((fiction.))

I'm trudging through roughly six inches of snow now, and it's night time and I'm tired. The backpack has worn through both of my shoulders. Not sure why I'm still carrying it. My right leg is officially useless, and my left is more than tested as it more or less works alone to pull my body. It's been three days of walking, and I can't stop, not now.

Stopping equals collapsing equals sleeping equals freezing equals death. And death seems like an anti-climactic ending for this story.

I try distracting myself. I replay the situation in my head, trying to work it into some sort of story to tell my eventual children. Hey kids, did I ever tell you about the time I trudged for four days through the Alaskan wilderness with no sleep and a bullet in my right leg? That's why I don't walk anymore.

No. That's terrible. Football injury. I'm not telling mine or anyone else's kids about this, not any of it. Probably no one else. Maybe the doctor, if... no when he tries to save my leg.

I really need to think about something else.

Maybe I can work at the bar again when I get home. I liked the bar. I did great things there, and people liked me. They told me. Jeff, I like you. You've got a good face. I do have a good face. In another life, I think this face could make me a lot of money. Maybe I should grow a mustache when I get home. It's coming in pretty strong now. The rest of the beard, not so much.

I think I'm walking in circles.

Maybe I'll never get home. Maybe I'll die right here and no one will ever find me. I guess that would be okay. Probably I'd deserve it. Maybe one day a million years from now they'd find me frozen here with this bullet in my leg. The contents of this backpack would be studied for years. The scientists will probably ascribe some strange meaning to all the items, but they'd of course be wrong. I'm the only person still alive that could possibly make sense out of all of this.

I wonder what scientists would call me? I remember reading a National Geographic as a child where scientists found an Ice man from prehistoric days. Like a caveman or something. Oh, what did they call him? Adam? They'll probably call me Adam, like the Bible. I wonder if they'll have the Bible? What if they base all of their knowledge of past civilizations on what they find on me? What if everything they think is wrong? Oh no. What if everything we think is wrong?

I'm now walking into a town, but I can feel someone at my back. I've got to go somewhere; got to hide. Got to focus. Maybe in this gas station. I'm going to hide back here and maybe the feeling is going to pass. I'm looking at the magazine selection, trying to look inconspicuous, but it's not working out too well. Buildings are out.

I am just going to run until something stops me.

I am still running. Forever has passed and still, the running. The burning is gone and now I feel nothing. Just pushing forward. But still it follows me. I can't escape. I am running through a forest now and there is no snow, and I am running faster than ever. Almost I am flying but still it is at my back whatever it is and I am scared oh no what is going to happen?

I am not regular cold anymore, not physically. My soul is cold and I am runningflying and still looking for an escape. I see a large tree up ahead and I decide that I am going to hide there. I approach and behind the tree there is