Chapter 2
When Rednecks Attack (the Forest)
Olivia
The following evening settled in with that heavy stillness that always signals rain. Clouds hung low over the ridge, and the air felt thick against my skin, like wet flannel. I kept checking the time, even though I knew Gunner would be late. Punctuality was not his strong suit.
Gear covered the kitchen table—boots, jacket, thermos, bug spray, an extra flashlight, and a packet of jerky I already regretted sharing. The gun sat last, cleaned and loaded. My eyes kept sliding back to it, like it was trying to talk me out of this whole mess.
A low rumble echoed up the mountain road, headlights bouncing between the trees.
Then the SUV appeared: camouflage paint, mud-splattered and proud, with spotlights bolted to the roof and "Sasquatch Research Team" emblazoned in white letters on the side.
It was a vehicle built by men with too much enthusiasm and nowhere near enough sense.
I sighed. "Lord, give me strength."
The truck barely came to a stop before Gunner jumped out, arms wide. "You ready, sis?"
"You're lucky I love you," I replied, taking in the red clay caked along the tires. Gunner's optimism was infectious, but his lack of concern for comfort was not. "That thing looks like it rides worse than a rodeo bull, and I already know I'm going to be itchy tomorrow."
He laughed, scooping me up as if I still weighed what I did in middle school. "You'll be glad you came once we get going!"
"Uh-huh." I fought the urge to roll my eyes as he set me down. "Where's this supposed to be again?"
"Southwest of Bryson City. Near the old trailhead."
"That's an hour away."
"Hour and ten," he said, sounding proud as if that made it even better.
Pulling my hood over my hair, I muttered, "You know, normal people celebrate birthdays with cake. There's still time."
"Sasquatch don't eat cake," he said. "Come on, you're going to love it."
"Doubt it," I said under my breath, but I followed him anyway, gravel crunching beneath my boots.
Halfway to the truck, I called, "Who's driving?"
The driver's door swung open before he could answer. A familiar drawl accompanied the red blink of a video camera. "Evening, Liv."
T-Bone. I didn't bother hiding my eye roll. Of course, it was him.
He grinned from the driver's seat. "Smile for the camera! History's about to be made."
"Yeah," I said, deadpan. "Probably historically bad decisions."
Oblivious, he chuckled while I muttered under my breath and hoisted my bag over my shoulder. For Gunner's sake, I forced a polite smile. "Hey, T-Bone."
"Didn't think you'd actually come," he said, tilting the camera. "Guess you couldn't resist me."
"Or maybe I lost a bet."
His laugh was obnoxious, and Gunner's wince said plenty. For half a heartbeat, I almost felt sorry for my brother—almost—but then I remembered this circus was his idea, and I was just a volunteer clown.
Voices spilled from the open doors, mingling with the scents of body spray and engine grease. Mason and Riggs were crammed in the back seat, arguing over some gadget that looked like it had been stolen from a sci-fi set.
"Hey, Olivia!" Riggs called, patting the seat beside him. He was married, so it was safe territory. I climbed in. "Didn't think we'd get you out here."
"Neither did I," I replied, waving to Mason. "How did your wife let you out on a Saturday night?"
"She's probably watching Hallmark with her sister right now. I'm doing her a favor."
"Good man." After buckling in, I added, "I would have opted for mint-chocolate-chip ice cream and Netflix, but here we are."
Gunner slid into the passenger seat just as T-Bone threw the SUV into drive. The engine groaned, rattling us like bees in a hive.
Trees crowded the narrow road, their branches skimming the doors as fog thickened around us.
The smell of rain mixed with exhaust as we started down the hill.
Headlights sliced through the fog, creating thin tunnels of light.
Somewhere behind us, thunder rumbled—a deep sound that made the mountains feel alive.
I pressed my forehead against the window, watching the glow of my porch fade into the fog. "Happy birthday, Gunner," I said softly.
He grinned, completely unaware. "Best one yet."
I wasn't so sure.
The ride out stretched longer than a church service on Easter Sunday, full of noise that rattled my bones.
From the driver's seat, T-Bone blasted the radio until the speakers whined, heavy metal riffs clashing with the clatter of gear in the back.
Beside him, Gunner drummed on the dashboard, proud of his off-beat rhythm.
Behind me, Mason wrestled with a laptop connection while Riggs muttered about claustrophobia and coolers. I leaned my head against the cold window and watched the trees blur past in long, dark strokes.
As we climbed, the pines thinned into steep slopes, the shadows deepened, and lightning cracked across the horizon—bright enough to wash the world bone-pale before darkness swallowed it again.
"Prime sighting territory right here!" T-Bone hollered, grinning like a man who'd just actually discovered Sasquatch. "There was a whole cluster of reports last spring—huge prints, weird howls, the works!"
Without looking up, I replied, "Maybe all those 'reports' were just hikers who don't know a bear print from a boot print."
"Be nice," Gunner said with a grin. "If Bigfoot hears you talking like that, he'll haul you off first."
"His habitat smells like motor oil and a storm that's about to wash out the road," I shot back, which earned another laugh and a friendly slap on the shoulder. Half-joking or not, if we got stuck twenty miles from civilization, he wouldn't be getting any presents.
Conversation bounced around the cab until a pothole sent us airborne. Tires slammed down so hard my teeth clicked. Mud sprayed the windows, and the truck fishtailed before regaining its grip.
"Adds to the adventure," Gunner said.
"Adds to my chiropractor bill," I retorted.
Rain hammered on the roof, drowning our words in a low hum. Between bursts of lightning, glimpses of the forest flashed—slick trunks, silver moss, and the occasional glint of eyes watching from the dark. The longer we drove, the more I questioned my decision to join them.
Navigation turned into a group project. Mason swore the turnoff was still ahead; Riggs blamed magnetic interference with the GPS; Gunner unfolded a paper map that looked older than sin.
"You sure you boys even know where we're going?" I asked.
"Left at the fork," Gunner replied.
The view through the windshield made me laugh under my breath. "That's not a fork, Gunner. That's a ditch."
"Looks like a fork to me," he insisted.
I shook my head and reached for the 'oh shit' handle above the door. "Looks like death."
T-Bone turned left anyway. The SUV lurched, groaned, and then climbed steadily again, splashing mud that drenched the doors. Everyone whooped as if we had won a race none of us meant to enter.
We climbed higher into the mountains, the road narrowing until branches scraped both sides like long fingers. Rain thickened again, drumming a harder rhythm overhead. Our headlights pierced the fog, illuminating ghostly white swirls that vanished as quickly as they appeared.
Eventually, the noise softened to the engine's low growl.
My mind drifted with it, half-listening and half-lost in the dark between the trees.
Living out here, I had always wondered what truly watched from those woods.
Bears, sure. Coyotes, definitely. But sometimes—when the world went still enough—it felt like something else breathed along with it. Something older.
I shook the thought off. That kind of nonsense belonged to bored teenagers and campfire stories.
Gunner's sudden whoop shattered my train of thought. "There it is! The old trailhead!"
T-Bone yanked the wheel, causing the SUV to fishtail again, and we skidded into a wide clearing surrounded by towering pines. When the engine died, silence rushed in and pressed at the edges of the clearing.
"Made it," I said, unclipping my seat belt. "Can't feel my spine, but we made it."
"Perfect spot," Mason replied, stretching. "Remote, flat ground, good sightlines."
Riggs popped open the cooler. "And I brought jerky."
"Small blessings," I murmured as I stepped into the mud, grateful I wouldn't have to share mine. Mist swirled around my boots in low, shifting coils. "So we're really camping here all night?"
"Sure are," Gunner answered, already shining his flashlight toward the trees. "Off the trail, though. You're about to see how professional this operation is."
My boots sank deeper into the muck, and the air turned heavier and sharper, carrying that moss and wet earth scent that always follows a storm. The trees closed around the clearing, their limbs tangled tightly enough to hide the sky.
Professional, huh.
Gunner popped his door open again. "Alright. Let's haul the gear to the fire ring. We'll set up base over that way."
"That way" turned out to be across a patch of ground the storm had turned into a mud pit.
I grabbed the first crate—heavier than it had any right to be—and followed him into the trees. The ground sloped just enough to make every step an argument. Roots crisscrossed under the muck, slick enough to yank my footing out from under me.
"Remind me again," I muttered, shifting the weight against my hip, "why we couldn't camp six feet from the truck like normal people?"
"Because then the footage looks staged," Gunner called over his shoulder. "We need natural terrain."
"The terrain is winning."
He snorted but didn't slow down.
We wove between the pines, all of us carrying something—tripods, crates, folding chairs, a cooler Riggs insisted on dragging instead of lifting. The path wasn't long, but the ground fought us every inch, sucking at our boots and splashing cold mud up our shins.
"Almost there," Mason said, though he'd said that twice already.