The Melting Man
The last day of tracks were a decoy.
Following them, I noticed a different pattern, a more coherent travel: they
walked uniformly, thirty -eight feet showing focus – no deviation, no unnecessary stops,
no stops period. Not even a full day had passed since nineteen people walked more
than 18 hours without a rest or bathroom break, no charcoal pit to roast meat, nothing.
As I did when following tracks, I moved at a half -sprint, my body partially crouched – a
sacrifice I didn’t like to make: consistent speed for slight visibility.
My bare feet scarcely touched the ground.
Water was my only meal during the day, a low fire at dusk to cook fish from the
river. Boar were loud and I only killed them when one would begin to track me, as they
sometimes did when I was in their territory – a large amount of their meat and
usefulness would go to waste, though; I had neither the time nor tools to bring any of it
with me. I traveled light: a sack for water at my side; a tiny backpack with a pipe, the
Hacker compound, some necessities, and even two booby-traps; an old, brown handled