DAY TWO : In which Matheson has still not made fire.

He poked his head out of the door and looked around. Not a soul to be seen, just the chirping of birds in the air, and a few sheep off in the distance, jumping up and down like a seizure victim trapped on a trampoline.

He surveyed the night’s damage. He’d repaired his house a little bit in the night, just to be safe, but there was still some wall missing, and the creeper had opened up a massive pit right next door.

le sigh

His first thought was merely to fill the holes back back in, but as he started to dig up some dirt, he decided that this might actually be a good thing. He could turn this pit into a basement of sorts, a kind of retreat and bunker. He might be able to actually get some sleep down there, cut off from the sounds of bloodthirsty monsters hungry for his flesh.

Not only that, but this stone might come in handy. It was much too hard for his shovel, but a few moments of jabbing things together and he’d whipped up a rough, but serviceable pickaxe.  He set about leveling things off and digging things out – Matheson was a stickler for classical symmetry- and in not to long he had a pretty decent space carved out.

He sealed it off with cobbled chunks of stone from his mining, ugly things, but probably a little sturdier and maybe better able to survive a creeper kamikaze then the wood. He put in some stairs, stood back, and voila! His house was good as new, if not better.

Peering into the darkness of his basement, however, he was instantly reminded of his need for fire. He cursed himself, and started rubbing sticks together furiously, only really managing to rub the flesh raw and give himself a few nasty blisters.

Well, shit, he thought. He still couldn’t remember anything about his life, but he guessed he hadn’t been a boy scout. He looked out over the world- maybe there was something out there that could help him do this? Either way, he’d have to hurry.

He started climbing down the hill, thinking of maybe returning to the beach and looking for some washed up glass or something, anything, he really wasn’t sure yet.

He’d gone maybe twenty steps, when he noticed a rather unusual formation of blackened rocks. He walked up to them, and gave them a good whack. Black flecks sparked and chipped off.

Bow before my might!

COAL! He gave out a holler. He couldn’t believe his good luck. Coal, this whole time, had been maybe a stones thrown away. He started picking away at it excitedly. The vein went on for several feet, and though he’d exhausted it in no time, he’d gotten a massive hall.

He carted it back up to his house, whistling a little song, and fashioned a crude torch. He struck the rocks against themselves, and bam, fire. Maybe things were going to be alright after all?

He set a few up around the house, put some up in the basement, and breathed sigh of relief. He was starting to feel right at home.

Sweet Basement, Brah

It was still ugly though, he thought, and though survival was his first priority, he knew somewhere deep inside him that Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq, was not intended to spend his days in a hovel.

He was no architect, but he added a sloping roof, and then a few sunken walls, and stood back, pleased with himself. He even made a little tower on the side, and put torches around it, so that if he ever (god forbid) got lost in the darkness, he could have something to guide him home.

Home Sweet Home

In all the excitement, though, he’d stopped keeping track of the time. The sun was already shrinking back into the hills, and as he gazed out over the ocean, as if on cue, the moon rose out of the sea, ominous and uncaring. He muttered a curse under his breath, took one last look at his house from the outside, and headed in. Hopefully, this night would go better than the last.

Little did he know, it would be much, much, worse. (continues to the next post.)