“Strategy for taking down a group,” I murmur softly. “You start by eliminating the strongest members first. Nemeth. Luciana. Martin. Bob. We are the weakest links. And for our reward, he is saving us for last.”
Miggy places his hands over mine. He replies, very somberly, “I wanted to go golfing that weekend. I would’ve been happy to just fucking whack a little white ball around eighteen holes.”
He offers me his own twisted grin.
Then we start running again.
* * *
—
We pinwheel madly down steep slopes for what feels like forever. I expect at any moment to feel a bullet in my back. Sliding down rough terrain, we are leaving a trail even an amateur could follow. We’re crashing through bushes, breaking small branches, crushing waves of grasses, churning up the earth.
I’m shivering despite our efforts. Going down kills my legs and knees. But it’s not as cardio intensive as hiking up, meaning we’re not generating enough heat to counter our wet clothes. And now the sky is clouding up, the sun disappearing.
The ritual afternoon rain shower is due to happen at any time. Which will make us even colder and wetter.
Luciana had said eight to ten hours at a fast pace to reach bottom. But she meant hiking down the winding trail versus sledding at breakneck speeds down hillsides of pine needles. Surely we’re close. Of course, we’re also lost. But if we can just get near enough to civilization, maybe our cell phones will work. Maybe we’ll encounter some random person living in a cabin in the woods.
And get them killed, too?
My spinning brain is not my friend right now.
In front of me, Miggy comes to an abrupt, skidding halt. I have to grab a tree branch to keep from crashing into him.
“What?”
He doesn’t speak, just points. I follow his finger straight ahead, then straight down. We’ve come to a ravine. A massive, incredibly deep green furrow that goes on for as far as I can see. Like a giant decided to gouge an enormous slice out of the mountain.
I stare at Miggy. He stares at me. We can’t cross that, no way. Meaning we need to pick a direction, left or right, except I’ve lost all sense of direction. Down is on the other side of the ravine. But how the hell do we get there?
“Okay,” Miggy says at last. “Let’s just take a moment. We’ll drink some water. Study the map.”
I look behind us uneasily. At any moment, the tree man could emerge from those woods. Raise his rifle. When the bullets hit us, we will fall backward, just like Bob did. Except we’ll go tumbling down the steep drop-off. Will that give us the last laugh? Steal from the hunter his trophy? Neil wanted his death to matter. I would settle for my death pissing someone off.
“We can move over here,” Miguel says. He gestures to a small huddle of straggly pines that form a screen of sorts. We tuck ourselves inside the group, our packs scraping against the sharp branches as we wrest them from our backs.
My stomach growls. I press my hand against it self-consciously. I hate to ask the question. “Do we still have the protein bars? Granola? Anything?”
Miguel doesn’t look at me. Finally, “I gave the remaining food to Neil and Scott. They said no, they said we should take it. But I couldn’t leave them alone and injured with nothing at all.”
His voice hitches. Immediately, I place my hand on his.
“I understand.” I feel guilty. I was so lost in my rage and grief over Bob, I imploded, leaving Miggy to deal with the rest. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for him. Patching up a bullet hole on one wounded friend, then having to rouse his second, concussed friend long enough to get them behind the cover of the bushes.
They would’ve been stoic about it. They have been from the very beginning. For five years these woods have been their enemy. They already know nothing good happens here.
But Miguel, having to leave them, after refusing again and again to make that choice. Of repeating the same mistake.
Scott bleeding out. Neil vomiting.
Moments like that take a piece of your soul. Leave the kind of wounds that never heal. You just learn to live with the pain.
A boom of thunder in the distance. Because we’re not already wet and miserable enough.
Miggy sees me watching the approaching wave of dark clouds. “Maybe it will slow him down.”
The guy who’s been outfitted by Survivalists “R” Us? No, he probably has some waterproof supersuit that repels lightning. I hate him so much.
Miggy unfolds his map to reveal the same topographical overview Martin had. He fingers a twisting line of dashes.