“There are extra bags in my tent.” Nemeth looks at Bob. “Grab a couple.”
Bob heads off. I remain, bobbing my headlamp over all available surfaces. I do three or four passes before it finally comes to me. What I’m not seeing. What Nemeth has most likely already noticed.
“There are no paw prints.” To be sure, I bang the toe of my boot against the dirt. The ground is hard and dry, but my efforts still yield results. One earthen dent, no problem.
Which is terribly confusing. Whatever beast did this had to leave evidence behind. Except I’m not seeing any prints on the ground, nor any fresh scratches on the pine tree.
Nemeth and Martin exchange one of their looks.
Bob returns, fresh bags in hand. Bit by bit, we collect the remaining meal kits. I don’t need an exact count to know this is much less than what we started with. Eight people, two MREs a day . . . This is not a week’s worth of food. At best, we now have enough for a couple of days.
“There are no paw prints,” I whisper to Bob as we crawl on the ground side by side. “What doesn’t leave a print?”
“Something light. Or”—he glances up at the canopy of trees—“something that flies.”
“And brought its own grocery bag to cart off dozens of meal kits?”
He doesn’t have an answer, but whereas I’m anxious on the subject, his expression is much more . . . considering.
We grab the final few MREs, climb to our feet. Martin and Nemeth have been huddled together in low conversation. Now they break apart, fall silent at our approach.
“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to the others,” Martin states.
“As in, we’re now missing half our food and need to abort our mission?” I retort.
“It’s been a long night. No need for alarm.”
“Further alarm.” I’ve never liked being told to stay silent. “First Scott, now this. Which would be cause for further alarm.”
“We can take stock in the morning.” Martin’s tone remains placating, though I notice Nemeth appears less convinced. “Everything looks better in the morning.”
“What is this, the bumper sticker guide to emergency management?” I’m revving up just as Bob lays a hand on my shoulder.
“There’s no course of action that can be taken right now,” he states calmly. “Safest option is to remain at the campsite. Regroup in the morning.”
I scowl. He’s basically agreeing with Martin, meaning I want to object on principle. Except the way he puts it, the decision makes more sense. As Scott and our flayed food bags prove, the mountains are no place to be wandering about after dark.
“Fine,” I bite off. “But we need a team meeting.”
“First thing in the morning,” Martin agrees.
Then he, Nemeth, and Bob all share a look. Good job calming the hysterical female?
I don’t like it. As we return to the beckoning glow of the campfire, I wonder more and more about what I’ve gotten myself into.
CHAPTER 14
Morning arrives too bright and too early. Noises drag me forcefully to consciousness. I fight the pull, a lifetime of staying up half the night and sleeping through half the morning making the early bird hour especially egregious.
A bark, followed by two or three more. I rouse to sitting, raking a hand through my tangled hair, then rub my forehead. My head pounds; my mouth tastes like ashes. I haven’t felt this bad since my heavy-drinking days and find myself reaching automatically for a bottle of vodka to ease my pain. Muscle memory is a bitch.
I crawl to the front of my tent, manage the zipper, and stare bleary-eyed at the outside world. Sun is up, sky is blue, birds are chirping.
Fuck it. I want to go back to sleep for about another six days. And Advil. I’d sell my soul for a couple of tablets of over-the-counter painkiller. I knew my body would be sore this morning, but this . . .
Daisy appears, wagging her tail and barking again.
“Figures you’re a morning person,” I grumble at her.
She wags her tail again, then licks my cheek, as we are at face level. I think her breath might actually smell better than mine.
Then another fragrance hits me, rich and beguiling. It pulls me from my tent to standing position. Coffee. Thank God, hot java. I might make it after all.
I appear to be the last one awake, but not the only person to be suffering. Scott, Neil, and Miggy have taken up positions on the longest log, clutching stainless steel thermoses filled with steaming brew and staring sightlessly at the dancing fire. Their hair is unkempt, their clothes rumpled, their shoulders slumped. Scott has replaced his torn shirt from last night but still has bloodstains on his sweatpants. No one seems to notice.