come on!” he cursed. Another strike, this time it was a success. The small flames wicked the tinder and the fire began to come to its own life. As the wind picked up from the water, Koals eyes began to well with tears. It had been years since he felt so alone. Once again, everything Koal had, had been stripped of him, and again he was left isolated, mourning, and afraid. He was once again… alone.

As Koal huddled near the fire, the distant call of a Red-Tailed Hawk screeched in the distance, its piercing cry echoing between the six waterfalls and rivers while the waves lapped the shoreline.