30 March 2081 - Polesia
Another overcast day in the musky marshlands of Pinsk. The gray skies project a dull bloom over the Pripyat River. Trash and strange anomalies like to float on its scummy surface, including a wooden dinghy. It's been drifting down the Pripyat without anyone paddling or steering it whatsoever. As for the supposed captain, he's been lying in a fetal position on the deck for who knows how long, unresponsive.
There's not a hint of alcohol coming off of him, so he wasn't drinking himself to death on this godforsaken voyage, the latter being quite literal as many of the locals in this region are atheists. Not because they're afraid of other deities, such as the Watchers, casting fire and brimstone upon them for worshiping Yahweh or Allah. The world is just in a different place now. Some of the remaining survivors of nuclear Armageddon pray for their saviors to return and save their souls, awaiting Rapture. Others convince them that the Abrahamic religions are dead, that mankind killed them.
The captain awakens from his three day coma with a beating heart. It hasn't beaten this fast since the day he dodged a salvo of throwing spears from the riverbank. He fights against his own body weight as he grips the side of the dinghy and lifts himself up to have a seat. The dinghy rocks side to side from his input. He checks his person for any signs of trauma, assuming there was a scuttle beforehand that rendered him unconscious and meddled with his memory.
His instincts have him look upon his hands first. Slowly, he spans them out, then forms them into weak fists, checking his fingers and knuckles as well. They appear to be fine, disregarding his unkempt fingernails that have a few chips and some dirt underneath.
Now for the head. The captain steadily raises both arms above his sore shoulders and places his hands over his frigid ears. Doing so muffles the dead world surrounding him, the toxic waters of the Pripyat lapping the rotten dinghy, the mutated birds squawking at the foreigner. Running his fingers through his matte hair, he tenses up after feeling an imprint on the right side of his head, just a few inches above the ear.
This can't be.
The captain strokes it again, a faint scar bearing no stitches.
I need to see a doctor.
He paddles frantically ashore and beaches his dinghy into the marshlands, its tall grasses concealing him. He stands up in the rocky dinghy and holds onto its sides for stability while surveying his surroundings. There's barely any land for the captain to walk on since half of the marshlands are flooded. Pine forests hide the horizons in all four cardinal directions. The captain has no idea where he is. He doesn't even know if this river is still the Pripyat or something else.
How far off course am I?
A question only a map of the local area can answer, but as far as the captain knows, he doesn't have one. He begins scouring for his olive green duffel bag which is lodged between the deck and his raised seat. Yanking on the worn nylon straps, the captain dislodges the giant green bean, zips it open, and digs inside for whatever gear he bothered packing with him.
Well, his food reserves are low. He holds up one tin can of baked beans and stows it away as his stomach growls like a stray mongrel. He can't recall how long it's been since he's eaten a decent meal, but just the thought of it is enough for him to salivate. He'll be twisting away at that rusty can opener of his by sundown.
And when I scarf it down tonight, what food will I be left with tomorrow morning? Perhaps a salamander if I'm lucky.
There isn't too much left in the bag for the captain to sift through. One particular item that sticks out to him is a tattered passport. He thumbs through the tiny booklet, its pages plagued by gibberish, then plops it into his satchel. He does a double take and realizes he's been wearing the latter this entire time. The captain figures the satchel holds nothing beneficial to his survival in the marshlands, just papers and pen ink, but he gives it a peek anyway.
Boy, do I enjoy being proven wrong sometimes. He dangles a topographic map sealed in a waterproof case in his left hand, a compass in his offhand. That's one step forward for the captain, but it's not like he can pinpoint his exact location on the map. He'll have to flip back and forth between the map and landmarks, hopefully some small towns if the bombs haven't erased them. Reminds him of his old hometown, its name on the tip of his tongue.
Sighing, the captain picks the only choice he has and follows the Pripyat River downstream to see where it'll take him. More rowing, and his arms are as floppy as wet noodles. He daydreams about slurping up a hot bowl of spaghetti in the midst of paddling mindlessly. There is no end to this river, much like his ravenous hunger. The more he convinces himself that he isn't starving, the more his stomach growls at him angrily.
An empty feeling pervades inside of him as the cold winds seep into his bones. He throws a large, knitted coat over his shivering body and lights a gas lantern by his feet for additional warmth. The cloudy skies above are growing dim. The captain is running out of daylight.
He wraps himself up into a bundle, groaning from the sharp pains in his aching stomach. His fasting routine prevents him from opening the can of food. This isn't the first time he's barred himself from eating or drinking. Ever since the war, the captain has adopted a conservative mindset of treating every ration of food and water as his last crumb or drop of replenishment. Otherwise, his gluttonous, greedy self from the Pre-War days would take over, having him drain water canteens empty and wolf down freeze-dried meals within minutes.
He's been able to last longer in the Wasteland that way, but how much longer? That's the question he keeps asking himself. Day by day, the captain cuts out more and more calories from his unbalanced diet. The rations are only getting smaller from here on out as his stomach shrinks.
Why didn't I come more prepared?! He smacks the back of his own head, worsening the onset of his migraine. Idiot!
He procures a pain relief capsule from his duffel bag to combat both annoyances in his head and stomach. The problem is his mouth is as dry as a bar at midday from severe dehydration. Choking on his own remedy is the last thing he wants to die from in the marshlands. On the other hand, consuming the soupy baked beans could wet his palate and allow him to swallow the capsule with ease. He can also drink the river water as an alternative, but the thought of it makes him nauseous.
Well, I can eat half the tin now to stave off oncoming starvation and save the rest for later. If worse comes to worst, and I finish those beans, I'll have to resort to the local fauna. Lots of big birds in these wetlands. I've wrung plenty of chicken necks before, but these feathered abominations — they're unlike anything I've come across thus far. What else has the background radiation mutated in this decrepit part of the world?
Pfft. The blade of the can opener pierces the top of the container, cutting around its circumference until the lid falls into the pool of white beans. Fortunately for the captain, the only piece of silverware in his duffel bag just so happens to be a dinner spoon, and it's not rusted.
He plunges it into the tin can and scoops up a hefty portion of beans. Mmm. He savors the hearty meal. Eighteen grams of protein should satiate his appetite for a few more hours, buying him some precious time to seek out what little of civilization remains on half an empty stomach.
As dusk settles in, the captain makes out what appears to be a shabby fisherman shack several meters inland and an adjacent dock jutting out of the grassy shoreline. The captain blows out the kerosene lantern to mask his entry and heads for the dock.
It seems unoccupied. Assumptions can get a man killed in the Wasteland. Always assume an abandoned place belongs to someone or something for that matter. The captain finally rows his dinghy up to the dock. He doesn't bother tying the boat down to a strut. Even if he had the time, the energy, and a sturdy rope to do so, the outcome would still be the same.
Among the list of things the captain chose not to bring with him, a gun. Not because he forgot to pack one, but because the laws of his former country opposed citizens owning any sort of firearm in their household, including pneumatic types. However, the captain was not phased at all by his government restricting weapons for home defense during a time of political tension and nuclear proliferation.
A week before the Great War, when his neighbor found out he had a rat infestation, he offered him a pellet gun imported from the United States to exterminate the furry pests from his home. The captain didn't even hesitate to decline his generosity, deeming it immoral to possess contraband.
Looking back at it now, the captain regrets his mistake from the past, for he is stranded in a foreign land where demons of the damned lurk around as they please.
I'd do anything to get my hands on a pellet gun, even though the most damage it could inflict upon a wild dog is break its thick, leathery skin.
Hunched over with clawed hands, he walks on the squeaky wooden boards of the dock. One of them splits in two from his own body weight, and he nearly plummets into the icy cold water of the Pripyat. Thankfully, his reaction time saves him as he naturally lunges over the narrow gap. No fishing rods, lawn chairs, or vodka bottles lying around.
The captain comes up to the door of the shack and almost knocks, but he catches himself. There's no windows or holes for him to peek through and see what can possibly be hiding in there. He has no clue what he's getting himself into, but his everlasting curiosity is eating at him more than the blood-sucking mosquitos.
Narrowing his eyes in anticipation of a surprise, the captain tries opening the door. It's locked. Whoever or whatever is in that shack is now alerted to his presence, though he's already made plenty of noise prior to this. He contemplates barging in, so he fishes for some loose change in his wallet and pulls out a coin.
If it lands on heads, he's going in. If it lands on tails, he's walking away with a pulse.
He flicks the corroded coin into the air, flipping a dozen times before it lands into his hairy palm. Midway, the captain decides to bend the rules to this outdated game of chance.
If I look to see what the coin has landed on right now, I must respect the end result as final and bar myself from flipping it again unless I want karma to come around and bite me in the ass. If I want another shot of luck, I must not check what side the coin is currently on. Instead, I must change my fate blindly.
Holding his breath in, he favors the second choice and slaps the coin onto the back of his free hand. He pries one eye open and sees the late chancellor winking back at him.
Damn you!
The captain rolls up the sleeves of his winter coat, puffs a few times, then kicks the center of the flimsy door a couple times. Third time's a charm. He channels all of his pent-up anger into this next kick. Thud! The shack door violently swings open and smacks the left side wall.
He stumbles backwards and almost falls flat on his ass, but he manages to regain balance. The captain immediately flees from the shack and cowers behind an inoperable light pole, waiting for some pissed fisherman to come charging out. No such thing happens, filling him up with more anxiety.
Once he gathers up the courage to leave the light pole, the captain approaches the shack again carefully. His hand wraps around the busted door frame, putting one shaking foot through the skinny doorway, then the other. He deems the shack somewhat safe to enter.
As he intrudes upon a fisherman's paradise, he browses at the assortment of junk strewn across the floor. Tackle boxes, life preservers, rain jackets, rubber boots, and bait. Growing quite desperate for any foodstuff, the captain plops the big can of worms into his duffel bag. He doubts all of that meat combined will come close to feeding a young adult male.
It's better than nothing, I suppose.
The captain doesn't register the fact that he's potentially stealing from someone or a community. At the end of the day, all he really cares about is his survival. Obviously, he'd be more civilized and goal-oriented if his basic needs were met. It's not like he traveled to the East to wander aimlessly in the wilderness like a savage only to die a horrible, unremarkable death.
In the beginning, he was on an expedition to something grand. He had more drive in him than a fusion-powered Chryslus, hiking across plains, climbing over mountains, and sailing down rivers, but as soon as he went into that fog on the Pripyat, his whole world turned completely upside down. The umbilical cord to his homeland was snipped, feeling estranged to his people as he entered an alternate reality; one without community, without culture, without purpose.
Alone, the captain psyches himself into pushing forward, regardless of wherever his natural instincts take him. North? South? East? West? The captain doesn't care what direction he's going in anymore. What matters to him the most is staying alive, but deep down, he obsesses over who or what gave him the scar on his head, an angel's signature. The stitch-work comes from a highly trained professional, but the origin of the laceration he suffered beforehand is unknown.
And this supposed miracle worker left me for dead on the Pripyat after patching up my wound.
It's nighttime, too dangerous for the captain to be wandering about. In the meantime, this fisherman shack will provide him with a leaky tin roof over his head while he sleeps. The ground is hard and cold, the night critters of the marshlands are causing a ruckus, and yet, the captain is able to ignore his circumstances and rest effortlessly.
Tomorrow morning, he plans on ditching this rickety shelter as soon as possible, assuming he wakes back up. He doesn't know who will show up first at sunrise, the shack's keepers, or that mysterious witch doctor who sewed him up. His eyes give in and shut themselves up as his preoccupied mind limbos between the inhospitable shack and the dreamworld.
A flashing image breaks up his nonsensical dreams for a moment. He curls up in the corner of the shack in absolute terror as an obscure, metal sphere levitates in the middle of the doorway, staring at him with its beady yellow dot. The captain jolts up from his nightmare and lets out a blood-curdling scream, silencing the nocturnal creatures of the Pinsk marshlands. He stays up for the rest of the cursed night paranoid, never going back to sleep again. Not after that unsolicited visit.