by C. G. Cooper
Higgins ground his teeth. “Wasn’t planning on it. But—”
“Good.” Johnson pointed toward a large oak tree ahead of them. “We need to go this way.”
“How do you know?”
“Intuition.”
“A gut feeling?” Higgins laughed. “Really?”
Johnson’s playful tone dropped. “Experience.”
“We might as well give it a try,” Abrams added. “We don’t have anything else to go on.”
“We could go with logic,” Higgins said.
Johnson took a step toward him. “This is logical.” He shoved the map under Higgins’s nose and pointed at a large red “X” in the center of it. “We’re right here. Do you see what we’re surrounded by?”
Higgins glanced down at the map. It was nothing more than a green amoeba with spots of brown indicating the neighboring mountains and their corresponding elevation lines.
Johnson didn’t let him answer. “These mountain ranges make for difficult terrain, which means our suspects are likely to head there first. It also gives them the high ground, which means they’ll be able to see us coming. It might be a gut feeling, Higgins, but that doesn’t make it wrong.”
Higgins swallowed his pride, though it left a lump in his throat. He didn’t like being wrong, but in this scenario, he had to admit that both Johnson and Abrams knew what they were doing. It was likely that, without them, he wouldn’t be able to complete the mission. Besides, without exact grid coordinates, any direction might be as sound as another.
Johnson pointed straight forward, right at the tallest peak on the range. “We’ll trek a day in this direction. If we don’t find any evidence of them by nightfall tomorrow, we’ll try something else.”
Abrams slapped Johnson on the back and took the lead. Higgins trailed behind, increasingly more aware that he was out of his element, a feeling that would only become more apparent as they trekked on.
Chapter Twelve
The group hiked until nightfall with few words spoken between them. All three were on high alert. Johnson kept them going north, relentlessly. Higgins was having trouble keeping up. They took short breaks every couple of hours, likely for his benefit alone, but it wasn’t helping. He was sweaty, tired, and certain his feet were bleeding. Loafers didn’t exactly make the best hiking shoes.
Abrams urged them on, looking back from time to time to get direction from Johnson. Once when he did so, his head instantly snapped back around to follow the sudden rustling of forest floor. All three men froze.
“Oh,” said Abrams, a giddy glee in his voice, “you little sucker... better hold still...”
Higgins craned his neck to see ahead. Abrams was at a slightly higher elevation, and the man was blindly groping his pocket for something.
He withdrew the hunting knife and picked it open with his teeth, while keeping watch dead ahead. He took aim with a slow, upwards arc of his arm.
“Stay right there, you chirpy little bastard...”
Thunk.
“Yowza!”
“Good shot,” said Johnson.
Higgins took a few steps forward to view the quarry. It was a small squirrel, impaled through the neck with Abrams’s knife.
“Ever have squirrel, Al ol’ boy?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“You will,” Abrams said confidently. “No telling how long we’ll be out here.” He proceeded to tie the still-twitching squirrel to his pack.
As the day went on, Higgins mostly kept his eye to the ground. He distracted himself from his fatigue by mentally cataloging the various flora they’d come across. The wide array of fungi kept most of his attention. Abrams managed to bag two more squirrels. Whenever the men came across some flowing water, they’d top off their bottles.
As the sun began its descent, Johnson and Abrams made a small shelter from the tarp and some leafy branches. It was going to be a tight fit, but they had decided against keeping the fire going overnight to avoid being seen, and the close quarters would do well to keep them warm. Where Higgins had felt his tweed-jacket had been a burden while the hot sun was beating down on them, he knew he’d be happy to have it that night. They were creeping toward summer now, but a night under the stars could prove to be chillier than expected.
Johnson skinned the squirrels while Abrams whittled some branches to roast them on. When Abrams held one out for him – this shrunken, skewered, headless corpse as black as coal – Higgins felt his gorge rise.
“You need to eat, Al. It’s just going to get harder the further up the mountain we move.”
“There’s plenty of fruit and nuts in our packs,” Higgins said, self-consciously turning away. “That gives us protein and sugar. It’ll be enough.”
“It won’t,” Johnson said, tearing off a chunk of squirrel with his teeth like beef jerky. “You need more than a handful of fucking trail-mix to stay on your feet.”
Higgins took another look at the rapidly cooling thing Abrams was still holding out for him. The head was gone, but he could just make out the legs, like deformed chicken wings. It made it all worse. Higgins loved to eat, but he liked what was safe. Macaroni and cheese. Steak. A good roast. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“It’s survival,” Abrams said. His voice was firm, but not unkind. “Honestly? It tastes kinda plain, but it’s not that different from chicken.” He held the thing out further and gave it a small shake. “Come on. You’re gonna need your strength.”
Higgins took the stick from Abrams and sniffed it. Wood roast and gamey. All it took was for his stomach to growl once before he tore off a small bite of the meat between his thumb and forefinger and placed it on his tongue. It tasted as it smelled, which was far better than he thought.
“Not bad, right?” Abrams said with a rodent-filled smile.
Higgins nodded and tore off another bite. “Not bad. Although I don’t think I’ll be craving it anytime soon.”
Johnson waited for Higgins to swallow before he spoke again. “Tomorrow we’ll keep heading north. We should hit the very edge of the foothills by then. We’ll find something.”
Higgins fought back voicing a rebuke. There was no guarantee they’d come across any sort of clue, and he was starting to feel defeated despite it only being the first day. He thought they would’ve found something by now. Wouldn’t the instructors leave clues? Then again, this whole program was a psychological experiment. Without more information and reliance on technology, it would be impossible to find anyone in these woods.
Higgins sat up straighter and forced another sizeable chunk of meat down his throat before he could speak. “We’re not supposed to find them on our own.”
Abrams finished off the last of his squirrel leg. “What’s that now?”
“It’s impossible to find three people in the forest without help.”
Johnson snorted. “Speak for yourself, professor.”
“This is clearly your element, Johnson. I’m not disagreeing with that. I’m just saying this is an impossible task. Look at that map. Even the best tracker wouldn’t be able to find three people across that much land.” When no one answered him, he prodded. “Do you agree?”
Johnson stoked the fire.
“Al’s got a point,” Abrams said.
Higgins tossed the remains of his skewer into the fire. “Decker said this was a team exercise. They’re offering us clues if we keep heading in the right direction. That means they’re watching us. There’s no way they’d know exactly where we’d end up otherwise. I think the clues are based on our choices as a team versus our ability to guess exactly where our suspects are hiding.”
Abrams nodded slowly.
Johnson shook his head. “That seems like a stretch, even from you.”
Abrams opened his mouth and then closed it again, his gaze flickering between his two teammates.
Higgins felt his frustration flair. “If you have something to say, then say it.”
Abrams wiped his hands on his shirt. “Don’t get
touchy, Al. I was gonna say I’m with you. It’s a good theory.”
“It’s a crazy theory,” Johnson replied.
Abrams held up his finger for a moment while he sucked his teeth. “They told us they’d drop us in the deep woods. They didn’t give us anything more than a compass and a shitty map. There are agents crawling through the forest right now. Chances are they can see us, even if we can’t see them.”
“I’ll bet they aren’t even out there,” said Johnson. “I haven’t had a whiff of probing eyes, and I do this for a living.”
Something about the comment toppled another domino in Higgins’s mind. He stiffened and then stalked over to his pack. He felt along the inside liner, along the bottom, and down each strap of the bag. Along the top handle, there was a slight bump in the material. Higgins knew what it was immediately. A bug. His guess was confirmed a minute later when he’d managed to pry open the liner to reveal the gadget. He showed it to his teammates.
Now he had his teammates’ full attention.
“I think it’s just a tracking device,” he said.
“We should trash them,” Johnson said, standing up and grabbing for his pack.
Abrams hopped to his feet. “Bad idea, partner. We need to leave them be.”
“What if we’re meant to notice them and get rid of them?” said Johnson. “What if that’s the solution to the first clue?”
“I don’t know.” Abrams looked torn. “It’s a theory, but what about for the rest of the trek? They need to know where we are in order to give us the next clues.”
“I vote we keep them, too,” Higgins said.
Johnson kicked a rock toward the fire. “Fine, but if they know exactly where we are, they’ll probably spend the night catching up with us. We should expect trouble tonight, tomorrow if we’re lucky. I’ll take first watch.”
“I’ll take second,” Abrams offered.
“I’ll take the last. I’m an early riser anyway.” Higgins tossed the bug into one of the pockets of his pack and settled into the small structure they had erected. Johnson began the task of extinguishing the remains of the fire.
Abrams slid in next to him. “Probably for the best. You rising early, I mean. I don’t think the three of us are going to fit in here.”
Higgins shifted uncomfortably. Normally his size didn’t bother him too much—he valued intelligence more than looks—but he was hyperaware that he was, by far, in the worst physical shape.
Johnson stamped out the fire and stood against a large oak, surveying the woods around them. A chill passed down Higgins’s spine. He didn’t consider himself a coward. More of a realist. Far away from the lights of civilization, the woods were nearly pitch black. The canopies overhead blocked out any light from the moon. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. He was afraid of what was in it.
Something landed on his shoulder. He stifled a shout and relegated himself to calming his heart rate as he realized it was Abrams reaching out.
“Warning you now, Al. I snore like ten freight trains. Hope you’re not a light sleeper.”
Higgins chuckled despite his labored breathing. After a day of Abrams acting aloof, it felt nice to find something to laugh about.
It didn’t take long for him to fall into deep, craved sleep. He’d drifted off fully expecting to be awakened by Abrams’s rough hand shaking him out of his slumber. Instead, it was the snap of a branch.
Chapter Thirteen
His eyes popped open. Sunlit tendrils spiked through the canopy. Morning. For the briefest moment, he thought he’d slept through his watch. But Abrams hadn’t woken him. He was sure of it.
He steadied his breathing and listened. Better to stay still. He was surprised by how alive the forest seemed, between the chattering squirrels, the rustling of leaves, and the birds high in the canopy.
The snap of the branch could have been arbitrary—a deer looking for food or a raccoon heading back to its den—but when the nearby crickets went silent, he knew it was more than just an animal passing through. Or the wind.
Johnson was fast asleep on his back. His snores were light, but calm, which meant he was probably deep asleep. He leaned in and confirmed his suspicion by noticing the rapid eye movement. When Higgins finally rolled over, he could just make out Abrams dozing against the oak tree on the edge of their camp, his arms crossed over his chest.
Pushing his annoyance aside, Higgins scanned the narrow patch of woods he could see from his vantage point. He didn’t spot anyone, but he trusted his gut more than his eyes right now. Someone was out there.
Two shadows fell across the tarp hanging over him, one behind and the other to his left. They probably had Abrams in their sights, which meant Higgins had only seconds to come up with a solution.
Placing a firm hand over Johnson’s mouth was enough to wake the agent with a start. Johnson wrapped one hand around Higgins’s wrist and the other curled into a fist, ready to strike. Their eyes locked briefly before Johnson’s gaze followed where Higgins motioned with his chin. He locked in on the two shadows and stiffened. Nodding his head, Johnson sat up slowly, and began feeling for a weapon.
At least Abrams had a knife, Higgins thought, and was pretty good with it. But would that really help any of them in this situation? The agents had guns with sim rounds, which meant they were armed, but not lethally. The candidates could use force, but they’d have to find a way to neutralize the threats without injuring them. The dilemma was one the team hadn’t discussed. Higgins couldn’t help but think that they’d missed an opportunity to do so the night before.
Pushing the lingering doubt from his thoughts, Higgins twisted back over and grabbed a small stone from the ground, one that had been digging into his back the entire night. He turned it in his hand to gauge the weight, then looked over at Johnson, who was scrambling with cat-like silence to find a weapon. Higgins didn’t wait. He tossed the stone at Abrams. It landed squarely on his chest, startling him awake. Just as Higgins had hoped, he jumped to his feet, at the ready, brandishing his weapon, however unhelpful it might be.
The two men outside were several seconds too slow to react. The one to the side of the tent popped off two rounds, which landed in the center of the oak tree where Abrams had been standing before he’d dived to the side and rolled behind another trunk.
At the same time, Johnson stood up and barreled straight through their structure, tackling the man behind their makeshift shelter and pinning him to the ground. Higgins popped up to his feet and looked after Abrams, who had narrowly escaped getting shot. He was now playing a game of hide and seek with the gun-toting operative who’d almost taken him out of the game.
Hoping he could find something to brandish as a weapon, Higgins whirled around, only to come face to face with a third agent, one he hadn’t seen creeping up from behind. The barrel of a gun was inches from his nose. Although the operative was clad in black, including a balaclava and goggles, Higgins could tell the other man was smiling.
“Gotcha,” the agent said, his voice muffled by the fabric over his mouth.
At that moment, something happened. The world froze, and time crystalized to a glacial crawl. Higgins, his mind focused by an instinct to survive, and the powerful hard drive inside his skull utilizing all resources to accomplish this task, zeroed in on the grinning threat. He was still vaguely aware of Johnson struggling with his opponent off to his right and Abrams dodging rounds from the other, but his entire focus centered around the man in front of him.
This was it.
He was finished.
Think.
Higgins clocked the second the other man’s finger curled tight around the trigger. In the time it took for him to pull it back, Higgins brought a hand up and pushed the barrel just right of his head. He surprised both of them with his speed, so much so that the operative still squeezed off two rounds. Higgins had a momentary flare of anger as he realized how much it would’ve hurt if he’d been hit square in the face before he heard a grunt behind him.
&nbs
p; It sounded like Johnson. Hit by the stray bullets? If so, Higgins might not make it out of the forest alive. He could only hope the operatives would drag Johnson away before he could commit actual murder.
But he had no time to check. The shock of missing his easy target distracted the agent long enough so that Higgins could bring his other arm around and jab his hand into the man’s throat. At the same time, Higgins wrested the gun away and backed up a few feet, enough to keep the man in his sights and check to see if Johnson had been hit.
“You’re lucky, Higgins,” Johnson spat. He sat on top of the agent with one hand wrapped around his throat and both knees pressed into the man’s arms, pinning him to the ground. Two bright yellow blotches blossomed from the man’s right thigh, only a few inches from Johnson’s own leg.
A grunt behind him made Higgins twist around, just in time to see Abrams land a blow to the solar plexus of his own opponent. The man stumbled to his knees, gasping for breath. When Abrams looked up at Higgins, his eyes were wild.
“Shoot him!”
Higgins didn’t have time to interpret the words before a solid mass of weight slammed into him and knocked him to the ground, sending the gun tumbling across the forest floor. His head snapped back so violently that he actually felt his neck pop.
The man on top of Higgins scrambled off, searching for the gun. But Abrams was faster. He launched himself after the weapon, swung it around, and sent three bullets flying. They hit the man center mass, causing him to fall back with a startled cry. Abrams turned back on the man he’d punched in the gut and hit him in the shoulder with a single yellow paintball. The man slowly fell over still clutching his stomach.
A strong hand pulled at the front of Higgins’s shirt and dragged him to his feet. Johnson was staring down at him, eyes narrowed to angry slits. A string of spittle hung at the corner of his mouth.