He tilted his head to his left. A camera… his .22 caliber… one last box of shells.
To his right, lunch. If you could call it that. Nothing more than a few berries and a half bag of seeds he collected when he had the energy.
Almost 113 days in the Alaskan wilderness. He thought he could last longer. A more effective trailblazer.
But now, the end. In this old, abandoned bus.
No one will come looking. No one will ever know he was here.
He closed his eyes for the last time and listened.
Silence was the only answer.
The Weekday One Hundred 