• • •
Matt bolted up. Sheets of snow cascaded from his hat, his parka, sifting down over him. His breath came in short gasps. What was it? Something woke him. A bad dream? He was sweaty, disoriented, and the skin on his neck crawled. “Leah?” His voice was a thin whisper. No answer. He pushed his shoulder against hers; her breath was warm against his cheek. Had she made that noise? No, she slept on, dead to the world. Dead to the world. He shouldn’t think those words. Not now.
Matt’s heart raced. His throat was raw and hot, as though he’d sprinted a mile. Why? He’d just been sitting here sleeping. Had it been a bad dream? How long had they been here unconscious? He stared out into the hazy white, his eyes trying to land on something solid, something that wasn’t snowflakes.
Prickles crawled up his scalp, but it was not from the cold. A creepy tingle behind his ears, as though he were being watched, and without even comprehending it, his muscles tightened, starting at his jaw and moving down. Chest, arms, stomach, thighs, calves. His hands curled into fists. He stared again into the white, willing something to appear and confirm his fears.
Black and gold. Gold against so much white. Blinking, he looked again through the thickening curtain of snow and held his breath. A hallucination? No. It was there. He couldn’t dream something like this. “Leah, wake up.”
“Mmmm.”
“Leah,” he whispered against her cheek, never once taking his eyes from the distant shape. “Are there mountain lions here?”
Leah jerked away as if he’d just pinched her. “Where?”
“Look straight ahead. Through that aspen row. A hundred yards out.”
“I don’t see it. I see some boulders.”
“Look up,” he whispered. “Above that spot.”
It moved then, as if it heard and understood what he had said. Tawny fur, black tail tip, flecked with snow, the unmistakable liquid feline gait. Leah sucked in her breath. “Let’s go.”
“Do you think it will follow us?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe it doesn’t see us. Or maybe it’s just curious.”
“Not hunting us?”
She shifted uncomfortably, her breath coming fast. “I’ve heard of them going after dogs.”
“Not people?”
“Maybe a person by themselves,” she replied, never taking her eyes off the cat. They watched as it slunk between the trees, moving higher up the slope, blending in with the rocks. “I think they’re normally afraid of people.”
He needed something sturdy, something for defense, and settled on a tree limb the size and length of a club. When he picked it up he was surprised at its lightness. The wood must have rotted; he feared one hit would shatter it. Still, it was better than nothing.
He stood motionless in the swirling snowfall, the dead branch balanced lightly over his shoulder like a gnarled baseball bat. He stared at the trees for movement. Past dusty green spruces and giant blue-needled firs, between slim aspens and their black spiderlike branch tips swollen and ready to bud. Though the forest was silent, he knew it was there. And he knew it was watching. But they couldn’t run.
Not anymore.
So Matt waited. Ignoring the throb pulsing through his ruined feet, he wished for the hundredth time that he was somewhere else—anywhere else. Despite all the things that had happened in the past three days, or maybe because of them, Matt refused to accept that he would die here. Not now. Not like this. Not after everything they’d gone through. Then again, he figured there must be a limit to luck—it had to run out eventually. This was just as good a time as any. Just as good a place. Out here, death came easy.
But he wasn’t going to die without a fight.
The snow fell faster; thick, feathery flakes obliterated the landscape around him into a downy blur. The trees disappeared; the mountains beyond them vanished. No birdcalls, no wind, no sound at all except his own breath.
He exhaled small puffs of steam and waited.
And waited . . .
“Matt?”
He blinked. Where is it? Where am I? How long have I been standing here? The snow seemed to be messing with his vision. He looked left, right, up and down. He held his breath and counted to ten. But no, it had vanished. Like it had never been there at all. He tightened his grip on the branch.
“We should go,” Leah said, after what felt like an hour. “If we stay together we should be fine.”
“Should be fine?” Matt noticed she had found her own stick, shorter and stubbier than his.
They trudged slowly through the uneven drifts. Even if they had the energy to run it would have been impossible. Still, the urge was there, and Matt could not resist checking behind him every few seconds. The snow tapered to sparse flurries after a few minutes, and they found a trail between the trees. He glanced down for any tracks, but the snow melted under their feet as they stumbled along. Soon enough, though, he saw what he’d been looking for, distinct and wide as his hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Uh-huh.” Leah swallowed noisily.
A few feet ahead there were more, spread out and curving in front of them in an arc. “Where did it go?”
Leah spied another track, turning back toward the rise. “Looks like it circled back.”
A new crop of goose bumps rose on his neck. It was behind them, as he had feared, and although he knew it was just an animal, incapable of deceit or evil intentions, he was suddenly horrified they were being hunted.
Run! he thought. No. Wait. Don’t run! You’re never supposed to run.
But Matt wasn’t sure. He used his stick to walk faster, because his feet no longer were cooperating, and it took most of his effort not to trip. His left foot tingled, the way the right one once had been, a warning sign. Another step forward over a rock and he stumbled, slipping down the snow-slicked path.
“Matt!” Leah tugged at his sleeve. “Slow down! It’s getting too steep.”
The slope was now a forty-five-degree angle at best, sparsely treed. A lot more rock and a lot less snow. And what was there was slick and hard. He slid to a halt, ready to tell her he couldn’t help it, that they needed to run, when he heard a sound so sharp and piercing it turned his guts to water. It was like someone had pulled a plug and everything inside his body had just drained out.
A scream. Only something inhuman could have produced it. Every single hair on his body stood to attention. Vaulting forward, he slipped and grabbed a tree branch and spun around backward. “Leah! Hurry!” Out of the corner of his eye he saw it, a galloping blur, covering the distance between the trees in impossibly long jumps. It was coming. It was already here.
But Leah wasn’t hurrying. She just stood there, and as the cat jumped to her, she raised the club over her head and howled. The wood made a sickening thud on impact, but it had merely hit the animal’s rib cage, not its head. It didn’t stop, but grabbed her around the legs as she turned, tackling her faster than any NFL linebacker. She landed face down as Matt scrambled back up the slope, waving his own stick like a samurai warrior, and screamed. He wasn’t scared anymore. He wasn’t anything. He had become what Shakespeare had written. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. He could only hope that he wasn’t being an idiot as well.
He swung the club with everything he had, the cat’s head the ninety-five-mile-an-hour fastball he needed to annihilate.
Upon contact, the stick did break, splintering into over a dozen pieces. An explosion of wood. The cat screamed in pain, momentarily forgetting Leah, and it sprang back, spitting venomously. Even crouched down on its haunches with its ears flattened, it was huge. It snarled at Matt with pure hatred, sinking lower to the ground, its pupils narrowing to furious black slits.
“C’mon!” Matt screamed, blind drunk with rage. It was something he’d wanted; he’d been waiting for it. After all these years he’d been itching for this fight, and there was a deeply satisfying fury building inside him, rising to the surface. He should be afraid. But there was no more room. Blood ro
ared in his ears. There would be no holding back, no pulling punches. He opened his arms wide. It was all there inside him—coiled, hissing, alive. He was as wild as the animal in front of him. Let it come, he thought. I’m ready. “Come and get me, you son of a bitch!”
The cat leaped toward him as if shot from a cannon, all too eager to obey.
• • •
When the mountain lion hit Matt in the chest, flinging him backward without a sound, they slammed to the ground in a ferocious embrace and somersaulted backward. Because of the steep slope, the momentum kept them both going, Matt drawing up his knees in an attempt to push the cat off. But it was like trying to rid himself of a straitjacket. He felt his back and neck crack as they tumbled; he smelled the animal’s breath, rank and steamy, against his face. But he didn’t see. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, forearms wedged in front to protect his stomach, chest, and head. A sharp burst of light on his shoulder. The cat’s claws or teeth, something had clamped down, pierced the nylon parka. He screamed. Or was it the cat? They were locked together so tightly he no longer knew what the rest of his body was doing. Still they kept falling, crashing down between the trees.
“Matt! Grab on to something!” But Leah’s voice was thin, drifting away in the distance.
“I’m trying!” But there was nothing to grab. And that seemed to be the least of his worries. With his right arm he brought his elbow up into a V, turned his free shoulder in, and wedged a space between his chest and the cat’s stomach. He jabbed hard, swinging his fist out as if in a knife stab, and struck its soft belly. The cat growled, slightly stunned, releasing its teeth from his shoulder. Matt twisted frantically, spinning back, and crashed through a scraggly bush, sharp branches puncturing his palms through his gloves. The cat rolled with him, hissing and spitting and yowling, but now Matt had one arm in a chokehold around the cat’s neck. With his free hand he grabbed the branch, but the shoots were thin and flexible as whips. It was like trying to grab wet noodles. He had no hold. Still struggling, he let go and fell backward, slamming the cat to the ground and knocking the back of his head in the process, which miraculously landed on dirt and not a rock. He flipped to his stomach, using the same technique he tried last time, and because there was no ice he did slow down.
“Urrff!” He landed feetfirst in an awkward squat over the cat, cursing as shock waves radiated up his spine. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop; the terrain was too steep, and they half ran, half bounced down the hillside another few feet before tumbling off a narrow ledge. Even while falling, the cat maintained its predatory instinct, ignoring the fear of gravity. Seconds later, the sharp crack of water against Matt’s face almost knocked him out cold.
The river! His limbs banged against hidden rocks; icy water swelled over his head, but he felt his boots touch bottom, scraping along as he was carried like a leaf. The current was too fast, and he was too weak and exhausted. The cat had splashed in with him, but now was nowhere to be seen.
I can’t get stuck, he thought. I can’t get trapped. He was already too far downstream for Leah to catch him. He didn’t hear her anymore. Where was she? Where was the cat? Immediately, he pulled his knees in to his chest, trying to float over the boulders, trying to make himself as small as possible, when he finally saw something he’d been hoping all along to find.
A bridge.
A bridge meant a trail, and a trail meant a way back to civilization. Civilization meant people, help, and food. He dog-paddled to the right side, looking for anyone who could be coming down the trail, wondering if he could grab on. It was a small, crude-looking stone arch, rising a few feet above the swollen rapids.
“Matt!” Leah stood on the bridge, leaning precariously over the side, but it was useless. She was screaming something. A word he couldn’t make out. The current splashed over his head. He couldn’t stop. If he grabbed for her hands he would only pull her in. All he could do now was try not to drown.
As he was swept underneath the bridge, he reached his hand up, missing hers by a foot. He swirled past like a leaf. On the other side rocks jutted up, breaking the surface, turning the water to froth. Now everything hit against him, slamming with solid, unyielding punches.
Leah screamed as Matt was swept around the bend, and when the river spun him again, he finally understood the word she’d been yelling.
Waterfall.
This time there was no rope. There was no help, no rescue. It was only him, only the river, only gravity. And the edge came fast, rushing up to him the way Dennis Greene’s fists once came rushing up to his face. But this time he didn’t fight back. There was only one thing to do: take a deep breath.
He flew over the edge, for a few moments completely weightless, completely free. The river below him was a pearly thread, shimmering in blue-green opalescence as the sun broke through the clouds. And as it lit up the sky, gilding the trees and rocks and snow, only one thought came to him, unexpected and true.
It is so beautiful.
• • •
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, he looks dead.”
“Nah.”
“So poke him then, Rosie.”
“Why don’t you, Sasha?”
“I don’t touch dead bodies. Not sanitary. And it’s not standard operating procedure.”
“Uhhhh,” Matt moaned and rolled over, and immediately decided that was a mistake. Rocks pressed painfully into his back and shoulders. He spat a mouthful of water. “Owwwww!”
“See? I told you he wasn’t dead.”
“Leah?” he croaked.
“And he’s talking so I think he’s fine. He looks human.”
“Right now I’m thinking he looks more like a zombie.”
“Zombies aren’t real, Rosie.”
“That’s what they want you to think, Sasha.”
Matt cracked his eyes open. Above him were two girls, maybe ten years old—one with a blond ponytail and the other with long dark braids. Underneath their navy-blue fleece jackets, they wore army-green shirts and pants, with gold sashes draped diagonally across their shirts, decorated with complicated badges, insignia, and metal pins. “Where am I?”
“Earth,” said the dark braid girl.
“Good lord, Sasha,” interrupted the blonde. “He’s not an alien.”
“Just covering my bases, Rosie. Don’t assume. Remember the manual?”
Their conversation was confusing to Matt; they didn’t sound like young girls. Instead, they spoke like military personnel—very small military personnel. He coughed; spasms racked his chest. “Where’s Leah?”
“Who?”
“We were hiking.” He struggled to sit up, and the girls moved back a few steps when he did, keeping their distance. “A mountain lion attacked . . . fell in the river . . . went over the waterfall. . . .” He stopped, wondering how crazy he must sound, how he must look. He was soaking wet, but he had no idea how he swam to shore, or even if he did swim. “Can you get me an ambulance, please?” he asked, stupid with cold. “I think I need to go to a hospital.”
“No kidding, mister.” The blond one called Rosie snorted. “It’s already on the way.”
“I need to find Leah.”
“I think he means the red-haired girl,” Sasha whispered.
“You’ve seen her?” He struggled to his feet, but his knees were jelly. His legs wouldn’t obey. He put his weight on his left side, but a lightning bolt of pain in his ankle made him yelp. He fell back down in a shaking heap. “I think my ankle is broken.”
“Yeah, mister.” Rosie looked him over, unimpressed, almost disappointed. Maybe she had been hoping he was a zombie, if only to prove her companion wrong. “You look like crap on a cracker, as my dad would say.”
“That girl Leah found our unit,” Sasha told him as Rosie texted something on what looked like a cell phone. Or maybe it was a walkie-talkie. “Said you went over the falls. They relayed the approximate coordinates. We figured you’d end up here if you
survived.”
If he survived. “You’re just kids,” he sputtered, trying not to wince as he felt along his ankle. The skin was bloated, puffy with damage. He pulled his fingers away. “What are you even doing out here?”
“Rescue badges!” they chirped back.
“We volunteered for ground search today,” Rosie added. “When the call came through the dispatch, my dad told me.”
Matt stared at her, confused.
“Her dad’s the sheriff in this county,” Sasha said.
“Are you Girl Scouts or something?”
“Heck no!” Rosie gagged. “We’re the WGW.”
“The what?”
“Wilderness Girl Warriors,” Sasha explained.
Matt saw an entire arsenal of equipment attached to their utility belts. A rope. A bungee cord. A flashlight. A compass. A Swiss army knife. A carabiner clip. A whistle. Bear repellant spray. It was quite possible they were also outfitted with Tasers. Maybe grenades.
“Here.” Sasha tossed him a small plastic bag filled with peanuts, dried fruit, and chocolate chips. “Have some gorp. You look like you need it.”
Matt did need it; he inhaled it. And after he was done he turned the bag inside out and licked it, refusing to miss a grain of salt or a smear of chocolate.
“Oink, oink.” Rosie glanced at her phone. “All right. Base command has our location. Setting up for a rendezvous and extraction. The cavalry is on the way.”
Sasha handed Matt her canteen. “You’re lucky we found you when we did, mister. It’s gonna be dark soon.”
“Thank you,” he said as he accepted it. “By the way, my name is Matt.” After he finished drinking he handed it back. “And you’re right. I am lucky.”
The setting sun stretched their shadows out as they waited at the river’s edge, enlightening him with adventurous tales of the Wilderness Girl Warriors. Despite his frostbitten toes, his broken ankle, and his shivering (most likely hypothermic) battered body, he had never felt more satisfied than he did right now, listening to them explaining how to set a proper tripwire, how to shoot a moving target, the right colors of green and brown face paint for camouflage. The white noise of the waterfall was like a hum in his blood, and he sat quietly and listened patiently, knowing he’d finally been rescued, saved by a pair of ten-year-old commandos.
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