I'm not gonna a conversation. We continue in silence.

A complete hour passes before Clova breaks the silence you allowed to build since your departure from Deadwood.

Though illuminated by sunlight, the forest has no life inside it—just dead pine and branches. You weren’t familiar with the area by any means; as you trailed Clova, you threw all your trust into her.

That’s when she sighed and looked back. “Doing OK?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I trust you.”

She turned away before you could see any facial expressions. “You’re learning fast. Did you know I am the last surviving member of the warp division?”

The icy air warmed as you caught the sarcasm in her monotone voice. You smiled and watched your feet as they stepped into some mud. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, I am not,” Clova says, mimicking a southern slaw. “Ain’t nothing in these here woods that could kill me. No sir. I am as smart as dae’ cum.”

“Haven’t heard you use any accents before. You do that one pretty well.”

“Nah, I just kind of hold my tongue in such a way that the words come out all sweet and southern-like. Mama was from North Carolina. Just think of her when I speak.”

“I hear **** is a nice place.”

“Never been there, and my mother was so nice I’d hate to think anything otherwise,” Clova steps into a puddle and sinks to her ankles. She grunts and gets out of the mud before she continues. “She could sing too, but I never got that good at that part.”

“Well, I’ve been with you for over a week now and haven’t heard you practice. So maybe you just need to try it more often?” You say, more or less secretly asking her to sing.

You see her shake her head; even from behind, you can see her smile, though. The one wasn’t **** or tight. “There are better ways to die, Warren. Less painful ones too.”

“I’m sure you sound just fine,” you clear your throat. “Everything sounds a bit better in the forest anyway. Now might be a good time if the environment allows it.”

“If the environment allows it,” she says. “I’m too embarrassed to sing in front of someone so that you can forget about it.”

There’s a light laugh accompanying her last sentence that you hold onto. “It’s already installed in my mind.”

Both of you travel for another hour. Going through snowmelt and thick slush as you make it toward the circled part of the map. You take a few pauses between your hauling and take some time to eat to maintain your energy. It was dangerous to do anything otherwise.

“Alright, so we’re going to some unfamiliar landscape, Warren.” Clova’s voice is uneasy, but she hides it well.

“What’s the game plan here then?”

“Remember those pre-war shelters I was talking about when we first met? I know there’s one of them around these parts.” She says. “I have no intention of spending the night outside, so let’s focus on that.”

“I’ll see to finding them then.”

Your memory was hazy, and you couldn’t remember the last time you had been inside of the shelters. The ones around the pre-war States New York and Florida, were comfy. Federal underground structures to support officials and staff. Anything this far north was usually independent or something that was meant for less-than official work.

Clova basically became a mountain goat as she scaled the rocky mountainside with feverish intent. You kept up with her, but just barely. Even though you weighed with survival gear and enough ammo for an extended firefight, she jumped, climbed, and pulled herself up whenever she needed. She expected you to do the same.

When you reach the top, you’re out of breath, and your hands are bleeding. Clova regards you with some concern but doesn’t bother you. Instead, she simply tells you to patch yourself and to continue with her. “We’re almost there, don’t get tired now.”

“I could do this already,” you say, clearly not ready to do this all day. “How much further we got to go? Not that I’m concerned about doing this or anything.”

She beams at you with a smile, finding your concern to be quite funny. “Not much further, just beyond this next ridge.”

The “next ridge” was steep, rocky, and rather menacing to look at it. You exhale and nod. “Ah, yes. Easy peasy. Not a problem at all…”

“Don’t fret. The days ahead of us are not going to take all that much effort. I promise…Hah, well, OK, maybe not this much effort.” Clova drinks from her canteen and cranes her neck before she checks her hands for cuts and gashes. But, unlike yours, they aren’t sliced to ribbons. She looks over to watch you wrap your hands and frowns. “You going to be alright?”

“I’ve had worse, don’t worry about it. Just give me a moment to catch my breath here.”

Clova nods and turns her gaze away to where you had started. Beneath you was a steep rock slide, faint streaks of crimson left behind when you started to struggle and slip - patches of snow on the rocks made it difficult to judge how well you would hold on to what you were reaching for. Deadwood was now nowhere to be seen. The forest was too thick to see through. Deadwood was just another name to you, but Clova seemed to be frantically searching for it with her eyes until you were ready to move again.

You discover the landscape to be alarmingly harsh on your body. Clova, with all her experience, begins to struggle towards the end of your mountain climbing trip. Finally, at the top of the ridge is a cave that looks like it runs deep into the earth. Clova sweeps her hair back and then inhales deeply. “Fuck me. That was a lot harder the third time.”

“Third time?”

Clova either decides to ignore you or doesn’t hear you under all her panting. “Last time I was here, I was with the last five other members. That was…about two months ago now.” She looks at you and smiles. “A good change of company this time.”

You look around the cliff and see a few markings. You see some names carved into the stone. “Robert,” “David,” and “Emmalee.” It doesn’t settle with you all that right. You want to ask some questions, but if Clova isn’t bringing up any of the names on her own, you figure it’d be best for you just to keep yourself at wonder.

“Warren,” Clova calls out and tosses you a folding knife. “It’s a tradition you carve your name somewhere up here. Me and five other members of the warp did it, so you should too. Make your membership an official! Don’t be bashful in front of the ghosts.”

“Oh, did your friends…did they die up here?” You ask, looking around for signs of either a firefight or any graves. “I’m not sitting on someone’s grave, right?”

Clova rolls her eyes. “Figure of speech, don’t get all supernatural on me, but…Who knows? Maybe they’re looking down at you and me right now.” Her red eyes look up at the overcast sky, playing the mood.

She takes off her pack and stretches. Her M16 laid against her gear, and she leaned against the rocks, looking at you. Your hands were covered with rags, but they were starting to soak through with your blood. She doesn’t apologize or ask if you’re okay this time; she just lets you recover at your own pace since you’ve reached the cave that supposedly had a shelter of some kind inside of it.

You unfold the knife and carve it in your name. Warren Visser. Clova strolls over and pats your shoulder. “Let’s go inside. The sooner we make sure it’s cleared out, the better.”

When you start going inside, Clova grabs her gear again, and you both enter the cave. You feel a little claustrophobic, but being with someone as level-head as Clova goes a mile to put you at ease. She whistles and strolls down, her M16 hanging from its sling.

At the end of the tunnel, there’s a door, heavy and metal. It’s worn down with age and attempts to break in. All the damage looks old, however, so there’s no sense of immediate danger. Nevertheless, Clova approaches the door and pushes it open. “No lock?” you ask.

“No locks. I don’t think it ever closed properly because it wasn’t locked before.” Clova says.

When stepping inside into the bunker, but it’s pitch black. There’s no echo inside, and it feels like you’re stepping on carpet. You extend a hand out and feels something wooden and solid. You’re about to ask where the lights are, but Clova turns on her lamp and starts lighting candles.

Everything inside is full-sized. Couches, tables, dressers, and a small kitchen with a refrigerator and oven, none of which you think work. To your side is a fireplace, with three chairs, a rug, and a coffee table. Among all the furniture are products of the new age—ammo cans, water jugs, tools, things that are just sprawled out for general use.

The walls are concrete, and the ceiling is tall; none of it is rock at all. It’s a very tidy space to be living in, and there’s no wasted space. You go over to another metal door, but it doesn’t budge when you try to push it open. Clova calls out and tells you it doesn’t open; it is unfortunate because she thinks it was the bathroom.

Clova goes over to the table and unloads her gear there again. Next, you go over to the couch and dump your load there. The weight off your back feels great, but now you realize how hungry you are. Clova’s stomach growls behind you. “I guess we should fuel up.” She comments.

You take off your chest rig and jacket, folding them over each other over the back of the couch. “I can get behind that. What’s on the menu for tonight?”

She knits her brows and shifts her hips. “Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to cook for you. I thought you were some kind of ultra badass contractor, but if you can’t cook…”

“If you can’t cook, I’ll be glad to use what we have on hand.”

“Whoa, I can’t cook? Do you know you have any idea who you are talking to?” Clova fails to contain her smile. “Who’s cooking?”