Sep 7th, 2026
For Brenda, the device that had once connected her to the world through calls to her parents had transformed into little more than a relic of its former self. Its inability to perform even the simplest functions—a calendar, a clock, a map, and a compass—mirrored her navigating the breakdown of civilization. Despite the crumbling infrastructure, a charge from the night before had grudgingly resurrected the device to a partial state of usefulness. It couldn't offer her a signal or her location, but it had granted her the small comfort of knowing the date once again.
What would have been a brief three-day hike before the collapse morphed into an exhaustive six-month odyssey. Brenda had become a ghost of herself, wandering aimlessly, skirting cities, and avoiding any semblance of human interaction. She sustained herself by foraging, occasionally rummaging through desolate houses, and battling relentlessly against nature's barriers, including thickets and cliffs that often forced her into dangerous detours.
Her trips through rough terrain, swamps, and dense foliage often reduced some days' advances to a handful of meters. And on bad days, she got turned around, only to discover eventually that she had lost ground. Progress was maddeningly slow, but safety came first.
Her journey led her around the perimeter of Lake Constance to Stockach, enduring nights where the air was split by the sound of gunfire aimed at her. Opting for the western coast's length over a potentially shorter route along the eastern edge, Brenda's decision was driven by more than just geography; it was about facing fewer unknowns, staying within Germany's boundaries—an irrational but comforting choice.
As the Alps began to assert their towering presence closer to the roads below, their majesty clashed with Brenda's resolve. The daunting peaks, silent yet overwhelming, pushed her gradually back onto the very roads she had previously avoided. The act of walking on paved roads, once a last resort, had become a calculated risk she was willing to take.
Navigating a railroad track that twisted and turned yet consistently paralleled the B309, Brenda knew she was drawing closer to the Austrian border. The proximity of the road and the train tracks, running side by side, heralded the nearing of a threshold, both literal and metaphorical.
It wasn't just the physical exhaustion that weighed heavily on Brenda; her soul, too, was ensnared in profound weariness. Yet, even in the depths of despair, a spark remained—a resilient spirit propelled by the faint glimmers of hope and the distant promise of reaching a new dawn. It was this indomitable will that helped Brenda put one foot in front of the other, navigating the fractured remnants of a world she once knew, driven by the unwavering pursuit of something just beyond the horizon.
Around noon, she could see the border sign on the highway just a few meters away, but on the train track, only a painted crosstie marked the border. The track quickly shifted, moving a few dozen meters away from the road, separated by a thin yet dense row of trees. She hadn’t gone far when two large men emerged onto the tracks. Her trek had honed her situational awareness to a fine edge. Without turning, she sensed another man standing behind her. They carried rifles, but the casual way they slung them over their shoulders indicated there were likely others hidden among the trees, rifles trained on her.
Cursing herself for choosing the path of least resistance, she halted, let her walking stick drop, and raised her hands. She aimed to appear cooperative yet unappealing, an endeavor aided by over a month without a real shower or change of clothes.
“What is your purpose in Austria?” asked the slightly shorter and less muscular of the two men. His voice, surprisingly gentle yet cautious, betrayed a hint of curiosity.
“I’m trying to get home to Mittenwald,” she replied, her tone gentle, though her face remained devoid of any smile.
“Sorry, but Austria’s closed,” he responded, his voice still gentle, but she began to sense the underlying menace.
“Franz, give the lass a break. The German border is only 80km from here. I’ll give her a ride and be back well before dusk. Look at her; clean her up, feed her. I’m sure she has something to trade.”
And there it was, laid out plainly: offer herself up to a man—or possibly several—in exchange for a hot meal, hot water, maybe even clean clothes. Then she could ride to Rauchwald, crossing back into Germany, merely 70km from home. There was every chance she’d encounter people who knew her along the way.
However, something about their offer felt rehearsed, as if they’d pulled this stunt numerous times before. Or perhaps they were lying, planning either to turn her away or worse once she serviced them. But realistically, what choice did she have? She could comply willingly, hoping they’d honor their word, or refuse them, risking forced compliance.
They led her through the tiny, densely packed forest that served as a barrier, one man always positioned behind her, toward the border station. All the while, she racked her brain for anything else she might trade, weighing her limited options.
A staggered array of LED light bulbs lined the overhang of the front porch. "You have power!" she exclaimed, realizing that what they had offered implied that. At least this part was true.
"There was a decree that all government buildings be solar-powered by 2030. The Collapse put a stop to all that, but the border stations had been completed in 2025," the one always just out of sight explained.
"You think she cares about all that, Johann?" Franz chided.
"Belle, get out here!" the third man shouted toward the station.
Belle appeared to be around 13, shorter than Brenda, and possessed a charm that hinted at future allure. She wore beige lederhosen under a short, dark pink pleated skirt. Her black suspenders merged into a dark gray long-sleeve pullover. Oversized climbing boots with cleats clanked with each step.
"Belle here will show you where the shower is, help you with your laundry, and make sure you get a meal. That's Austrian hospitality for you. Once you're not starving and feeling human again, we'll decide if you have something worth our while to help you on your way or if we'll be sending you back," Johann said, his tone suggesting he enjoyed hearing his voice. Or perhaps it indicated that he was the one who could be trusted to know his lines.
Belle, though silent and uninquiring, smiled and twirled her brown hair as she led Brenda into the building. They passed through two wood-paneled rooms, one for the public, and then through swinging half doors to a smaller clerical room with a door that led into a cinderblock corridor, ending in a communal shower room designed for four. Brenda was hesitant to shed the scant protection her clothes offered. Logically, if they had wanted to rob her, they could have done so back at the tracks. And if their intentions were worse, her clothes wouldn't offer much defense. The sight of steam, however, pushed all other concerns from her mind, and she stripped.
The water was hot and heavy, a soothing respite from months of grime and residue that clung to her skin and hair. With plentiful supplies of soap and shampoo at her fingertips, she indulged in the simple pleasure of washing away the dirt of her past. For a moment, she forgot the worries of the events that lay ahead and allowed herself to revel in the sensation of warm water pounding on her head.
Eventually, she had to admit to herself that she was clean and simply being indulgent. As she emerged from the shower, her clothes were nowhere to be seen, but Belle stood there, holding out a large, sage terrycloth robe—most likely from one of the men. Gratefully accepting the garment, she followed Belle out of the shower area, holding the trailing material off the wet floor until they were on dry tiling again.
"Where are my clothes?" Brenda asked.
In a soft whisper, Belle replied, "Your clothes are in the washer, almost ready for the dryer."
"And my possessions?" Brenda inquired.
"The boys are looking them over," Belle responded casually, leading Brenda out the back door and into a small garden before guiding her towards another building, more homely in appearance. Brenda's emotions flickered between frustration at her belongings being rummaged through and a glimmer of hope that they might find something valuable to trade. She attempted to stay optimistic, but not excessively so.
As they entered a kitchen-dining room combo with yellow wallpaper featuring a chicken farm motif, she noticed someone had kept it clean. The three men had her possessions unpacked and spread out across the central table.
"Well, look at you, missy. You appear 20kg lighter. Bright and shiny," Franz said. "Lars, pull out a chair for the lady."
"Can I have the knife? It comforts me. It isn't part of the negotiation. We've gone through too much together for me to part with it."
Franz picked up the knife and handed it to her slowly, hilt first. Brenda took it, unnerved by the ease with which they gave it up. Even if they meant no ill intent, they should have been wary of her mental state. Clearly, they had the situation completely under control. She needed to know more.
"Thank you."
"Feel more comfortable now?"
Johann lifted the lid of a large cast-iron pot on the wood stove. The smell of tomatoes and beef filled the room. Her stomach growled.
"Someone sounds hungry. It looks done. Mutton stew okay with you? Bread's fresh today, dark rye."
"To be honest, I was half expecting something like squirrel scampi," she smiled and then clamped that down, not wanting to appear attractive.
"Give her a big bowl, Johann. I'll finish whatever she can't."
Johann ladled the stew into a red ceramic bowl and placed it in front of her. "Eat slowly, enjoy, and don't make yourself sick. And when your clothes are dry, we will discuss your stuff."
She lifted the tablespoon and dug in. Cooked vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and potatoes—in a heavy marinara sauce with mutton cooked long and slow melted in her mouth. Someone here knew how to cook. She dipped the crusted rye into the sauce in an attempt to slow herself down. Delicious.
The savory flavor of the mutton stew combined with the tenderly cooked vegetables made Brenda's taste buds sing. She savored each bite, allowing the food to melt in her mouth before swallowing. It had been a long time since she had tasted food this good, and she appreciated the efforts of whoever had prepared it.
As she ate, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness for what she had lost. The world she once knew was gone, replaced by a harsh reality of constant struggle and peril. But for a brief moment, she could forget about her troubles and simply enjoy a good meal. In a world stripped of so many comforts and luxuries, moments like these felt like small miracles.
As she finished her bowl, Johann refilled it, offering her a second helping. She accepted, realizing that she was hungrier than she had thought. It had been a long and grueling journey.
In the warm kitchen surrounded by unfamiliar faces, Brenda couldn't help but contemplate the uncertain future that lay ahead. But for now, she was grateful for the hospitality of the people she had encountered. As she ate, she hoped that this moment of respite would serve as a source of strength and determination for the difficult journey that still lay ahead.
"You gave her a second bowl?" remarked Franz, returning from the bathroom. "Idiot, now we'll have to carry her."
"She was hungry, and she seems crafty. I didn't want to take any chances," Johann shot back with a defensive tone.
The conversation was crucial, yet Brenda found it oddly hard to follow, despite the growing sense in her mind that it was critical for her to do so. The wave of sudden, overwhelming fatigue puzzled her; she had gone much longer without sleep on numerous occasions. Was it possibly the hot shower that had relaxed her muscles to the point of weakness? Damn it, why was it so hard to think clearly? Without warning, her body gave in to the exhaustion, and she slumped from her chair. Lars caught her in time, gently placing her on the ruddy, spiral-woven throw rug that adorned the kitchen floor.
As Brenda's consciousness started to fade, the dining area, with its intimate setting and the array of her possessions laid out on the table, seemed to drift away. The hens on the wallpaper tried to tell her something she could not grasp. The sense of safety she had momentarily felt was now being swiftly replaced by the stark realization of her vulnerability. The juxtaposition of the cozy environment against the backdrop of her dire situation highlighted the precariousness of her position in a world that had shown time and again to be unforgiving and brutal.
In her last moments of awareness, Brenda couldn't help but regret her earlier indulgence, realizing too late that it might have led her into a trap she had not seen coming. The kindness she had briefly basked in now seemed like the prelude to consequences she had yet to fully grasp. As darkness enveloped her, the foreboding feeling that the road ahead was about to become even more challenging loomed large in her mind, casting a shadow over the brief respite she had enjoyed.
She couldn't open her eyes nor process the sounds she heard in murky swirls. But she felt many hands lift her up, wrap her in a kind of sheet, and tie her up like a parcel. Then she was roughly thrown over someone's shoulder and felt the breezy air of outside again.
She lost consciousness for a while. Some serious jostling later returned her senses. Her head was clearer, and she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Her bindings were tighter; she was being hoisted upward, probably by ropes. It seemed safer to stay limp. She was pulled, tossed, carried, and hauled upward over hours. The air was getting colder.
Her mind thought the most random things. She was grateful she still had the robe on but hoped they had brought her clothes along. She wondered where Adlerkralle had ended up. If she died, would her parents even know? Had her siblings survived, and if not, what were their deaths like?
She must have passed out because she became aware she was on the ground, and her body informed her she had been lying there for some time. She heard children laughing clearly in the distance and was able to open her eyes again. She was around a campfire, still tied up in a teal bed sheet, only her head exposed. The dawn sun was just peeking through a mountain passage, the sky still dark.
A huge man in his 30s that looked like he cut trees for a living, with huge muscles and a thick neck. Decked in thick denim bib overalls, homemade sheepskin boots, and an open bomber jacket revealing a thick wool red, blue, and white plaid shirt. He had a huge gentle grin and was staring straight into her eyes.
His face screamed mountain man even more than his torso - thick curly brown-black hair merging seamlessly into a full matching mustache and beard. His little visible face showed bronze skin with brown eyes with many attractive amber flecks. His nose was large and flat.
"You're awake! Felicitations."
"And you are?"
"I'm Eberhard Klippensiedler, your husband. You can call me Hardy."
"I seem to have forgotten the wedding. Did I miss the honeymoon too?"
His feelings seemed genuinely hurt by her question.