Is that a darker shadow between the golden shimmer of dried meadow grasses? I slow, moving less certainly now. Man or beast? And in either case, what am I supposed to do?
I should’ve grabbed the emergency whistle or bear spray. Nemeth is right: My biting wit isn’t going to do me much good in the wild.
I try my best to advance silently. Perhaps a stupid precaution given that my glaring headlamp advertises my every move.
The shape remains hunkered down. A crouched human? A bear on all fours? A baby Sasquatch? Now I hear a low groan. Followed by more rapid, panicked breathing. Sounds of a creature in distress.
I close the remaining distance, my light finally catching the shape dead on, illuminating a blue flannel shirt and a mane of shaggy brown hair.
“Scott?” I call out.
He turns. Throws out a hand to block my light. That’s when I see all the blood.
I guide him back to the campsite by the arm. He can walk but is babbling incoherently. I let him be, needing to focus on our footing. His arm feels solid and warm. I use that to anchor myself in the moment as, bit by bit, I drag us through the dark.
Upon arrival, I seat him on one of the logs next to the fire. The woods around us are filled with noise, crashing, calling, cursing. My companions, still on the search.
I hand Scott a tin of boiled drinking water, then grab the whistle from Josh’s pack and blow three times fast.
Luciana appears immediately.
“It was Scott,” I inform her. “I got him back to the campfire, but he’s hurt.”
She ducks back into her tent, then returns with a first aid kit in hand, Daisy at her heels. Around us, the night grows louder as everyone answers the emergency signal by stampeding back to camp.
Nemeth arrives first. His headlamp is clicked on, making it hard to look directly at him, but I can just make out the rifle held in both hands, the battle stance of his feet.
“Scott,” I yell. “Next to the campfire. Luciana is tending. For the love of God, turn that thing off!”
Belatedly, Nemeth snaps off his headlamp, twisting toward the glowing red embers. The others come streaming out of the trees. Miggy, Neil, followed shortly by Martin. Still no sign of Bob, though given his size and speed, he probably journeyed the farthest away.
Everyone is breathing hard and in various stages of disarray. Once again, Nemeth takes charge.
“Fire,” he orders.
Miggy is on it, building up the flames.
“Water.”
I jump into action, refilling the cooking pot.
“Light.”
Neil obediently holds up a flashlight, then points it down Scott’s form, illuminating the other man’s bloody face, torn shirt.
“I saw him,” Scott babbles immediately. “I saw him.”
“Who?” Martin, striding forward.
“Tim. I swear it! At the edge of the woods. He was right there, wearing his green jacket. I could see him, clear as day.”
By the glow of the firelight, I watch Martin’s face shutter.
“You were mistaken,” he states curtly. “Tim’s dead.”
I haven’t heard him say the words before. I’m not completely sure what they cost him now. Martin’s not one to share his emotions. And yet, there’s something about the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. In his world, I sense, that single statement is a horrific mark of delineation. Whatever good happened in his life came before. Now, there is only after.
None of us move.
“I saw him!” Scott insists.
“How?” Nemeth asks.
“Had to take a piss. Minute I crawled out from my tent, I spotted him, straight ahead. Watching us.”
“How did you see him?”
“What do you mean? He was standing there. Clear as day. I’m telling you.”
“In the beam of your flashlight?” Nemeth prods.
“I didn’t have . . . I don’t have . . .” Scott looks down, seems to realize for the first time he’s not holding any flashlight nor wearing a headlamp. In fact, he has no light source whatsoever.
Luciana dabs at his face with a wet bandana. His cheeks and forehead are a collection of scrapes and tears. About what you’d expect if someone went racing blind into night-blackened woods, careening off every tree branch along the way.
“Your shirt,” she murmurs.
Scott pulls it over his head, hissing sharply. Across his chest are two long, deep gouges. Luciana fingers the first one, feeling out the edges, and he winces.
Miggy glances away sharply. Feeling that horrified, I wonder, or that guilty?
“You were dreaming, buddy,” Neil murmurs softly. “You got up to take a leak and saw what you wanted to see. What we all want to see.”