After four months of training—hiking, running, biking—he’s in the best shape of his life. But none of that means a damn thing. You can do all the planning in the world, check all the boxes, anticipate every eventuality, but there’s always going to be something you can’t account for. When a low-pressure system parks itself on top of you, for example, there’s nothing you can do.
Three days was all he needed. By the time Jerry and company reached the trailhead, Victor would have been waiting for them. No need for a search party, no reason to get his stepdad involved, no reason to raise suspicions. Three days, and it would have been over.
But now, the rain. The rain means he can’t count on anything.
Even worse, the ghost town is a surprise. Victor had marked the route months ago—the annotated topo map on the Bear Canyon website is what gave him the idea in the first place—and the ghost town isn’t on it.
Most of the buildings are rubble, but at least some are still standing. Useful as shelter, potentially, if things get out of hand. But only if he knows exactly where the town is. He reaches for the top of his backpack and then stops himself. Not here. Not now. Wait until later, until after dinner, when Jerry gives everyone thirty minutes of “personal time.”
But as the rain keeps falling, he realizes that he might not have time later.
Fifteen minutes since they left him to go eat lunch in the cabin. He’s tired of waiting. He unzips the pack’s top pocket and removes a folded, waterproof topo map from a black pouch that also holds a small set of lock-picking tools.
The trees are about twenty feet away, so he’d only be out in the open for a few seconds, but one look down convinces him that even a few seconds is too many, at least if he’s wearing his new jacket. The red is too bright.
So much for staying dry.
Victor unzips the jacket and wraps the seam-sealed Gore-Tex around his map. One last look to the cabin, and he’s gone.
Water assaults him from all angles before he reaches the cover of the trees. Victor stops behind the thickest trunk he can find, unfolding his jacket and rushing to put it back on.
His chest heaves. The air is too thin, even for someone who has spent his entire life in Denver. Up here, almost 11,000 feet above sea level, Victor’s six-second sprint brings a stabbing sensation to the back of his throat.
With the trees and the underbrush, he can hardly see any of the ghost town, much less the people inside. The canopy above him offers just enough shelter so that the rain doesn’t pelt the map when Victor spreads it out on the uneven ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices damage to a tree on his left: splintered bark, slivers of wood at the base, long, vertical grooves in the trunk. A mountain lion was here, and recently, judging from the sap oozing down the claw grooves. A mountain lion. Yet another thing you can’t plan for.
Back to the map.
His index finger traces along the section of the route marked DAY FOUR. Up over the pass, and about eight miles from last night’s campsite, the trail crosses a point—Fall Creek—where the elevation lines dip sharply and bounce back up in a V formation. There’s no light blue line at that point, no water, so Fall Creek appears to be more like a ravine.
Tonight’s intended campsite is two miles past Fall Creek, but given how much the rain and Santi’s swan dive off the cliff slowed them down, Victor figures that the group probably made it four miles before stopping for lunch, no more. That puts the ghost town about halfway between last night’s camp and the Fall Creek ravine.
A pointed rock formation juts into the woods uphill from him like the bow of a ship run aground. Maybe fifteen feet to the top. If Victor can scale it, he might be able to catch a glimpse of the ridgeline through the clouds and use it as a point of reference. Ghost town located, mystery solved, contingency planned for. Shelter if he needs it.
It’s worth the risk.
A swirl of wind makes the map billow, and Victor swats it back to the ground with an open palm. It’s impossible to refold along the original creases afterward, and he ends up with a half-crumpled mess. The map won’t fit in his pocket, so Victor puts it between his teeth and bites down hard.
Any handholds in the rocky cliffside not covered by moss are slick with rain and mud. He hurries while trying not to hurry, keeping his eyes trained toward what should be the direction of the ridgeline, just in case the clouds part.
Halfway to the top, a sharp crack of thunder, followed by the terrible sensation of being watched. What if the thunder isn’t thunder? What if it’s the mountain lion, at the base of the little cliff? The mountain lion, waiting for him. Waiting. Pacing.
Ridiculous.
So ridiculous there’s no need to glance back down to make sure.
He grunts with the effort of the last five feet. Almost to the top, but a ferocious gust of wind knocks him into the cliff and rips the map from his teeth. He flails one arm out after it, but his foot slips. He dangles for a horrifying moment as the wind catches the map like a kite. It soars twenty feet above him before another current pushes it back down and away from the cliff. The crumpled sheet roils in the pouring rain until finally it wraps around the trunk of a tree below.
Victor regains his footing and scrambles to the relative safety of the top. For a moment, he considers climbing back down to get the map, but he’s already been gone too long. The ridgeline comes first. He’ll grab the map on the way back.
He pulls his hood down tight against the driving rain and waits for a break in the clouds. Just a little window is all he needs, but the clouds taunt him, threatening to part a dozen times before—there’s the ridgeline! A double spire, like a pair of needles, shooting to the sky. Obvious enough to find on the map.
Victor checks his watch. Twenty-three minutes since he left the mine. He works back toward the edge of the cliff, praying that the map is still wrapped around the trunk below.
“Shit,” he says, and then drops to the ground as if he’s been sniped. There’s no way he saw what he thinks he saw. He covers his mouth to keep any other sound from escaping. Rain pelts the back of his head as he crawls toward the ledge for a peek. Is that movement by the map? A glimpse of a tail?
Victor presses his cheek into the mud. Once again he hears the low growl. Once again he tries to convince himself it’s only distant thunder. Do. Not. Panic.
He scoots from the ledge as slowly as possible and huddles in the protective canopy of a pine tree. Five minutes later, he checks again. The map is gone. Wind, probably. It had to be the wind.
But at least the coast seems clear now.
Jerry and Amelia both have maps of the route; Victor will have to steal one tonight. Yet another way the simple plan has become more complicated.
Victor’s troop leader once told him that you’re just as likely to get attacked by a mountain lion if you run as if you stand your ground and make yourself look big. The only foolproof way not to get attacked is for the animal never to see you in the first place, so Victor takes a wide loop back to the ghost town, using the slope as a rough guide.
But the clouds are too thick for him to get a bearing on the mountain ridge and too low to see the valley below, and the wind is disorienting, swirling the way it is, like the world is spinning him around.
He should stop.
Stop now and reconsider where he’s going, but he’s sweating, and because he’s sweating, he smells, and the mountain lion is still out there, and what if it recognizes his scent from the map?
Victor starts to run.
No, don’t run! Stay calm. But it’s not that easy. His legs don’t work right. He trips on a fallen tree, catches himself, then trips again, tumbling to the ground, slamming his shoulder into the soft earth.
A thunderclap startles him, makes him flinch, and despair rolls over him as the rumble dissipates.
This wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He had a plan. He’s been gone for an hour, and if Jerry called it in already, they’ll end the trip. If—
On
the tail end of another thunderclap, he hears his name.
And again.
Jerry’s voice, straight ahead and slightly uphill. Victor pushes to his feet, feeling stupid and ashamed for panicking the way he did. Next time he’ll trust himself, he promises.
Victor counts to sixty.
Looking nonchalant is the right play here, not letting on that anything was ever wrong. He wipes the mud from his elbow and shoulder and follows the sound of Jerry’s voice, his hands no longer shaking. It’s not just Jerry anymore; they’re all yelling his name.
Victor plasters on a smile and wanders into the clearing. He keeps his pace slow and unhurried, and he waves when he sees them.
19
This time, he’d promised to be on his best behavior. He knew exactly what to expect. It had been three years since Victor’s dad had left. Three years and four possible replacements, and the first meetings were the same every time. Big smile, but not too big. I’m not here to take your dad’s place. I understand your bond with your mother comes first.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” the new guy said before releasing Victor’s hand. The man was narrow-shouldered and big-headed, with a forehead that took up half his face and a salt-and-pepper helmet of hair. He’d worn a suit, double-breasted, and a tie with tiny pirate swords on it.
“Me too,” Victor said.
They sat on the back porch of Victor’s house, the site of every first meeting. The porch overlooked a gentle grassy slope, at the end of which stood a wall of pine trees, and beyond that, the front range of the Rocky Mountains. It was late September. With the breeze came the first hint of winter.
“I’ll be right back with some tea,” his mom said. Victor had noticed the changes in the months since she met this one, Winslow. The hair. The makeup. The wardrobe. The jewelry. All of it fancier, more aggressive. Not all at once, a little at a time, but enough to notice.
She put her hand on Winslow’s pinstriped shoulder and gave it a squeeze as she passed by. Winslow kept his eyes on the spot where her hand had been until the door closed. Then he looked at Victor. He leaned forward, smoothing down his tie as he moved.
“I don’t want to be your dad.”
Here it came, like clockwork. “Okay.”
“You already have one of those,” Winslow said. “And I don’t want to be your uncle, either. I don’t want to be your friend. I’m here because your mother is a wonderful person.”
“Okay.”
“We can agree on that, can’t we? That your mother is a wonderful person?”
“Yeah,” Victor said, becoming uneasy. “Yes.”
“Do you ever say that to yourself? ‘My mother is a wonderful person.’ You should.” Winslow scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Go ahead. Try it now.”
Victor knew he was supposed to act tough, this being their first meeting and all, but he was unable to keep his eyes from widening. “You want me—”
“Just once.”
“My mother is a wonderful person.”
“Good. That’s good.” Winslow leaned back and his face broke out into a wide smile. “Now how about you fucking treat her that way.”
Victor didn’t know how long they sat there after that, in silence. It felt like two hours. Mercifully, the screen door creaked as Victor’s mom backed through holding a tray of iced tea.
“You need a hand, Lisa?” Winslow said, his eyes still set on Victor’s.
Victor pushed himself to his feet and held the door open.
“Thank you, Victor,” his mom said, with surprise in her voice.
20
Victor has been waiting for the downpour to subside, even a little, for over an hour. Lying on top of his sleeping bag, his boots laced tight, his jacket zipped, a dormant headlamp strapped to his forehead. Waiting.
Midnight. The hands on his watch still glowing brightly, and of course they are. A gift from his mom. Only the best for her soon-to-be Eagle Scout. One o’clock. He stares at the tent ceiling, but the thick clouds block out any moonlight, and the darkness is total. Waiting.
Or is the rain just an excuse? Once he unzips the tent, there’s no going back.
He feels the reassuring outline of the knife in his pocket. He runs the checklist over in his head. First, the packs. Cut Santi’s down and take what food he can. Then to Amelia’s pack for the map and the radio, so they can’t call Search and Rescue.
Five, ten minutes at the most, and then he’s gone. Up past where they were supposed to camp tonight, and off the trail before sunrise. From there, it’s not long to Winslow’s cabin. Maybe a day, just because of the elevation gain. If all goes well, he’ll be there by mid-morning the day after tomorrow.
He sits up and reaches for the door’s zipper, but a tremendous gust of wind rattles the tent. Just a little while longer, he thinks. And then I’ll go.
How easy it would be to take off his boots right now, to wiggle into his sleeping bag, to pretend he was never going to do anything.
But he can’t do that. If he bails, then every time he sees his stepdad’s face, he’ll be reminded of his own cowardice. And even though ol’ Winslow will never find out, Victor will know. He has no follow-through. Over and over, every time he sees his stepdad, he’ll hear those words. No follow-through.
It will eat at him until it kills him.
There’s a rumble in the distance. More thunder.
Next to him, Santi sits bolt upright. Victor instinctively lies back down.
“What is that?” Santi says, turning on the headlamp dangling from the tent ceiling.
Victor’s heart jackhammers against his ribs. He rolls the sleeping bag over himself and whips the headlamp off his own head. “Turn the light off.”
There is something out there, a rumble, and it’s getting louder. And then the tent is moving, the ceiling is the floor, and Santi screams out. And they roll again. And again.
Victor can’t breathe and he can’t see and he grasps at his face but his arms are caught and his head smashes against the ground and he thinks this is it. The thickness in front of his face, the repeated pounding to his head. His inability to make it stop. His weakness.
And so he gives up. He hears screams through the fog, but he doesn’t fight.
Then everything is still.
The pressure disappears, and the sleeping bag comes away from his face. Victor gasps as if breaking through the surface of a swimming pool. Santi shines the headlamp in his eyes, and Victor notices blood dripping onto the sleeping bag, then on his hand when he touches the throbbing above his right eye. And there’s water. So much water.
Santi crouches back down and begins to sift through the mess at his feet. “You already have your boots on?”
Victor mumbles something about needing to take a piss before the world fell apart.
“Everything’s gone,” Santi says finally. “Just gone.”
***
A thick, soupy darkness. Victor follows Santi away from the tent, both of them screaming for help, for the others, for something. The destruction, or what Victor can see of it through the beam of his headlamp, is apocalyptic. Three-foot tree trunks snapped at the base like toothpicks. Boulders poking through the mud like so many icebergs, the exposed tops hinting at their massive size below the surface. And the mud. The mud is everywhere. In some places it’s like chocolate pudding; in others it’s as thick and rocky as damp concrete. They slog through it, fight across it.
Victor turns and scrambles up the hill, away from Santi, away from the debris. His pack has to be there. It has to be.
And it is. Santi’s too, stuffed with food, swaying gently in the wind and rain as if nothing had happened.
Victor collapses underneath his pack and leans his head against the tree. He closes his eyes and smiles, thinking what the guy who sold it to him would say if he saw it now. The seam-sealed roll-top closure, the adjustable GridLock shoulder harness, the ultra-durable fusion points. The salesman rattling off a list of features that meant nothing to Vic
tor at the time.
Santi shouts. And again.
“Don’t add yourself to the victim list,” Victor says, an impulse from somewhere deep in his brain, remembering the wilderness first-responder course he had to take for scouting. But he’s already on the victim list, isn’t he? He presses two fingers against his injured shoulder and rolls his elbow up and forward, relieved by the absence of pain. He wipes moisture from his forehead and cheek and uses the beam of the headlamp to check the blood on his hand. Watery, like weak cranberry juice. It could have been so much worse.
Victor looks now to Santi. Panicked, soaking. One boot missing. It’s time to go. If they find the kitchen, they’ll be able to find the others. And if they find the others, they’ll find Amelia’s map.
Using the packs as a point of reference, they aim their lights downhill and enter the devastation. With the trees mostly gone, with the ground covered in feet of debris, it’s nearly impossible to figure out where they are.
“We’re almost there,” Santi says. “I’m sure of it.”
Except they’re not. There is no kitchen, no tarp. Even the ravine doesn’t seem to be where it had been.
“They’re gone, Santi,” Victor says.
Santi keeps stumbling forward, but Victor hangs back. A realization spreads through him, a tingling that reaches his fingertips. He’s alive. He survived. Maybe, somehow, there’s even a silver lining in all of this.
He can ditch Santi here. Right now, in fact. Santi would be on his own, sure, but it’s not like he’d die or anything. Someone would find him. With his missing boot, his torn up heels, and his total wilderness ineptitude, he’d have no choice but to stay here until help came. And he wouldn’t starve.
Victor will leave some food from Santi’s pack. He’s not an animal, after all.
Santi leans over and vomits.
“Did you hear that?” Santi says, wiping his eyes and mouth. “She’s screaming for help.”
Victor has already made his decision. He’ll wander around for a little while longer, letting Santi get farther away, and then he’ll head back uphill to the packs. Even if he doesn’t have a map, he has an opportunity.
On the Free Page 8
