Chapter 2 #2
A branch snapped under T-Bone's foot, and he cursed as the cooler handle slipped from his grip. "Son of a—Riggs, you packed rocks in here?"
"High-protein snacks," Riggs answered. "Jerky doesn't weigh that much."
"Then something in here wants me dead."
Their bickering echoed through the fog. I adjusted my grip on the crate again, feeling the burn in my forearms. My shoulders tightened, my legs already protesting the uneven ground.
A gust of air pushed through the trees, carrying that cold, wet earth smell storms always leave behind. TThe forest around us held a weight the storm hadn’t shaken off.
"Let's pick it up," Gunner said. "Storm's clearing fast."
By the time we reached the clearing he'd chosen—flat enough for tents, sheltered by pines—I dropped the crate onto the damp ground and rolled my shoulders. My thighs burned from the short haul, and mud climbed halfway up my jeans.
"That," I said, catching my breath, "was not a stroll."
"Told you it wasn't far," Gunner replied.
"Far isn't the issue," I grumbled. "The issue is gravity."
He grinned, completely unaffected, and motioned for the next haul.
We made several more trips before everything finally reached the clearing.
By the time the truck doors slammed, the woods had already swallowed the moonlight. Flashlights blinked on, their beams carving bright cones through the fog as everyone started talking at once.
Crates thudded into the mud as Gunner directed traffic as if he were setting up for a county fair instead of a scientific expedition. Mason crouched beside a tree, fiddling with wires and muttering about "voltage consistency." Riggs struggled with a tent that the wind seemed determined to steal.
Across the clearing, T-Bone filmed the chaos, narrating in his best documentary voice. "Here we have the elusive Sasquatch Research Team in its natural habitat, attempting to attract the creature with—wait for it—rotisserie chicken."
He swung the camera toward me. "Tell the folks at home what you think of the operation, Liv."
"Smells like regret and body odor," I replied.
He laughed and continued filming. Raindrops still hung in the air, and his light turned them into falling sparks—beautiful, if you ignored the man holding the camera.
Gunner strode past with an armload of motion sensors. "These go on the trees every twenty yards. Riggs, help Mason with the laptop. T-Bone, stop playing Spielberg and make yourself useful."
"Useful," T-Bone echoed. "Like… spiritually?"
Then Gunner's deadpan reply lands perfectly:
"Physically," Gunner responded without missing a beat.
The scene unfolded like slapstick theater.
Tripods clanked, cords tangled, and every few minutes, someone yelped as a branch snapped back in their face.
From my folding chair beside the fire pit, I sipped coffee from my thermos and thought that this whole production would have been a lot easier from my couch.
Still, I had to give my brother credit—he was in his element.
Focus lit up his face, rain beading in his beard as he moved from one task to another.
Every now and then, he'd glance my way and grin, that same proud-kid expression he'd worn at ten when he caught a frog, thinking it was proof of genius.
Somehow, that grin still cracked my irritation in half.
After a few false starts, the fire finally came together. Sparks hissed into the damp air, and the smell of smoke mingled with wet leaves and chicken—an aroma sure to attract every raccoon in a five-mile radius. Steam rose from our jackets as we huddled close to the fire.
"Now we wait," Gunner said, wonder in his tone.
"Wait for what?" I asked.
"For signs—knocks, calls, eyeshine, anything unusual."
My brow furrowed. "I'm surrounded by grown men, tripwires, and poultry. Everything about this is unusual."
Easy laughter circled the fire. Conversation flowed between jokes and tall tales, mostly past "almost sightings.
" Mason explained how motion sensors worked until I stopped pretending to understand.
Riggs attempted a Sasquatch call he'd learned online; it sounded like a dying goose and sent T-Bone into hysterics.
Hours slipped by, and the rain faded to mist, and the forest glistened under the firelight. Crickets began to chirp again. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. Beyond the ring of light, tall black trees stood, each one pretending to be something else.
I propped my boots on a cooler and leaned back in my chair. My body ached from the hike, and my eyes stung from the smoke, but a quiet eased through me anyway, the kind that shows up right before trouble.
"Hey, Liv," Riggs mumbled, half-asleep beside the fire. "Do you think he's out there watching us?"
I gazed into the darkness where our lights didn't reach. "If he is, he's probably embarrassed for us."
That earned a chuckle from the few still awake. One by one, voices faded until only the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind through the pine needles remained.
Somewhere in that quiet, a branch snapped.
Not close—just far enough to raise the small hairs on my neck.
I waited and listened, convincing myself it was nothing. Probably just a deer.
Still, my eyes lingered on the tree line longer than they should have. Eventually, I crawled into the tent, telling myself tomorrow we’d pack up, go home, and laugh about the night when nothing happened.