The Empty Mountain

Chapter 1

Sleep beckoned, perhaps even dreams too, as he shuffled towards mortality in the dark. Sick with hunger, almost blind from exhaustion, he kept searching. The whips of a scorned world lashed at him, frozen hail blinding him. Conscience made a coward of him. Death was a footstep away. If he slipped in the snow, he might not get up. The search promised answers, but finding his footing demanded all that he was and was not. Through flurries in the night, a light flickered. This had to be the edge of existence.

Sleep, perchance to dream, yes, the light promised that much. A post-Vicissitudes public house. Caius staggered forward.

The door of the inn swung with effort, and he stumbled into a vast room. It was simply furnished, albeit with a motley collection of items. Worn couches and patched recliner chairs were scattered across the open spaces around a bar in the centre. He pulled his scarf from his face. The stench of stale beer, smoke, and wet wool wafted through the air. A few patrons turned to glance at Caius; he forced a smile. Some returned the gesture.

They were a small community, or at least they resembled one; perhaps they were his chance to matter if they let him in. As the patrons returned their attention to the TV projecting its holographic image onto the wall next to the bar, Caius followed their gaze: The Second American Civil War recorded 27 deaths yesterday, down from 54 on Sunday. Chicago has increased martial law in Illinois and the Midwest. US Secretary of Defense and Unified Combatant Command confirmed their meeting with the President to coordinate responses to anarcho-capitalist rebel groups on the New Eastern Seaboard. Sea level at 29 metres.

A flash on the wall at the end of the room made Caius narrow his eyes. He scanned the far wall. A dozen frames in half a dozen sizes covered most of it.

The bartender, an older man with a weathered face, screwed up his faded brown eyes and leaned across the wooden surface of the bar in front of Caius. "Hey, Van-city!" the man grunted.

"How'd you know?" Caius asked. He didn't think his being a denizen of Vancouver was so obvious, especially in his current state. Six months of trekking through the wild alone had changed him on the inside, if not on the out. He removed his toque, revealing a matted mess of wavy chestnut hair.

"Can tell by the look of ya. Been living in the woods, eh? No Flux though?"

Caius shook his head, certain his expression would give his sadness away. Memories of seeing hundreds die of the Flux virus haunted him. No one expected mass migration to carry a deadly virus. The horrific images of the sick would forever be burned into his mind.

The bartender squinted. "Only two types of people brave the wild: the crazy, and the desperate."

Caius stared at him. "I'm not desperate."

"Oh no? Then what are you?"

Caius inhaled. The lamps hanging above the bar cast a shadow over his face as his expression grew grim. He did not reply.

"Might be a missing person who's just been found," one of the patrons sitting nearby said over his shoulder as he lit a pipe, clearly having eavesdropped. He was barely visible behind the patched velvet wing chair.

"Uh, I'm not..."

"Definitely crazy, then," the patron said.

The bartender grunted in agreement. Caius' shoulders slumped. "Welp," the bartender started, "by all accounts, there's madness in ya, boy." He began wiping the bar down as if to dismiss him. Caius watched, almost hypnotized by the bartender's actions. Even wiping down the bar, that was something, wasn't it? That and serving the patrons, this small community. Even the bartender had a purpose. Caius sighed. Maybe he was mad.