by Ann Gimpel
Spinning abruptly in the other direction, so she wouldn’t have to watch her dog eating what had once been her friends, her gaze landed on the Park Service helicopter. A wobbly grin split her face. She was rusty, but she remembered how to fly. The chopper meant freedom. Not to leave LeConte, because she’d decided to remain there just as long as she could. But it sure enhanced her ability to gather things she’d need to survive...and to move on if she had to.
Sara focused her thoughts as she stood in the sun-drenched clearing next to the ranger cabin, gun still clutched in her hand. She had to do something about the bodies, so they wouldn’t draw every predator in the area. After that, she’d fly back to McClure where there was a stash of aviation fuel and plenty of dried meat, not to mention all her things and kibbles for Jake. She could fly really low, only a hundred feet or so above the ground, pick up what she needed, and fly back to LeConte. It’d take less than ten minutes to cover the sixteen trail miles between the stations. Surely that small amount of time wouldn’t alert one of the alien ships.
Besides, they seemed to have moved on. Or was that wishful thinking?
Whistling a chirpy tune to calm her jangled nerves, Sara went into the cabin, raised her gun, and then lowered it. Engaging the safety, she set it aside. No point in wasting a bullet, even though she had lots more at McClure. Picking up an axe off the hearth, she hefted it and brought it down hard on the radio. As her link to the outside world dissolved in a spray of glass and wires, she began to cry.
Alone. I really am all alone.
No doubt drawn by the crash of the axe, Jake padded into the ranger cabin, his ears pricked forward, snout red with gore. Hunkering next to him, Sara draped an arm around his thick neck. “The bastards may get us eventually,” she snuffled, pulling the dog close to her, “but we’ll give them a helluva run for their money.”
He licked her, smearing her with blood. Sara wiped her face. Before she lost her nerve about testing the skies, she straightened. “Come on, Jake.” She clucked to him. “We’re going for a ride.”
Sara strode outside and almost tripped over the bodies. She didn’t want to take the time to butcher them. The scaly hide looked like it would be a bitch to cut through. Nowhere to secure them, either. The thought of tossing them in the cellar beneath the cabin didn’t play well.
“Shit.” She chewed her lower lip, and finally settled for dragging them a hundred yards from the cabin. If predators got to them first, she couldn’t do much about it. Her main priority was making a run for McClure—before something happened, and she couldn’t.
Chapter Three
Jared Donovan’s foot slipped on an ice covered piece of granite, shooting his heart into hyper drive.
“Gotta stop and pull myself together,” he muttered, casting about for somewhere out of the wind. He was close to the top of Glacier Divide. Supposedly, the other side, the western one, was easier. He hoped it was true. More of a backpacker than a mountaineer, he felt woefully out of his element.
Two more dicey steps put him in the lee of a huge boulder, and he hunkered in its shadow, shaking from more than the chill breeze. He scanned the sky, watching clouds close in. At least he hadn’t seen another of the ominous ships since day before yesterday. He drew a long, shuddering breath and crossed his arms around his body, shoving his hands into his armpits to warm them.
He’d tried this ascent with gloves on, but didn’t have the grip he needed. Consequently, his fingers were white from cold. Because he’d stopped, he dragged his cell from an inner pocket and thumbed it on. Still no signal, which was weird. He should have line of sight to somewhere from as high as he was. He double-checked the solar charger hookup and tucked the phone back into his clothing to keep it warm.
Not that anyone in particular was waiting for him back in San Francisco. He’d taken several weeks off from his biomedical engineering firm to tackle the two hundred mile plus Muir Trail. It was late season, but he moved fast, and he figured he’d be done well before winter set in. The solitude had been a welcome break from his usual urban craziness—until a couple weeks ago.
He’d been returning from a resupply stop for food he’d packaged and left in a bear box at the North Lake trailhead when things had gotten truly weird. Airships—dozens of them—darkened the sky until they blotted out daylight. Explosions nearly deafened him, and he’d taken refuge in a primitive stone cave. It was the best he could find on short notice, but it shielded him from debris hurtling from the skies. He’d waited the ships out, but it meant he’d made one more trip to the trailhead and scouted through all the bear boxes, finding oodles of unclaimed food—and only a few cars in the parking lot.
Feeling like a sneak and a thief, he’d helped himself shamelessly to the food in the boxes, cramming everything he could carry into his pack.
He’d been considering thumbing a ride to Bishop, a small town in the Eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains, but the lack of any people put the kibosh on that plan. Besides, the deserted campground and trailhead held an eerie feel. One that activated the small hairs on the back of his neck. In truth, he could’ve walked the eighteen miles into Bishop, but Jared had faith in his instincts, and they screamed at him to bury himself in the backcountry until he knew more.
No text messages or news on his phone compounded his worries. Because he’d felt exposed on the open trail—and didn’t trust the ships wouldn’t return—he’d studied his maps and opted for a shortcut over Glacier Divide. If he played the navigational card well, his route should plunk him down not far from the McClure Meadows Ranger Station. Surely there’d be a backcountry ranger in residence who could clear up what happened, and advise him whether it was safe to complete his planned itinerary, or if he should backtrack and bail out at Lake Edison.
Retrieving his car from the other side of the Sierras would be somewhat of an inconvenience, but certainly doable. If returning to civilization were even possible, his car was the least of his worries.
He glanced at the rocks above him and worked out a rough plan. If he could just make it another fifty feet or so, it appeared the harsh terrain would ease. Tugging out his map, he studied it, running a grimy finger over its worn folds. He’d picked what he hoped was the easiest route to cross the divide. Lucky for him, there’d been a few low snow years, so the perpetual glaciation had retreated. Finding a route over broken talus blocks was possible, minus all that ice. If conditions were more normal, he’d have been shit out of luck without crampons and an ice axe. A snort bubbled past his lips. Not that he knew how to use either of those items.
Jared eyed his chosen path once more. The longer he looked at it, the closer he came to imagining he could see a way through.
Damn good thing it’s not getting worse.
It was barely past dawn. He’d gotten a zero dark thirty start today because this was his second attempt to find a way across the divide. Yesterday’s effort had been stymied by near vertical cliffs. At least he didn’t see anything that impenetrable above him. If it weren’t for his heavy pack, he’d be home free, but climbing with forty pounds hanging off his six-foot-two frame challenged his normally spot-on balance.
He shifted his gaze from the craggy heights above him. Once he left where he sat, there’d be no more breaks until he crested the divide. Shoring up his energy was a good plan, so he slugged down Gatorade-laden water and scrabbled for a protein bar. The back of one hand scraped over ten days’ worth of stubble dotting his face, and he laughed wryly.
No one at his firm understood what he saw in his trips to the world’s wild places. They didn’t get it that he only truly felt alive in the outdoors where survival depended on his wits, not trips to the local grocery store.
Always a loner, he was often tongue-tied and uncomfortable in social situations. At thirty-eight, that wasn’t likely to change. At least he’d pried himself out of the pathology lab where he’d spent all day, every day, examining bits of human bodies for evidence of disease. All those hours had given him ideas, though. And those
ideas landed him enough venture capital to launch his own biomedical research firm a few years ago.
Donovan Enterprises had done well, so well he could take extended trips like this one, trusting his staff to hold down the fort in his absences. He’d hired two M.D.s in addition to himself, and half a dozen Ph.D. scientists. They made a solid team.
“Need to get moving.” He spoke aloud, knowing he was stalling. The next hour would be the crux of things, and he’d do well to get it behind him.
He pushed to his feet and cinched his waist belt and shoulder straps to minimize the pack’s lateral motion. A few centering breaths, courtesy of years of martial arts training, and he started upward. His long, lanky limbs served him well as he gripped the cold granite with his lugged boot soles and fingers that had warmed fractionally.
A gust of wind grappled with his pack, and he pushed his body into the rock until it passed. So far, so good. Another few feet and he’d have this puppy nailed. He skirted a large talus block, scraping his pack on sharp granite, but when he hunted for his next move, what he saw stopped him dead.
He hadn’t seen the chasm that loomed before him from below, which made sense because it opened downward, mocking him. Too wide to jump across by a good big bunch.
“Crap.” He doubled up a fist, but stopped shy of slamming it into the rocks. Injuries wouldn’t help his predicament. No cliffs like yesterday, but the chasm was almost as bad. He’d have to down climb at least seventy-five feet into a pit lined with spiky rocks, and regaining the lost elevation on the other side didn’t appear straightforward.
He took a breath and glanced around, hunting for other options. Sometimes different perspectives helped. A jagged ridge stretched from where he stood to a rounded low point that looked as if it led through the escarpment. It would be fast—if it worked and he didn’t end up falling off the sheer drops on either side. Maybe only half a dozen steps.
Wind whistled, and he settled his hat more firmly on his head. Clouds closed in, enveloping him in a white world with small ice chunks that tore at his exposed flesh. Numb before this latest assault, his hands at least quit complaining—because his body had rerouted blood away from them. He hoped to hell the damage wouldn’t be permanent. Frostbite led to necrotic tissue and amputations, but he needed his hands, skin against rock. Gloves wouldn’t offer the control he required.
No help for his hands. Not until he crossed the divide and moved a whole lot lower.
He peered at the ridge once more. Maybe it would be safer if he took his pack off...
Jared discarded the thought before it finished forming. The items in his pack were his lifeline. Backcountry travelers who became separated from their gear died.
The thought galvanized him. No matter what else happened today, death wasn’t on his personal menu. He stared harder the ridge through slitted eyes, then pulled off his dark glasses until they dangled around his neck by their safety strap. He’d hoped for clearer vision without the shades, but the whiteout was worsening by the minute.
He had to move and move right now.
“Don’t think, just do,” he muttered.
Extending his hands to his sides to improve his balance, he waited. Timing would be crucial. Those few moments between wind gusts were his friends. If a gust hit him on the exposed knife-edge, he’d be done for.
“Now,” he shrieked to push himself past inertia. “Go, now!”
He narrowed his focus to his next step. One down. Five to go.
Two down. Goddammit, but he had to move faster. The next burst of wind howled in the distance, amplified by the peaks surrounding him.
Three down.
His boot slipped, sloughing sideways, but he was ready for it and had the fourth step in place. Breath steamed through clenched teeth and adrenaline surged, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. Rancid sweat dripped down his sides.
Five down.
The next step was longer than he expected, but he had to do it. Wind made a grab for him. He pivoted to use it to his advantage and leapt across the seven foot gap. His pack dragged at him, and he pushed his torso forward to counteract it.
Another gust of wind slammed against his back and he fell to his knees, but he was safely across. Bruised kneecaps didn’t matter a fuck. A feral shriek tore from him, followed by another. He didn’t realize how terrified he’d been until he made it. A quick glance across what he’d just crossed didn’t help. If he’d seen the ridge from this side, he’d never have attempted it.
“Go,” he urged, still talking out loud, and staggered upright.
He couldn’t see a foot in front of him. Not good. What if the other side of Glacier Divide was as rugged as what he’d just conquered?
“I’ll figure it out,” he muttered. “Got this far.”
He climbed the last few feet to the crest by feel over flattened talus blocks. Because visibility—and the ever-present, shrieking, goddamned wind—did nothing but get worse, he turned and faced toward the slope. Backing down was safer.
Something wet landed on his face. Snow. Shit. Shit. Shit. Could things get any worse?
“Stop it. Get off this ridge. Get to somewhere protected, and take a break. Eat something, drink something, put gloves on.”
Jared smirked. He was talking like someone who had a future. Maybe he needed to match actions to his words. A centering breath. One more, and he started down. If the topo map was correct—and if he was where he thought he was—the slope’s angle would ease after he’d descended a couple hundred feet.
He should’ve fired up his GPS when he stopped for Gatorade and food on the other side, but he hadn’t.
He made his way through the murk so slowly he ground his teeth together, but he couldn’t move faster. He couldn’t see his next step until he was on top of it. He did keep an eye on his GPS, though. Two hundred feet didn’t make much difference. Two hundred fifty did, the terrain finally easing off.
Panting and sweating despite the temperature, which hovered around twenty degrees according to his watch, he finally faced outward and made slightly better time. A thousand feet below the crest, visibility cleared a little, and he hunted for somewhere he could shelter. He was worried about his hands. They felt as if they belonged to someone else.
He needed to fire up his stove and melt snow for a hot drink. His hands had progressed beyond simply warming them up in gloves. They’d hurt like a son of a bitch when blood returned to them.
He hunted, but didn’t see any possible stopping places until he passed the first gnarled trees at timberline. By then, he’d descended nearly two thousand feet. Despite his hands and the weather, excitement filled him. He’d cheated death and was going to win this one.
Don’t get cocky. I’m not down yet.
He threaded his way into the heart of a grove of stubby aspens and glanced at his watch. Three in the afternoon. For the first time since four that morning, he unbuckled his pack and let it slip from his shoulders. He was tired, wanted to curl up next to his pack and sleep, but knew better. The day hadn’t warmed much, and it was still snowing off and on.
No. He needed to set up his tent and make himself a meal. If there was still some daylight left after that, he’d drag out his GPS and determine just where McClure Meadows was—and how far from his current location.
Going on autopilot, he put his tent together, pulled his sleeping bag out of its dry sack, and inflated his foam pad. That done, he sat on the bag so at least part of his body was sheltered and started his stove, keeping it cradled between his knees. He made soup from melted snow and instant packets, forcing himself to drink an entire quart. He needed liquids. Midway through the soup, the agony in his hands began. He’d known it would be bad, but he was lucky to get the soup pot on the ground before the worst pain hit.
Howls tore from him. He tried to hold them back, but gave it up for a lost cause. No one could hear, but they hurt his pride. Gritting his teeth against the hot knives sensation chopping through his nerves, he flexed his fingers over and
over, forcing a return of circulation. When it was finally over, he checked his hands with clinical precision, pleased to only find two whitened patches.
Frostnip, not frostbite. He’d heal, so long as he didn’t require an extended time period without gloves again anytime soon. Relief sluiced through him, and he reached for cheese and crackers to chase his soup. Losing fingers, as he’d feared might happen, would put a big crimp in his research work. He needed dexterity to prep slides, never mind his interminable hours on the computer.
While he ate, he fished the GPS out of his pack and turned it on. It took its sweet time latching onto the satellites, but it finally moved off the “searching” screen. He dragged the map back out and took a few readings, triangulating as he went.
A smile split his cracked lips. He’d done better than he hoped. He was in almost a direct line with McClure. All he needed to do was lose another two thousand vertical feet over relatively easy terrain. Jared glanced at his watch. Just past four. It was tempting to stay where he was since he already had camp set up, but he really wanted to know what the deal was with all those UFOs.
Had it been some kind of Hollywood stunt? Were they filming a movie here in the Sierras? Surely the ranger would have all the relevant info on anything like that happening in his area. Daylight savings time still reigned, so even a leisurely pace would bring him to the ranger station before full dark.
He shook his head. Jared was deluding himself about Hollywood or stunts, and he knew it. Something hideous had happened, and he hoped to hell the ranger could fill in the blank spots.
Decided, he began packing up. One advantage of all his time on the trail was it didn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, he hefted his pack and started downhill, with his hands firmly tucked into thick mitts. They still stung a little, but they’d be fine, and so would he.