Bob shrugs. “He’s had a busy twenty-four hours. Maybe he decided to take a short rest before the final blitz. He knows we have an injured party in a litter and are moving slowly. Though by now . . .”
Bob glances at his watch. It’s probably already ten in the morning. Once, I’d barely considered that hour worthy of rise and shine. But in the world of outdoor living, half the morning has already passed. If our hunter has been recuperating, he should be good and ready to strike.
“How far are we from bottom?” I murmur.
“Too far.” Bob glances at Neil, who’s now studying the damp earth.
Miggy speaks up. “We could abandon the trail. Pick a less obvious path.”
“Any hunter knows how to track. Do we look like five people who can cover signs of our passage?”
We get his point.
“Then we hit the main trail,” Scott proposes. “Make a run for it. There are five of us. He can’t take us all.”
“I can bring up the rear,” Neil says, and the fact that he offers it without hesitation, even knowing the likely outcome, makes me blink hard.
“No,” Miggy snaps impatiently. “I’m not doing this again. Fuck these woods! I’ve lost enough. No way, no how, am I going to turn this into some kind of horror movie where if we’re really lucky, one of us plucky souls finally staggers into town to tell the story of the others’ demise. No. No, no, no. No.”
Scott waits a beat. “I believe Miggy is saying no.”
Miggy throws a clump of moss at him. “Fuck no,” he amends.
Neil smiles. “That’s the Miguel we all know and love.”
“If we choose not to make a run for it,” Bob ponders much more sensibly, “then what?”
“We have a rifle,” Miggy says. “And a handgun.”
“Bear spray,” Scott adds.
“Scary dual-edged blade,” I offer.
“Five of us, one of him,” Neil concludes. “Or in my world, fifteen of us, three of him. Either way . . .”
Bob regards us solemnly. “You’re voting to take a stand.”
“Do you seriously think we could run for it?” Miggy counters. “Martin, Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy—face it, they were the professionals. If they couldn’t make it . . .”
Bob nods slowly. “Just for consideration . . . we’re down to our last few snack bars. Our gear is limited. Our shelter, if we’re ambushed in the middle of the night . . .”
I look behind us at the giant wall of earth, which in a matter of minutes could turn into the backdrop of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
“Maybe we can’t hold out forever.” Miggy shrugs. “But maybe one of us gets lucky and takes him out first.”
An experienced hunter on his home turf. Bob doesn’t have to express his doubt for us to know it.
Slowly, I raise my hand. “If we don’t have the strength to outrun or the supplies to outlast . . . what about the brain power to outsmart?”
“How?” Bob asks.
I shrug. Eye the three engineers. “We build a trap.”
CHAPTER 34
I have fifteen minutes to feel good about my grand idea, before our scheming devolves into bad Scooby-Doo story lines. We’ll bury a giant net that will scoop up the evildoer when he goes racing by. Except we don’t have a net, let alone Shaggy and Scooby to lead a trained outdoorsman racing over a trip line.
We’ll dig a pit, cover it with leaves. With what shovels? Let alone the half a day it would take to dig anything sizeable enough. Guy might as well pick us off one by one while we labor. We’d be grateful to be put out of our misery.
Fine, our own snare to grab him by the ankle. Possible, Miggy allows, assuming we get him to step exactly where we want when we want. The main trail was perfect for ambushing Nemeth and Luciana as it limited them to a specific path. We’re now in the middle of the woods, exposed on all sides, with a guy who’s probably going to put some thought into his approach.
“One of us can sit before the campfire to lure him in that direction,” I attempt.
“Great, till he stops a hundred feet away and takes aim with his rifle,” Scott counters.
“Then I’ll shoot him with my gun,” Miggy finishes.
“Except one of us is dead, and, oh yes, you can’t shoot,” I retort.
“I’ll play the bait,” Neil volunteers.
“Shut up,” we inform him crossly, moving on.
“We need eyes.” Bob brings us back to practical matters. “A sniper’s perch of our own. Some hope of seeing him before he sees us.”