Martin is staring at us intently. Whether he knows it or not, he’s swaying slightly on his feet. “You see where the initial shots came from?” he asks us.
I’m still shaking my head when Bob answers. “Across the way, forty feet to the north, is a bluff. Halfway up, I saw a gleam, like from a rifle scope.”
“Good shot at that distance,” Martin says, gesturing to his shoulder.
Bob nods.
“But it’s always more difficult to hit a moving target.”
Bob nods again.
“I go first,” Martin instructs. “Give me a minute or two, then follow.” He reaches up to his neck, roughly tugs off his orange bandana with his free hand. He appears one hundred percent focused and intent. But also . . .
He gives us one final look. “Get to base camp. Summon help. Get justice for my son.”
Just like that, he turns and bolts for the opening, orange bandana waving like a flag.
“Hey, asshole. See if you can hit this!” Then he’s bounding forward, but not toward the safety of the tree line. Instead, he cuts due north, bolting in the direction of eight dead bodies. Forcing the hunter to track away from the cave in order to keep him in sight.
The storm’s weakening rumble is now trailed by Martin’s own battle cry. “You kill my son, you bastard? Face me, goddammit, face—”
The first rifle crack. Pebbles explode near Martin’s feet. But he zigzags, running and weaving, bandana high in the air, taunting at the top of his lungs. “Missed me!”
Another shot, two, three, four.
Bob has my arm, pulling me forcefully out of the cave and into the lightening rain. But I keep looking at Martin. A fresh spray of blood, his body spinning. Another primal scream.
“You asshole! I’m coming for you! For my son. I’m coming, Timmy!”
Then the rifle booms again and Bob is shoving me across the rocks, off the edge, down into the first corridor, where we race forward before clambering up, bolting across. Up, down, across. Up, down, across.
Rain slashing at my cheeks. The sounds of Martin’s enraged yells. More cracks of the rifle. Followed by a fresh scream, sharper, higher. Another direct hit. The hunter taking Martin apart in pieces.
“Timmy!” Martin shouts in a garbled tone.
I don’t turn around anymore. I keep my head down and shoulders hunched, my hair plastered with rain, my cheeks coated in tears. I do as Martin hoped we would do.
I race for safety. I bolt desperately, breathlessly, for the tree line and the trail back to base camp. Where the choppers will arrive. Where help will finally come.
Where other people, heavily armed and much better trained than us, can return to these rocks and do what must be done.
Recover the missing.
Carry out the dead.
I run for a very long time, Bob right behind me, till the trees have swallowed us and the storm clouds have cleared and the sun steams the wet from our clothes. Finally I hit a stream, where I slip on the first stone and fall into the ice-cold water. And Bob, far from fishing me out, collapses into the water beside me, his chest heaving as hard as mine.
We still don’t speak. There are no words to say. We let the freezing water wash over our bloody clothes and sweat-stained faces. We let it sluice across our eyes hoping that will carry the images away.
When it doesn’t, we rise, and much more slowly, aware of our surroundings at all times, we work our way back to the three men we left behind.
Praying they’re still alive.
CHAPTER 29
We follow the trail around the vast lake, homing in on base camp. At the last moment, I find myself drawing up short, straining my ears. From this position, crouched down behind a green veil of lake grass, I can make out the colorful domed tents of our camp, but not the people. A thin line of smoke indicates the campfire still burns. Meaning Scott, Miggy, and Neil are still huddled around it?
Bob doesn’t question my decision to halt, but squats beside me. Our impromptu dip in the stream had felt both visceral and spiritual. But once on the other side, Bob had paused long enough to grab huge handfuls of squelching mud and smear it across his glow-in-the-dark fair skin, then rub it into his golden-red hair. I’d followed suit; my coloring might be darker than his, but not by much.
Now I picture us as a pair of badass commandos in some cool action movie, but maybe that’s the hysteria talking.
We wait. I see tents. I smell smoke. I still don’t hear people.
We exchange nervous glances.
Bob points to the right, veering us off trail toward a dark copse of skinny pines. More cover. I nod my understanding, and we creep through the waves of grass to our next destination.