Chapter 6
Briana
Last Tuesday
With my gear stolen, I inventory what’s left—and what isn’t. I’ve still got my outer shell on, so hypothermia won’t kill me.
Kneeling in the wet brush, I empty my jacket pockets, picturing a bulleted list:
Compass
Jackknife
Bear spray
4 protein bars
Lighter
Missing? Water. Which, of course, is falling from the sky in buckets.
My first priority? A container.
Second? Don’t get shot.
Half the day slips by while I scour the area for said vessel. Drinking from the stream would be easier, but I can’t afford parasites or vomiting.
Finally, I score an old, cloudy, intact Pepsi bottle. Once it’s rinsed, I dip it into a deep rock crevice. It should be safer than the mountain runoff.
By late afternoon, I’ve doubled back to where the nightmare began. The rain has almost washed away any signs of Andrea. Like her, I can hike to the parking lot. She must’ve driven her car away. However, if I’m lucky, I can bum a ride into town with day hikers.
The damn precipitation has turned frigid, now needle-sharp on my face. I build a lean-to from downed tree branches, crawl underneath, and nibble an energy bar, counting every chew.
My muscles ache. My nerves buzz.
If I lie down, I might never wake up. If I don’t, I won’t last another day. So, I lay motionless, staring into the blackness, hoping I live through the night.
Sometime later, I bolt awake, heart hammering.
“Not right. Not right.” The camo-face stalker is back—rifle slung, crouched, muttering to himself a few inches from where I huddle beneath the pine boughs.
I brace for the second man to appear, my fingers twitching toward my knife. One solid jab to the eye. A knee to the balls. That’s the plan.
The six-foot, Gollum-like figure pokes at the mud with one finger. “There you are,” he whispers.
Oh shit. Steady. Wait… I’m about to strike when he swivels, shuffles, then vanishes into the trees.
My God, a bit too close for my taste.
Soon after, the night critters resume their chirps and rustles. Rationally, I know he’s long gone—but the primal part of me doesn’t get the memo.
A man screams in the distance. “Help me! Please!”
The response to his cries? A sharp, single gunshot.
I wait until the silence is so complete, I almost convince myself I imagined it.
For one brief moment, I swear it sounded like my ex, but no way—Brett’s in D.C.
Fear, hunger, sleep deprivation…any one of them could be screwing with my head. Still, I know what I heard.
But do I?
Clearly, I need sleep. Too bad, I’m pumped up on adrenaline.
When the daylight decides to break, I stretch out from under the drenched pine boughs, cramped muscles screaming. Nearby, a cardinal sings its strange little whoopa-whoopa-whoopa.
Then it hits me—hard. What if the voice last night was real? What if he’s still alive? Did the stalker get him? Did he shoot Andrea, too?
Dammit. Leave or stay? Bravery or cowardice?
Decision made, I stash the last of my snacks. No one’s out looking for me. That much I know. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone off the grid for days.
Breaking off a branch, I dig into the muddy dirt. When something purplish writhes into view, I pinch a fat nightcrawler between my fingers, lift it to my lips, and swallow it whole.
Two more follow. I choke them down, gag reflex be damned.
If I’m going to survive a killer, I’ll need all the protein I can get.