A noise. Scott, the bachelor buddy who disappeared first that night, stands up abruptly. “Gotta piss,” he mutters, then turns and stumbles into the woods.
The two others, Miggy and Neil, exchange looks. Both stand, head after their friend, because surely it takes three guys to pee in the woods.
Nemeth resumes glaring at me. How dare I disturb the fragile equilibrium of his hiking party. He is both right and wrong. Searches such as this one are about way more than finding tangible remains. They are about gaining closure.
Sometimes that comes from finally having a body. Sometimes that comes from the journey along the way.
I stand up, stepping close enough to touch the back of Martin’s hand as he clutches his map. He flinches, clearly not expecting the contact.
I’m a mess in so many ways. Can’t sleep through the night. Can barely make it a single hour without craving a drink. Don’t know how to live the way other people seem to know how to live.
But grief. Bone-deep pain, soul-searing rage. This I understand.
“Thank you for telling me about Tim,” I murmur. “I will do everything I can to bring him home this week. But I will carry the stories of him with me always.”
Marty glances up sharply. Quick enough I can see the feral nature of his pain. Quick enough he can see the feral nature of my own.
I pull back my hand. Martin folds up his map.
And like survivors everywhere, we continue on with our day.
CHAPTER 9
Bite me, bite me, bite me,” I repeat. Then, just to switch it up: “Good goddamn!”
Screw these woods. Screw my pack. Screw Nemeth, who’s definitely a cyborg. The last half is gonna be more difficult? Seriously??
I’m panting. Staggering forward, one careening step at a time. Leg up, leg down. Pant pant pant. Leg up, leg down. Pant pant pant. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes with a toxic mix of sunscreen, bug spray, and human salt.
No pretty trail winds like a ribbon through the verdant woods. No leveling off of the topography. No end in sight. Dirt, boulders, pine trees. Sometimes, we get a switchback, which is to say a slight turn to the right or to the left before a new route through hell. Then there are steep patches of ledge where there’s no path at all. Instead, we clamber up like spider monkeys, clutching at spindly trees and praying not to slide back down.
I don’t know much about flora and fauna, but so far the forest seems to consist entirely of evergreens. Pine, spruce, fir. I’m basically hiking my way through Christmas. I fucking hate Christmas.
Nemeth and Martin have vanished from sight, leaving Scott, Neil, and Miggy gasping painfully as they trudge along. Even Daisy is reduced to being on point. No more mad dashes into the woods. Just one paw at a time with Luciana following slow and steady behind.
“Stand up,” Bob murmurs from behind me.
“I am standing up!”
“You’re bending at the waist. It’s squeezing your diaphragm, reducing your oxygen supply. I could take your pack—”
“Touch me and I will fucking kill you.”
“Then I recommend placing your hands on your hips, which will expand your chest capacity. Or leave your arms loose and focus on swinging them forward. Where your arms go, your legs must follow.”
I growl. Snarl. Whimper. Then grudgingly swing my arms.
It works. And enables me to focus on something other than my burning calves and exploding heart rate. I can do this.
I fall farther behind.
“You can go ahead,” I mutter to Bob, completely humiliated.
“I’m good.”
“I hate pity.”
“Then stop being so pathetic.”
“I hope Bigfoot kicks your sorry ass.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? Please take video.”
I try to snarl again, but it comes out more as a moan. There’s no fun in insulting someone who refuses to be insulted.
A disturbance up ahead. A figure has stepped to the side of the trail as Daisy and Luciana plod silently past.
Miguel from the college trio. He’s broken from the group to stand off to one side, bent over at the waist as he struggles to catch his breath. His short dark hair is plastered against his skull, his khaki shirt totally soaked through. He looks as good as I feel, which, given his considerably younger age and compact, muscular build, makes me feel slightly better about myself.
He glances up as we near, his hands planted on his thighs.
“Go . . . ahead,” he manages.
“Fuck . . . that,” I gasp back and halt beside him. Bob stops as well. Compared to us, the bushy-bearded Bigfoot hunter appears perfectly refreshed. I have a fantasy of him tossing Miggy over one massive shoulder, me over the other, and carrying us the rest of the way. I really wish he would.