Young Writers Society

Suddenly found myself creating a writing exercise. The complete lack of dialogue is intentional. Scenes are limited and not expanded upon due to it being an 'account', as well as to both limit scope and lenght. It totals close to 6k words. Thank you for reading, part two is posted simultaniously. And yes, I needed to start the story off 'in medias res', and as such I have worded the opening 'five'. Please tell me how to fix it. ~ birk

An account of Isolation

*

Five

It was past dawn. The sun was rising, yet nowhere near its eventual peak. Winter winds were breathing through the pass, kicking up spirals of freshly fallen snow off the ground. Aside from the wind, only the sound of the running river filled the void. Frozen above, the river was, yet the riverbed flowed beneath it; a crack in the ice revealed as much, lest you didn’t hear it first.

Jim Pierce stood knelt down by this crack, filling up one canteen after the other. Over his back he carried a sack, which were stacked with them; the last one now brimming over in his hand. He was ragged, everything about him was ragged. His clothes, his hair, the way he carried his equipment like he was about to fall over any second. His face might be the only thing that didn’t look worse for wear; semi-regularly he’d found the opportunity to shave his face with a much too used razor, being careful not to cut himself. He was young, barely into his twenties, and this world has wearied him much too much, and much too soon.

In the distance, a shot rang out into the hills and beyond. It was loud, yet far away. Several birds unlatched from branches they perched on and flew skyward. Then all was silent again, save for the river flowing downwards, and the wind. At once, Pierce heard the shot and looked towards its direction, yet he did not get to his feet. Slowly, he took a drink from the canteen, re-latched the cork and strapped it back onto his belt as he got to his feet. He stood there for a moment, on the ice, and it looks as if he doesn’t want to investigate the noise. It’s a very scary noise. One that can mean so many things. It can spell out a whole variety of scenarios. It’s no wonder he’s scared to return.

Nevertheless, Pierce has to go back.

When he does, he stumbles into the camp to find it covered in complete silence and peace. Upon investigation, however, he finds Andrew Wilts stabbed to death inside the cabin, and outside; just beyond the tree-line, Miller lies shot to death on the frozen ground. Nobody else is there. Droplets of blood follow bloody footprints around in haphazard circles, joining an already existing murmur of footprints. At the edge of camp, the footprints, now slightly lessened with blood, trudge off and away, towards the mountain peak, though perhaps more likely the makeshift fort at its feet.

Pierce returns into the shed, tries his best to ignore the grisly gut wounds that has taken Wilts life and proceeds to upend one of the small beds nestled in the corner. Beneath it, he retrieves a sack with very little in it, a small chest which can be easily fit into the sack, a tiny pouch of gun powder, and a rifle which he slings over his shoulder. Getting to his knees, he opens the small chest and sighs when he discovers it to be empty, then he tosses it aside. Out in the cold, the wind is picking up, though he still steps out into the weather that is actively willing him to stay put.

Cold, disoriented, malnourished, on the verge of hysteria and increasing bouts of depersonalization, Jim Pierce doesn’t even think about his options. He doesn’t want to be alone. Thus, he trudges after the bloody footprints in the snow.

One

October had come and gone, and November proved to be a cold one. Captain Lewis Henreid then made the decision to set up an outpost in the nearby mountainous region, keeping track of Apache movements and procuring shelter and hunt for the harsh winter months.

The strictly straightforward mission of keeping track of them had led him and his battalion of men further away from the west, into unorganized territory, and the feeling of having eyes on their back that came and went erratically was indeed a strong additional motivator to hole up in the mountain for the season and construct an outpost, which would later be constructed further, and ultimately be deemed, if not unjustly so, worthy of being named a fort. In due time it would go by the name of ‘Fort Henreid’. Yet the chances of somebody else other than the men in his battalion ever calling it that were to be radically slimmed as the months went by.

With him, he brought thirteen men, not including Aramayo, who they’d picked up as they passed the great river. He was malnourished and dying, yet a knowledgeable physician, so they cared for him. Always keeping watch at night, they ventured forth and slept only for a few hours at night and with little else than the clothes on their backs and pelts they’d skinned for cover in the cold winter nights. Needless to say, when they finally found relative security in the mountain pass to build an outpost, hypothermia had already set in among three of the men; only one of them still shivered, while the two others remained relatively still, heartrate slow, breathing slow, and communicative efforts at a standstill. They showed a general confusion to what was going on around them. Carried by their comrades, they were placed in the middle of their thought settlement, where they placed several fires around them and a makeshift tent. What provisions they had were prepared together for a hot stew, and they ate well that night. This doesn’t hinder the ever reaching grasp of death, however, and two nights later Captain Henreid’s men count only twelve. Eleven, if one discounts Aramayo.

These two days are spent timbering, chopping logs long and straight enough to be used in the construction of the outpost, which Henreid envisions as an eventual fort,and as such he instructs the walls to not be enclosed, but further apart, to allow for post-constructed additions. After a week, his men have raised cabins and a tower within the enclosure, and yet that night they can hear the hollering of the Apache in the distance. Lieutenant Monroe immediately orders any and all fires to be choked, but it matters not. They all know they’ve been spotted. Captain Henreid tries his best to steer the situation into a less bleak outlook, first compassionately, then sternly when it has no effect. It all yields nothing. Henreid has lived through a lot, but now he’s genuinely frightened.

The men all await an attack, and sleep continues to elude them. One morning when the sun is peering down at them from beyond the top of the mountain slope, Branson attempts to jump to his death from atop one of the nearby cliffs. He fails. The men hear his anguished cries from within the now more or less complete fort and they hurry after him. When they return, three men are carrying him, and he has suffered a broken ankle, one popped knee, the other sorely bruised, and a fractured hand. He’s put into a makeshift cell in one of the two sleeping barracks and Aramayo, along with help from Wiggins, care as best they can for him. At least his body, for his mind is withering.

Another week passes, and this attack once thought inevitable, doesn’t come to happen. At the very least not yet. Tensions lessen slightly, and Captain Henreid feels secure enough to order two men to scout the foot of the mountain. They return within the same day and report that to their astonishment, that had not only seen nothing of the Apache nor heard them; they had not seen any sign of life.

Branson is healing wrong. It becomes apparent that he will never be able to walk on his right leg again, due to his ankle being beyond saving without proper tools and care. Moreover, his wounds have become infected and the stiches on his hand won’t hold. He sleeps restlessly, tossing about in his cot. He sleeps most of the time.

For the past two weeks Lieutenant Monroe has taken with him two men at a time, entering further up into the mountains, hunting wildlife. Though he has instructed his men to keep to their crafted bows and crude arrows, they have considerable more luck when aiming deer down with their rifles, though Monroe fears that will scare the scarce population of wildlife that dwells in the mountains. After three weeks however, they need hardly step around five minutes in the snow before coming upon some animal digging through the roots of the trees, the ground, rubbing against the trees, spreading their scents. Never a hunter, Monroe, as well as him most constant companions in these hunts, Miller and Worhelm all feel they’re becoming stable huntsmen. It is at this point that they bring with them supplies and tools on their next run, and towards the top of the mountain, bordering two passes at either side, they set up a small outpost. Monroe hunts alone, while Miller and Worhelm construct the base for a small cabin. The two men await the Lieutenant’s return, yet at nightfall he has still not returned. Fear of the cold and with only the unfinished shelter of the small cabin, the two men solemnly make the decision to trek back down to the fort.

The next day they return to the cabin, hoping to find him having taken shelter there among the unfinished structure. They find nothing. And as they spend the entire day searching for him, they find nothing. The day after that, Captain Henreid sends out Wiggins and Pierce to hunt for wildlife, equipped only with their rifles. Miller spends another day searching for Monroe. Worhelm tries to catch up on sleep. It is hard to do, not only due to the concern for Lieutenant Monroe and the feeling that he was abandoned, but also due to the constant wailing of Branson, who now does not sleep and only screams into the roof of the barracks. Wiggins shoots a large fox, and Pierce stumbles upon the skeleton remains of a long-lost person. Amongst the wrangle of remains he lays his eyes upon a blade with a bone handle. He hands it to Miller when they meet up again. They return to the fort feeling defeated. As they return, they trudge past Aramayo outside, who has just now gotten around to erecting wooden grave markers for the two men who fell to hypothermia. He leaves them unmarked for now.

Two

Then they’re attacked. The sun isn’t up yet, but one can see the crack of dawn beyond the mountainside. Only Wiggins and Wilts are awake to alarm the others, though it all happens too late and too slow. The Apache does not holler their arrival; there is no identifiable glee in their actions, they only do. As if they feel they have to, they now lay siege to the fort, and a hail of arrows rains down on the buildings within. Fortunately everyone save for Wiggins and Wilts are inside, and nobody is harmed. The men are alerted, and they emerge from their sleep to shapes advancing on the fort from down on the slopes. An agile young man has already managed to climb the length of the walls but is cut in the throat by Wilts who grabs him by the head as he appears topside.

Captain Henreid drags men along with him to barricade the gates, while Hawthorne and Pierce climb the railings and begin assaulting their attackers with rifle shots. First shots fired, and two men fall to their deaths, but preparing another round is no easy or quick task, and only four Apache warrior fall before an arrow strikes Hawthorne in the face; it rips into his cheek and the force of it blows him backwards, where he falls down the railing onto the frozen ground below, dead. Pierce finishes loading up a last shot and aims for an archer who in turn is aiming back at him. For reasons unknown to Pierce, the man unslings his bow and just looks at him, and then Pierce takes the shot, yet it only reaches his legs. The archer falls to his stomach and cries in agony. Two more arrows come flying his way, but Pierce narrowly avoids them by hurtling his way backwards, so as he falls down from the railing as well, landing atop Hawthorne’s dead body. He slams his head fiercely, and for several minutes he can’t get up; blood is running down his brow, welling up in his eyes, but in the end he does get up, and he limps towards the other men.

Gate barricaded to the best of their ability, Henreid and the men retreat back up to the two barracks and the tower lodged between them. Up top, on the tower, William Boyd is alternating between two rifles, firing one while Worhelm reloads the other. The Captain yells something up to them, and both men take the opportunity to retreat from the tower; they leave behind a handful of arrows sticking out of the wood, often striking within mere inches from their bodies. Down below, they all watch the walls be scaled by almost a dozen Apaches, screaming at them in dreadful voices that sound more like shrieks. Wilts is still on the railing and he manages to force one of the crawlers down the wall again, before he violently stabs another to death. As he regains his composure from the struggle and is about to get to his feet again, another warrior sprints towards him, hollering death and swinging a small axe his way. Wilts falls backwards, and the swing barely miss him, and as he stares up at the Indian about to execute the finishing blow, he is shot in the back, and from further up the slope, Holloway yells for him to get off the railing. Trembling, he does, and his luck is further enhanced as the man waits for him up the slope, for when he trudges up it, there’s another Apache lunging towards him and Holloway promptly shoots him in the chest. Wilts no longer carries his rifle, and Holloway doesn’t allow himself time to reload one more time; more and more are scaling the walls now, and a then a terrifying noise spreads throughout the fort, deafening the cries and shouts being thrown about. The gate is breaching open, and the left side bursts ajar, hanging low on its hinges which are about to give in, ending in the door falling to the ground.

Captain Henreid doesn’t waste time trying to assess the situation; he immediately shouts the order to retreat up the mountain slope, leaving the fort behind. Aramayo is already hunched down at the back gate, and he struggles to open it. Boyd helps him and the remainder of the men scrambles out the gates and up the slopes with incredible speed. The men gain a sizeable distance on the pursuing Apaches, mostly due to the fact that they ceremoniously gather around the injured Worhelm who has received an arrow in the shin and the dull end of an axe in his side. He’s crawling after his comrades, but they catch up with him and pin him down. The men hear his anguished screams in the distance.

Far up the mountainside, the men stop their flight and sorely need to catch their breaths. Henreid surveys the view below them, and is both surprised and relieved to see that none of the Apaches are pursuing them up the mountainside. Most of his men have managed to hang on to their rifle, though they will be useless without gunpowder. Thankfully Wiggins retrieved a large satchel of gunpowder pouches from one of the barracks before they fled the fort. It will last them a few more rounds.

The Captain looks over his men, and comes to the conclusion that their number has been reduced to nine. Wiggins, Pierce, Wilts, Miller, Gilliam, Boyd, and Holloway. Aramayo is still with them, and Lieutenant Monroe remains missing.

Branson was left behind.