12.

Another day dawned under a gloomy gunmetal sky. The rain had transmuted last night’s fire to ash soup while puddles dotted the street. Mist snaked around abandoned buildings in the morning stillness. Even the crows kept silent, hiding from the cold. I longed to hear just one of their sharp cries—anything to break this unsettling stillness that held no peace.

I ate wilted itadori with tepid water, packed my gear, and studied the day’s route. The soldier markers that had guided my path yesterday—some leading to Sawagi, others clustered near its borders—had thinned overnight. I started the bike, grateful for even this slight advantage.

Fog shrouded the road out of town, parting as I drove through and then closing behind me like a curtain. Despite the headlight salvaged from the other TerraCycle, the fog blocked all vision. Only weeds sloshing under tires and wind against my face confirmed movement; otherwise, I might have stood still.

The Otakoga village road, scarred with potholes and fissures, told stories of countless disasters. I steered close to the verge alongside a waterlogged ditch to avoid them. As I moved from the village, buildings gave way to fields, and barn peaks and outbuildings loomed through the mist.

The air warmed, but the gloom lingered, punctuated by thunder and drizzle speckling my goggles. A dense canopy offered shelter from the rain. I sighed with relief.

But here, the road vanished. No path showed through the trees, yet the forest’s rich scent promised hidden food. Hunger lured me into the woods despite my limited foraging skills—mushrooms and toadstools remained mysteries to me.

Purple kudzu flowers carpeted the forest floor and climbed upward, many still unopened like spearheads on slender stems. Vines twined around trees and branches, drooping to form living curtains. Wild honeysuckle blossoms peeked like stars amidst the leaves.

Both plants offered bounty—fortunate finds in the wilderness. Though considered a nuisance weed, kudzu thrived nationwide, resilient against fires, floods, and pesticides.

I dove into the thicket, plucking blooms and snapping tender shoots. “What luck,” I murmured, tasting sweet kudzu blossoms before squeezing honeysuckle nectar into my throat. Until I began gorging myself like a kufugaki in an unguarded maternity ward, I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d become.

But my good fortune was not without remorse. Those poor Otakoga! Had they stuck to sansai, they might still be alive! The soldiers branded them resistors and traitors, but what had they resisted—mandates or Mazawa’s brutishness? The few villagers I’d seen looked half-starved and had no weapons in their homes. How could anyone resist without an arsenal?

Questions multiplied without answers. What threat drove Mazawa, an old, disfigured man, to exterminate entire clans? A nokuru outbreak might explain it, but the villagers showed no illness. Why kill healthy people?

Rather than analyzing a lunatic’s motives, I should have watched my path as I pushed deeper into the kudzu. I registered the drop too late when my foot plunged through the ground cover into empty air. Only a panicked grasp on a vine prevented a plunge off the cliff!

I clung to the vine, unleashing every curse I knew. Nothing teaches awareness like a near-death experience!

Back on solid ground, I dug out several bulging kudzu roots. Fresh food commanded high prices at Sawagi. What I didn’t eat, I could trade.

This time, I hacked through the kudzu with caution. The steep decline while gripping the TerraCycle challenged every step. I slipped on slick mulch. Branches lashed my face and jabbed at my sides as I maneuvered around trees. Dirt infiltrated my leathers while twigs snagged my hair.

Mosquitoes joined the misery, drawn by sweat and blood. Between struggling for balance and preventing the bike from rolling away, I swatted at them like a madwoman.

The descent ended at rocky ledges jutting over a river. Rapids spilled into a natural basin, and the water’s greenish cast suggested depth.

I tugged off my anorak and boots, grateful for a chance to rest. Falls had numbed my backside while my arms threatened to detach from their sockets. Mosquito bites alternated between swelling, bleeding, and maddening itch.

The rain intensified, each drop bursting into frothy bubbles on the river’s surface. Thunder grumbled in the distance, but the storm offered cover for a much-needed swim. My leather field pants needed airing, and the river beckoned.

I draped a poncho-hooch over the TerraCycle’s battery to protect it from water damage. After building a fire beneath the tallest ledge, I stripped and plunged into the river.

The cold punched the breath from my lungs, driving me back to the surface. I clung to the nearest ledge, coughing and spluttering, until the shock dulled into numbness. Once acclimated, I let go, submerged, and scrubbed myself clean. After several dunks, I swam toward the waterfall, rolled into the current, and let the eddy carry me back.

Refreshed—despite chattering teeth and blue fingers—I climbed out to warm myself by the fire. I spread my clothes across nearby rocks to catch the heat. Rain continued to fall beyond the alcove, drumming steady rhythms into the pool’s surface. Steam rose from my skin as I huddled close to the flames.

My stomach growled. Kudzu flowers and honeysuckle nectar might refresh, but they wouldn’t sustain me for what lay ahead. I needed protein. While waiting for my clothes to dry, I split the end of a fallen branch and sharpened it into a spear.

The deep pool offered no easy prey—its fish kept to the green depths. I studied the river’s flow, noting where it narrowed downstream. Shallow runs formed there, the kind that sometimes drew fish into striking distance.

Hours passed. My clothes were still damp. The relentless rain shifted from steady drizzle to full downpour, thunder cracking closer with each passing minute. I had a choice: wait for skies that might never clear or press on. After all, Sawagi wouldn’t come to me.

I pulled on the clammy clothes, grimacing as cold leather gripped my skin. The fire had taken some chill from them, but the damp clung like a second skin. I doused all but a small flame, shielding the ember with heavy stones to keep it alive.

“This will be brief,” I muttered, grabbing the spear and heading downstream.

Half a kilometer on, the river funneled between two jagged outcrops before easing into a quiet pool. Perfect hunting grounds. I crouched on a slick boulder, spear in hand, and watched.

Rain pelted my back, and my poorly dried clothes soaked through again. Hands numb, I waited, unmoving. A flicker of silver below! I lunged—missed. The fish vanished.

Three more strikes. Each one failed. The spear sliced through churning water and struck nothing but rock and silt. The fish were too quick—or my fingers too stiff to guide the shaft true. Cold gnawed up my arms. Rain seeped through the seams of my anorak, trickling down my back in cruel little rivulets. I clenched the spear tighter, ignoring the tremor in my hands. One more try, I thought. If I missed again, I’d head back empty-handed and half-frozen.

On the fourth attempt, the spear struck true. A small trout thrashed beneath the tip, pinned against the riverbed. I yanked it free with a whoop—dinner!

I kept at it until I had two more modest trout. By then, my hands were useless blocks of ice, and my teeth wouldn’t stop rattling.

The trek back to camp took twice as long. Rain had turned the forest floor into a slippery mess, and I fell hard—twice—nearly losing my catch each time. I could’ve collapsed with relief when the ledge finally emerged through the downpour.

The fire had survived, a faint glow beneath its stone shelter. I coaxed it back to life, feeding it from my stash of dry wood until it flared hot enough to drive out the chill lodged in my bones. I stripped off my soaked clothes and hung them nearer to the flames this time, unconcerned about scorching. Warmth mattered more than appearances.

Once dry enough to function, I cleaned the trout and roasted them on skewers over the fire. The smell alone made my mouth water.

They blackened at the edges but cooked through. I didn’t care; I devoured every bite, picking the bones clean and licking my fingers afterward. This was the most satisfying meal I’d had in weeks.

As night fell, I stoked the fire and curled into the most sheltered corner of the alcove. Rain still pounded the river, but I was warm, dry, and—for once—safe. Flames crackled at my side. The river whispered below. No footsteps, no gunfire. Just thunder rolling far off.

Exhaustion hit fast. I drifted off, wrapped in smoke-scented clothes, the day’s strain finally easing. The night passed without dreams. Without incident.