“Wait for me,” Emma said. She was still ten meters up the tree, picking her way down branch by branch.
“Hurry up,” Darryl said. “They’re headed this way right now. We have to pack up and go.”
He rose, swiping branches and clusters of spruce needles off his shoulders. As Emma continued making her way down, he pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on, aiming it back toward camp. He couldn’t wait for his sister. The fear had turned to a trembling desperation.
“You’re taking too long,” he said. “I’m going on ahead. Just hurry and catch up to me.”
“Give me a few seconds, please,” she replied.
But Darryl started back toward camp, pulling the rifle off his shoulder as he went. He followed his own clumsy footprints back through the forest, stepping over the spot where they’d dug up the cohosh bushes. Far in the distance, as if to punctuate this sudden turn of events, he heard a deep rumbling sound that went on and on.
Thunder, he realized.
14
The sensation was similar to being blindfolded and beaten by baseball bats from every direction. He flailed wildly with arms and legs, but every solid object he grabbed hold of slipped out of his grasp. Meanwhile, he kept getting slammed hard in the back, the sides, on the arms and legs, the face and head. Something slammed into his face and busted his lips, but when he opened his mouth, muddy water flooded in. At the same time, he was spinning wildly, so he couldn’t tell which direction he was facing at any particular moment.
This is how it ends, he thought. Tossed about as if I were in a washing machine full of crowbars.
He managed to hold his breath, even when he got a mouthful of water, but after interminable tossing and tumbling, he felt the burning need for air. It was growing, his mind filling with a kind of buzzing desperation. On top of it all, the water was brutally cold, just above freezing, so it felt like he’d been plunged into ice.
At one point, some enormous shape brushed past him. He managed to grab at it with his right hand, and he felt a soft, yielding body, like the underside of a cow. He kicked out with both legs, and his feet hit a solid surface, possibly rocks. Then he was thrust upward, and he slammed into another hard surface. This time, however, the current kept pushing him upward. He fumbled along the hard surface and realized it was a crude wall comprised of branches. Using them as a ladder, he kept climbing up, strengthened by the current.
Suddenly, he broke the surface of the river and felt a cold blast of air against his face. Greg Healy took a great heaving gasp of fresh air, but that drew water into his lungs. He began coughing violently, uncontrollably, until he vomited. He was pressed against a makeshift wall of debris that had formed in a narrow gap between large rocks. His entire body was wracked with pain, but he managed to get both of his arms on top of the makeshift wall. Then he leveraged himself farther out of the water.
Just beyond the gap, he saw that the stream widened, sheer sides rising up on either side. One of the cows was floating there on its side, lifeless eyes staring at the darkening sky. Greg kept pulling himself up, but then the makeshift wall collapsed. Suddenly, he was back in the river, being pushed through the gap. On the other side, however, the current slowed, and he was able to paddle toward the nearest bank.
A narrow lip of rock ran along the river’s edge at the base of a sheer cliff. Greg finally got close enough to grab the rock, and he dragged himself into shallow water. Rising, his body cried out from a dozen different places.
I’m going to be covered in bruises, he realized.
He heaved again, bent double, and vomited a large amount of river water onto the rocks at his feet. Then he took another couple of steps away from the river, leaned his shoulder against the sheer rock wall, and slid down onto the ground. He was shivering violently now from the cold, his arms as sore as if he’d been lifting weights for hours. More than that, his mind was still fuzzy, struggling to regain clarity after nearly drowning.
He looked around, but he was in alien territory. There was no sign of the trail, no sign of his family. He saw the river meandering back up the slope and disappearing into the trees. He cleared his throat and tried to call to his loved ones, but he only managed a weird, wordless squawk. Even that effort made him swoon, as a blackness entered his vision. Coughing, he rubbed his eyes, and tried to stand up. When he did, the blackness become absolute, and his last sensation was slamming into his chest on the ground as he collapsed.
It wasn’t sleep. No, that would have been comforting. This was mere animal unconsciousness, and when he finally started to claw his way out of it, it had brought no rest whatsoever. He was all pain and discomfort, his skull pounding with the worst headache of his life. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was lying flat on his stomach, his arms caught beneath him. He tried to push himself to his hands and knees, but he didn’t have the strength.
“Marion…” He just managed to croak her name, but it made him start coughing again.
He’d never felt such bone-aching cold before. The shivering was violent, rattling him all the way to the core of his being. Greg looked around and saw a stand of trees a few meters ahead of him on a grassy slope where the high cliff curved away from the water. He began crawling toward it. Fortunately, he still had his heavy winter coat, and he knew there were some small supplies in the many pockets. Enough to survive? That he did not know, but if he stayed out here in the bitter cold, it wouldn’t matter because he was going to freeze solid in no time.
As he crawled, he noted a large rip in the back of his left glove, another on his right sleeve. By the time he reached the trees, his extremities had started to go numb, but he finally managed to get to his hands and knees. He crawled into the trees, where at least the wind was diminished. He rose on shaky legs, using a tree trunk for leverage. Then he began to root through the coat’s many pockets. His clothes were sodden, but he found a couple of lighters in one pocket and a bundle of fire starter sticks, still in their waterproof wrapper, in another. The Walther PPK was gone from the inner pocket. That was a regrettable loss, but he decided to lament it later.
Dropping to his knees, he tried to dig a firepit, but his numb fingers were clumsy. He just managed to clear a space about half a meter across, and he surrounded it with a crude ring of stones. Then he began creating a small pile of pine boughs, a simple act that took absolute concentration and sheer willpower. His aching arms and numb hands could barely move. Still, he finally created a small, crude pile, and he used his teeth to remove one of the fire starters, which he slid into the base of the pile.
If this doesn’t work, I will die out here, he realized, as he thrust the lighter at the fire starter. How pathetic to survive the drowning and then freeze to death in the woods.
He struggled to flick the lighter. His damned thumb didn’t want to work right. Finally, he took the lighter in both hands and used both of his thumbs. He managed to flick the lighter this time, and the tiny flame that burst to life was like a spark of hope. He felt a burst of elation cutting through the pain, exhaustion, and despair. The fire starter caught then and quickly began to burn with a brilliant red flame. Greg felt the heat against his face, and he uttered a hoarse cry of relief.
He began rooting around for more dry sticks to add to the fire, but the dampness was everywhere. The moist wood made the fire especially smokey, and soon the smoke was gathering beneath the boughs. Still, the fire seemed relatively stable, so Greg unzipped his coat and pulled it off. It was clear now that he’d wrenched both shoulders somewhere along the way, and he didn’t have full motion of either arm as a result. This made the simple act of removing his coat grueling, but he fought through the pain and finally peeled it off. It was absolutely saturated with cold, muddy water.
Still, the fire provided enough warmth now that when he removed the coat, he actually felt less cold. He hung the coat on a nearby tree branch, hoping it would dry. Then he went to work fumbling at the buttons on his shirt. Finally, he stripped down to his und
erwear and stood as close to the fire as he dared, still shivering but feeling the warmth now gradually working its way into his flesh. It was getting dark out now.
How long was I out? he wondered. All afternoon? All day and night and into the next evening? He couldn’t tell. Indeed, he’d lost all sense of time. He worried about his family. They hadn’t come for him, so either they couldn’t get this far down the river or, more likely, they assumed he was dead. Or perhaps they’d all been washed away by the flood. No, that was a scenario he didn’t want to consider. Surely, if the entire caravan had been swept away, he would have seen the river choked with cattle and horses.
No. I am going to assume they’re fine, unless I’m presented with evidence otherwise, he told himself.
As he stood there in nothing but his boxer shorts and a pair of damp socks, he examined his wounds. The fire was roaring now, producing more than enough heat to drive out the cold, and it was also bright. Greg delicately probed the areas of sharpest pain. He had ugly bruises forming all over. The biggest of them was a long purple welt on the left side of his chest. When he pressed it with his fingers, he felt a deep, grinding pain that instantly made him sick to his stomach.
Broken rib, perhaps, he thought. At least he could breathe normally, which meant he didn’t have a punctured lung.
His hands were sore, and he scarcely had any grip left. The back of his right hand had a long, ugly scratch, and most of his left forearm was bruised from wrist to elbow. He had another large bruise across his stomach, and he felt a welt on the side of his head. His upper lip was busted open, as well.
It could’ve been worse, he reminded himself. You can stand. You can walk. You can breathe. Count your blessings.
However, just as he thought it, he heard a deep rumble off in the distance. It went on for five or six seconds and ended with a final ominous crash. Greg dared to step toward the edge of the small stand of pine trees, feeling the bitterness of the wind beyond. He saw the broad, brown expanse of the river, a single dead cow still floating lazily downstream. However, his gaze was drawn upward, to the darkening evening sky. Clouds had gathered to the west, rising up above the jagged peak there. As he stared at them, he saw a brief flash of lightning from deep inside.
Storm coming, he thought, and his heart sank. That’s not what I need right now.
He moved back under the trees, leaning against a branch and letting the heat of the fire sweep over him. The smoke made him cough, but it was the least of his concerns. Greg considered his predicament. The stream would lead him down into the valley, and he was fairly confident he could find his way to his father’s old hunting cabin from there. However, he had no idea where the rest of his family had gone. Would they continue trying to make their way down the treacherous path, or would they turn back for the safer road? Maybe they wouldn’t do anything. Maybe they would park themselves right there beside the flooded stream and wait for Greg to return.
No, Darryl would insist that they press on, he thought, for Justine’s sake and for the baby.
Assuming they survived, his best bet was to make for the cabin and meet them there. Maybe they would catch up to him along the way, unless they’d turned back for the other road. Either way, he knew what he had to do, no matter how bruised and broken he felt. To test himself, he began walking circles around the fire. His legs were stiff, and he had bruises all up and down both legs. Walking would be an ordeal, but he could bear his weight just fine.
If only that damned storm would pass me by, he thought, as he heard another rumble in the distance.
15
Sasha Burke narrowed the aperture on the battery-powered lamp and aimed the light at the trail directly in front of her. The ground was still absolutely soaked with water from the flooding, and she could feel icy cold pouring off the river. She liked it. The bitter chill was advantage in this situation. Indeed, as she noted clouds along the western horizon, she realized that a possible storm was to her advantage as well. Let it come. Let an ice-cold, relentless rain crash down and slow every other traveler.
Even with the damage caused by the flooding, she could see the deep ruts carved in the trail, two grooves running parallel. She reached out with her free hand, gloves fingers probing the edge of one of the grooves. She had no fear of the damp and cold because her coat, pants, and boots had been Gore-Texed like mad. Though her money was no good now, it had served her well before the end of civilization. Splurging on an expensive Canada Goose Langford Parka, some nice Rossignol Tommy Hilfiger ski pants, and—the coup de grace—Fendi FF Shearling snow boots had paid off. She couldn’t have been warmer or drier, despite the dampness.
Still, all of that corporate money had ceased to mean much when the economy had collapsed like a stomped eggshell. All that mattered now were territory and resources. She had plenty of the former, never enough of the latter, and it looked like a few intruders were horning in on her land.
“Do you think they lost anything in the flood?” The voice came from over her shoulder. Daniel, her former assistant, now her lover, stepped out of the woods and joined her on the trail. The wild, mountain man lifestyle suited him, she thought, at least in appearance. He had a rugged beard that complemented his jawline, and his hair had grown out in a nice way. She’d never liked the short, gelled corporate hairdo anyway.
“Yeah, seems like they might have lost a bit,” Sasha replied.
“How can you tell?” Daniel asked, stepping up to river’s edge, as if he might peer down into the water and see what had been lost.
Sasha grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. “Look at the ruts in the trail here,” she said. “We’ve got two sets of parallel lines cut into the trail. Drag marks. I think they were pulling supplies on sledges or travois, and from the depth of the grooves, they were heavy as hell. That means they had a lot of supplies.”
“I see three sets of parallel lines,” Daniel replied, pointing at the third set, which ran closer to the trees than the others.
“Yeah, but the third set comes out of the woods down there,” she noted, pointing to a spot where it seemed the other group had cut and slashed their way out of the woods. “Here’s what I think happened. I think they were pulling two sledges full of supplies down the trail, then the flood hit. One of their sledges got swept into the river, but somehow the other survived. After the flooding subsided, they headed back the way they came, dragging their one remaining sledge.”
Daniel nodded, stroking his beard with his gloved hand. “I think you’re right, Sasha. You figured all of that out just by looking at tracks on the ground. You’re brilliant.”
The compliment annoyed her, and she smacked him hard on the chest with the back of her hand. Unfortunately, his padded coat and her nice Moncler Tech ski gloves softened the blow. “I didn’t say it to impress you. I couldn’t care less about that.”
“I didn’t mean to patronize you,” Daniel said, in a wounded voice.
“We have to figure out who these people are,” she said. “Are they armed? I assume so, but how dangerous are they? This is what I want to know.”
Others came out of the trees then. She’d left them at the camp to gather supplies. Harry and Jen appeared first, a rough pair of former hippies wearing handmade leather coats and pants, fur-lined moccasins, and strange tribal hats. Harry’s long, gray beard was separated into three beaded braids. It looked ridiculous. Sasha couldn’t have hated it more if she’d tried, but the old man was useful. He’d lived off the land for years. Plus, he could be brutal when he had to be, and she appreciated that about him. An enormous leather backpack on a wooden frame hung from his shoulders, the handle of an enormous machete rising from the top.
“Did we find them?” he said.
“I think we’re pointed in the right direction,” Sasha replied, gesturing at the drag marks on the trail. “The flood came on fast and hard, but most of them seem to have survived. I think they lost some stuff in the river. We might be able to find it washed up on the riverbank downstream.�
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The others came now. The people in her crew were mostly pairs—couples of one kind or another. That had been intentional on Sasha’s part. She figured they would fight harder if they had some personal stake in the group’s survival, something other than mere animal existence. So far, it had worked. But she’d known it would. Sasha had spent years reading employees, moving them around, manipulating them as needed. The corporate world had been her kingdom, employees the chess pieces of her board.
“Which way do we go, then?” Jen asked. She was clutching a fold of Harry’s sleeve. Jen was permanently sunburned, and she always sounded hoarse. Her fair skin had never fully adjusted to the relentless sun, and she was neglectful about using sunscreen. Indeed, she was neglectful about many things, but she kept Harry’s wilder tendencies in check. “Do we track down the group, or do we head downstream and see if anything washed up?”
“Best stuff will still be with the group,” Harry said. “We should focus on them.”
Sasha had to restrain a sudden surge of anger. She turned to Harry and met his gaze with full, fiery intensity. Though she was smaller than him, she knew the power of her gaze. Fixing her jaw and lowering her eyebrows, she gave him her meanest look, and he visibly wilted before her. Shuffling his feet, he finally ducked his head.
“It’s up to you, of course,” he added.
“There’s a reason why I make the decisions here and not you,” she said, letting the threat sharpen the edges of every word. “One-dimensional thinking isn’t helpful, not now, not ever.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Harry mumbled. Most of the crew was glaring at him now, and even Daniel had taken a step toward him.
Sasha let the discomfort linger in the air for a few seconds, then she turned to look at the rest of her people. “We don’t have to choose. It’s not either-or. We’ll send one group downstream to recover anything that washed up on the riverbank. Judging by the tracks here, whatever they were pulling was big and heavy. It shouldn’t be hard to spot, even if it broke apart.” Harry was still moping, so she decided to throw him a bone. A bit of mercy after a scolding was always effective. “Harry and Jen, I’m putting you in charge of that task. I don’t expect you to be able to carry any heavy boxes or barrels, so whatever you find, just pull it away from the river and set it on the trail. We’ll come along later and collect it all. Got it?”
EMP: Return of the Wild West Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 59