Scott is shivering so hard his teeth are clacking. Miggy digs through his own pack, then produces a thin, lined jacket. Scott accepts it gratefully.
“What now?” Miggy asks Bob.
The Bigfoot hunter hesitates. “We should get out of immediate sight. Find shelter somewhere deeper in the trees.”
“Where we’re not sitting ducks?” Scott speaks up wryly.
“Help will come. We just need to hold on a bit longer.”
Miggy nods. He has a small flashlight in his hand. “My memory is the meadow is that way. Not much cover in a meadow, so I’ll head this way first, do some recon. Be back in a jiff.”
He heads into the pines, turning himself sideways to slide between the trees. I hate that we’re once again separating, but don’t see a way around it. To keep myself occupied, I retrieve my water filtration system and use it to refill everyone’s bottles from the stream. We are going through massive quantities, given our brutal exertions and parched conditions.
A few days ago, I’d never heard of the rule of threes. Now, I’m living by them. Find shelter—Miggy’s task. Procure water—my job. Produce food—Josh already did that with his stash of peanut butter cups. I’ve never looked forward so much to candy for dinner, even if it’s only a few pieces.
I return with the filled bottles just as Miggy reappears from the woods.
“Not far,” he says, which is probably all we can manage with the travois.
Bob grabs one corner, Miggy the other, and we’re off again.
The woods are dark. Deep dark. Like take-a-left-at-the-witch’s-hut dark. The sounds captured within these thickly branched evergreens already feel more ominous. Less chirping, more slithering. Fewer hoo-hoos, more shrieking.
Poor Bob is nearly folded in half as he struggles to pull the travois through the dense forest. I grab the end of the litter, lifting it awkwardly to help get it over one rock, then a large bush, then a particularly steep rise. After a few more feet, Scott does his best to assist from the other side as we heave and curse our way forward, slipping and sliding on all the pine cones underfoot. I hope our tracker is miles away, because we must sound like a herd of elephants, trampling our way through the forest.
Miggy draws up short. We come to a crashing halt beside a slight bend in the stream. In the falling light, I can just make out a pile of moss-covered rocks, then a giant hollow formed by a toppled pine tree. Half its roots are now ripped out of the ground, standing at attention like a massive, fan-shaped wall. Between the gentle cradle in the ground and the thick backdrop for defense, it is the perfect resting spot for a group of humans looking to disappear.
Miggy has done good.
We start setting up camp in the dip of cool earth. We left our sleeping bags and tents behind, but I’d grabbed all the emergency blankets I could find, given the nighttime temps. Now I pull them all from my pack and start doling them out. The blankets are thin and crinkly, but with a silvery lining designed to reflect body heat; they’re warmer than they look. Bob removes a heavy-duty black garbage bag and spreads it on the ground to create a barrier between the damp earth and his body. We all quickly follow suit.
“Out,” Neil moans from the travois. “Please!”
Miggy and Scott work on untying Neil from the travois and help him sit up. He winces, holding his head.
“Fuck me,” he states. He tries to stand. Miggy catches him just before he falls. This time, Neil stays seated next to the travois. “Not getting back into that . . . ever again.”
None of us argue.
“We don’t have any of the instant cold packs left,” I offer up finally, “but I could ice down a bandana in the stream.”
“We’re near a river? Freezing-cold water?”
“Pretty cold.”
“Take me . . . to it.”
He holds up his arms. Miggy grabs him from one side. Scott attempts the other, then gasps as it pulls at the infected wound in his chest.
I nudge him aside and take over. One invalid at a time.
It’s only ten feet to the stream, which is good, because I don’t think Neil could’ve made it an inch farther. Now unwrapped from his cocoon, he’s shivering hard. When we get the water’s edge, he collapses onto all fours.
“How deep?”
Miggy shines his flashlight on the water. I stick my hand in and move it around. “Shallow,” we declare at the same time.
“Awesome. I’m gonna . . . on my back. Can you . . . put head. Just let water . . . flow over. Need cold. Very cold. Please . . . be fucking freezing.”