One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(77)

CHAPTER 31





The sky is darkening by the time we finish our strenuous descent. We’re an exhausted, messy group of misfits as we splash our way across the stream at the bottom of the hill and stumble our way into the clearing. Bundled in the travois, Neil opens glazed eyes.

“Please tell me . . . done.”

“Almost,” Scott soothes his friend. Scott’s feverish coloring has now faded to ash white, and he’s spent the past twenty minutes shivering uncontrollably. The temperature has plummeted with the sun, but Scott’s shaking clearly has more to do with his internal thermostat than the outside.

“I need out,” Neil moans.

I can’t blame him. We’ve been banging him about like a human doll for hours. If he wasn’t in pain before, he certainly should be by now. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so wrung out, but then, I’ve been saying that for days. Apparently, physical exertion is a never-ending scale, and as fast as you think you’ve reached your limit, there’s still more to go.

Now we all stare at the growing shadows self-consciously. Bob has the rifle slung over his shoulder, trigger at the ready. I tell myself nightfall is good. The dark offers cover. The late hour meaning we’re that much closer to imminent rescue. Surely Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy have hit the town by now. I picture them on the phone with this highly respected Sheriff Kelley. Then some cool, movie-set airfield where a chopper is even now revving to life, filled with eagle-eyed search experts who are heavily armed and bearing platters of hot food. While I’m at it, I add a steaming bubble bath to the rear cargo section, even if it does strain credibility.

In real life, we make our way to a line of pine trees, then stare at one another uncertainly.

This is the same area where we broke for snacks just two days ago. When we were younger and fresher. When Martin was still alive, and the college buddies had only their grudges to nurse and I thought my impulsive decision to join a wildland search was an adventurous lark. Now we look like earthquake survivors, and not all of us made it out of the rubble.

Bob peers up in the direction from which we came. He holds up a hand for silence, and we do our best to quiet our labored breathing. We listen for sounds of crashing tree limbs, advancing footsteps, sliding rocks. Mostly, I can hear my thundering heart. Then, as my pulse slowly calms, the sounds of night emerge around me. The whine of insects, a growing chorus of frogs, a lone owl’s inquiring call.

My pulse slows more. Such a busy place, the grand outdoors. We are the interlopers with our enormous appetites and booming guns. I wish we could truly settle, spend a single evening savoring the cacophony of life all around us.

But while we don’t hear any sign of our pursuer just yet, it’s only a matter of time. Once he investigates the camp closer and realizes we’ve abandoned our post, his next logical step is to pursue us down the lone trail leading out of the canyon.

Maybe our hunter will decide he has all the time in the world to catch such wounded prey, and not rush on our account. Stop and have a hot meal first. Take a nap. Wash up in the lake. Make himself look his very best before tracking down and shooting five innocent people. More wishful thinking on my part, but it’s all I’ve got.

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.