Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
TALLY
I squint at the Convict Creek basin about a hundred yards away.
Most hikers avoid it—the terrain's a bitch to navigate, all loose scree and hidden drop-offs.
I might get lucky and spot someone headed that direction, but fat chance.
And here I am, ass-deep in wilderness with the actual trail far, far away.
Stay calm, Tally. Hikers come through the trail all the time, but am I too far away?
They'll hear you if you yell. Right? Fuck.
I try to move and nearly black out from the pain shooting through my leg.
Broken. Definitely broken. Though weirdly, it doesn't hurt as much as it should—my body's pumping me full of whatever chemicals keep you from losing your shit in emergencies.
And my goddamn phone is MIA, probably smashed against a rock somewhere between here and the trail.
Even if I had it, what are the chances of getting a signal in this wilderness anyway?
The sun's dipping below the ridge now. Fuck. Soon it'll be thirty-something degrees out here with God knows what prowling around—like that mountain lion that sent me scrambling earlier. I know the statistics. Attacks are rare. Doesn't stop my heart from jackhammering every time a twig snaps.
I strain my ears for hikers on the trail above, saving my voice. No point screaming into empty wilderness and draining what little energy I have left.
Night creeps in. Nobody's coming. I yank the emergency blanket from my pack, wrap it around my shoulders.
Still shivering. This wasn't the plan—I was supposed to loop Convict Canyon Trail and be back at the trailhead by sunset, driving to Mammoth Mountain RV Park with actual Wi-Fi to text Mom that I'm alive.
Tomorrow was meant for Devil's Postpile, a six-mile hike that leads to Rainbow Falls, that hundred-foot waterfall everyone raves about.
Instead, I'm trapped in this ravine with one water bottle and a granola bar. Day hiker's rations. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I don't sleep a wink. When the sun finally peeks over the mountain, I hear voices on the trail and my heart leaps.
Thank God! Someone's bound to hear me screaming and haul my sorry ass out of here.
People get emergency-evac'd all the time—and yeah, I used to roll my eyes at those dumbasses wasting rescue resources. Used to think Darwin should just do its work and take those idiots out of the gene pool instead of their asses getting rescued on the taxpayers’ dime.
Funny how being the dumbass changes your perspective.
"HELP!" My throat burns raw as hikers pass by.
Not a single one stops. “HELP!” I scream it six times, like that'll make a difference.
Am I too far off-trail to be heard? The thought slithers in: I could actually die here.
No. I refuse to think like that. But as the tenth group of hikers strolls past—close enough I can see their goddamn water bottles glinting in the sun—reality sinks in.
They can't see me. They can't hear me. And I'm screaming myself hoarse for nothing.
Hikers tromp past overhead all day, their voices fading in and out like bad radio reception. None of them hear me screaming.
Night blankets the ravine again. My tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
My water bottle's been empty for hours. My stomach's given up growling.
The thought hits me like a rock slide: people vanish on these trails every year.
They slip down some forgotten crevice and waste away while search parties walk right past them.
Their bodies don't turn up until some random hiker stumbles across bleached bones months later.
That could be me.
Fuck.
That's probably going to be me.