Imagine you wake up someday to find yourself naked in the woods. There is nobody near you. There are no roads or paths. You could walk for one thousand miles and you wouldn’t run into a single other person. You are alone, as if somebody dropped you onto an alien planet in another universe.
You are overwhelmed at first. Just looking around seems to take an incredible effort, as if you are learning to do it for the first time. The world itself seems abstract, like modern art, but the geometric shapes begin to register as familiar forms. You are standing on grass! That tall form is a tree. That’s a hill, a flat cliff face, rising up in the distance. A rustle behind you reaches your ear, and you twist to meet it. Why, if it isn’t a little block pig! The farm animal seems somehow stupid, it’s dim eyes staring nowhere in particular. It stumbles through the undergrowth with its head down. It roots its snout around the in dirt, churning up sod as it goes. The pig seems completely oblivious to your presence.
You take a furtive first step. The grass feels wet on your feet, but not cold. You take another step. The pig turns its head to observe you, then walks off dully. You have no time to feel offended by the animal’s utter indifference–there is so much to see! A bird chirps unseen in a treetop and is answered somewhere behind you. You begin strolling through the wood, which is more like an orchard in its flat, grassy neatness. The trees are spaced before you like knotted pillars. Sunbeams and dew cause patches of tall grass to sparkle as you move through them. The blades tickle as they brush past your thighs. You breath in deep and take down a heady gulp of air.
You move like the pig, head down. You don’t see any bugs, or pinecones, or anything you might not want to step on. You spend so much time watching your steps that you nearly bump into a beautiful white birch. You place your palm against the papery bark and it feels cool. You peel a piece of the bark off absentmindedly with your fingers while you peer past the tree toward a vista of wildflowers. The treeline broke sharply into meadow as far as your eyes could see.
You’ve never seen so many wild animals in your life. A couple more fat pigs stroll out from underneath a low tree to your right and begin to sniff through the tall meadow grass. A line of chickens clucked, some of them fuzzy and yellow and fighting to be first in the cluster. A huffing thrum causes you to spin to your left–it’s a dairy cow, spots and all. The cow is massive. It hefts its big head and moos at you, a sound that rings in your ears as well as your feet. He is ultimately nice, however, and dips his head back into a tuft of grass. You wave your hand at him and say, “Hi!”
You spend the morning wandering under the warm sun. You pass many little clusters of chickens that that stumble around you and peck at your toes. You try to pick one up, but it cries out and the poultry scatters. You pass a rut in the ground leading into a shaft of darkness, like a wound in the ground. You climb a hill and stop to survey the landscape. Behind you, the woods stretch like a bulge tapering off by more rolling meadow. Before you, a thin river like an oxbow swings through the plain and recedes into another forest. You feel hot now, and the sun is beating brightly upon your head. Noon already? You feel your belly and suddenly think of breakfast.
Yeah, food. That thought really kills your mood. It occurs to you all at once that you are naked and alone and going to starve. You stumble down the other side of the hill, clumsily dragging your legs through some twiggy brush, and eventually settle into the shade of the forest. You dip your toes into the stream and think. There might be something to eat. There might be fish. You peer into the stream. The center gets pretty deep, pebbled at the bottom with little weeds, but you don’t see any fish. You don’t have a hook or anything anyway. What else?
There were all those convenient farm animals. You could eat those. The thought of having to kill one of those sweet little animals isn’t your favorite plan, but it seems plausible enough. Perhaps there are some berries instead.
It was a hot afternoon, though, so you bathe a while in the stream. You have never been this comfortable naked before. In fact, you aren’t sure you have ever been naked outside, not even as a baby. You can’t really even remember if you ever were a baby. You feel vague and seat yourself on a submerged stone, lost in thought. Precious time slips away like the flowing water. A tiny minnow nibbles imperceptibly at your big toe, like little kisses.
A part of you thinks this is all just a dream. A wonderful, terrifying dream. Your instincts tell you, however, that you need to do something. So you stand and follow the river deeper into the forest. This walk is less pleasant on the feet; fallen sticks and a mat of old leaves make up the carpet of this wood. You mindlessly pick up one of the branches and pretend to use it as a walking stick. You have to watch where you step. Tiny white flowers with prickly stems peak out of the leaf litter to grasp at stray sunbeams. The forest starts to slope downward. Gradually at first, but soon boulders and steep inclines dropped into cliff drops. The stream of water became played fingers bubbling over rocks. It was darker down there for sure. Black pine trees with jagged, twisted bark stand like sentinels over the gloomy floor. You stop yourself from climbing downward any further. Uncanny prudence strikes you–if you climb down there, it might be very difficult to climb back at.
Besides, you are getting tired. You turn to head back and start tromping backward through the woods. At least, you think you are heading backwards. Doubt creeps like the shadows slowly devouring the remaining sunbeams. What time is it? You turn around frantically. You don’t recognize anything about this place. The stream isn’t to your side anymore, and you can’t see the meadow through the trees. It’s just more trunks. You head backward to look for the water. You find a steep part of the slope. Panting now, you prepare to trudge back up again when wisdom tells you to follow the boulders until you find the river again.
You hear it before you see it. You’d run if you weren’t scared of stabbing your foot on a twig. You come upon the little dell where the stream bubbles across gravel and drink long. Normally you wouldn’t just drink right out of the ground, but the water is so cold and fresh. You follow the water backward this time, eventually returning to the original stream. You retrace its course, but the return trip up the subtle but ever sloping incline of the forest is more taxing than the stroll down it. You occupy your mind by looking at the mossy green roots twisting from the bank into the water. Little clouds of flies cluster about in patches, but they don’t bother you. The forest floor becomes darker as the afternoon creeps ever onward toward dusk.
You are mad at yourself. There weren’t any berries or roots or mushrooms that you could eat. You wouldn’t even know how to identify them if you did stumble across any. After some time, you break out of the woods to your familiar meadow. No animals bustling about anymore, and the old lookout hill obscures your view of the whole plain. You are too tired to climb it again, however, and decide to settle down. Looks like you’ll be spending the evening here. Maybe you should make a camp? You look down at the branch in your hand. You don’t know the first thing about camping. Usually somebody else lights a fire with a lighter and some pine needles.
A clump of dry leaves and a few sticks leaned up against one another make up your campfire. This configuration would work great if you had any fire to begin with. You don’t have a single ember. How do they do it on TV? Rub sticks together? You do exactly that, awkwardly at first but you get into a good motion after a few tries. You go at it until your arms are tired. You touch the scarred place where the branches rubbed and it feels very warm. No smoke though. No embers. You do it again, harder and faster this time. It’s hot, but how long are you supposed to do it for? You try again, but your arms are too sore to continue the motion. Nothing. While you were working, the sun began to set. You throw your rubbing sticks away and trudge back into the meadow. The tall grass that used to feel good on your legs is now a hampering annoyance. You walk back up the hill and sit yourself down in the grasses to watch the sunset. The sun seemed to glow massive and orange, tinting stray clouds pink and sweet yellow. From here, you see some clusters of pigs and even a sheep laying down in the open field below. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch something else.
A dark, stalking form trudges out of the forest below. It’s unmistakably a man, but you don’t call out. Your hair stands on end. The figure is slumped, limping almost, and its skin is sickly, bloated. It slumps toward the resting animals. They regard it with their eyes but don’t make any reaction. Did the man moan? It eventually reaches the pair of lounging pigs and falls upon the closest one, grabbing its back haunches and biting into its side. The animal screams and began to flail. The other pig darts away and the sheep struggles to its feet, trips, and then books it. You watch in disgust and amazement as the zombie holds the floundering pig in place with its body while tearing reams of skin off the screeching pig with its teeth. It eventually kicks out from under the zombie and attempts a wobbling escape. It was too dark now to see any blood on the grass. The zombie half crawls, half runs as it pursues. You don’t wait to see if it catches the bloody pig–you run down the hill the other way and scramble into another bulge of forest.
You attempt to shimmy up a tree. The tough oak scales scrape your legs. A creaking sound and a snapping branch cause you to turn around. A pale figure is weaving its way toward you. Black sockets for eyes. You run, but something whistles behind you and catches your leg. You fall, bleeding. You cover your ears and bury your face is the grass, praying for the nightmare to end. You feel a thud hit your neck and everything goes black and quiet. You hear a knocking sound in your head.
You wake up naked on a beach. You smell salt, and a cool tide of foam and seawater laps at your ankles.
