It’s a mudslide behind me, and it’s heading directly for the only road back to town.
My foot slams on the accelerator, a primal instinct for survival overriding my driver’s caution. The truck’s tires spin for a terrifying second on the slick road before catching, lurching me forward. I wrestle with the wheel, navigating the next hairpin turn as fast as I dare, trying to get to higher, more stable ground.
I risk another glance in the mirror. The slide has reached the road. I watch in horror as the pavement, the solid, dependable blacktop I’ve driven a thousand times, is simply… erased. Swallowed by a churning, grinding mass of mud and boulders and uprooted pines.
The route home is gone. Annihilated.
Finally, I reach a small pullout on a relatively flat crest and skid to a halt. I cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the cab amplifying the roar of the storm outside. Shaking, I unbuckle and stumble out of the truck, the icy rain soaking me in seconds.
I walk to the edge of the road and look back.
It’s worse than I imagined. A solid wall of debris, at least thirty feet high and a hundred yards wide, has completely smothered the road. Clearing this will take a fleet of heavy machinery working non-stop for days.
I’m trapped.
I stand there for a long minute, rain plastering my hair to my face, my mind running a thousand frantic calculations and coming up with the same answer every time:no viable solution.
Then I remember. There is one way forward. One route still open.
Up.
Further up the mountain. To a state-of-the-art cabin built into a cliff. To a twelve-foot-tall arachnid predator with terrible socialskills, a thing for fuzzy slippers, and a package waiting for delivery.
Chapter 7
Cut Off
June
My hands are shaking asI climb back into the truck, whether from the cold rain or the adrenaline crash, I can’t tell. Probably both. I fumble for my phone, praying the cell tower on this ridge is still functioning. Two bars. Thank God.
Dad picks up on the first ring.
“Junebug? I heard the weather’s getting pretty bad up there. Everything okay?”
“Dad, I’m fine, but we have a problem.” I take a steadying breath. “There’s been a massive mudslide on Ridgeline Route, about three miles up from the Hendricks turnoff. The road is completely covered.”
Silence. Then, “Jesus Christ. Are you hurt? Where are you exactly?”
“I’m safe. I’m parked at the crest pullout, maybe half a mile past where it happened. I saw it coming in my mirrors and managed to get clear.” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. Professional delivery driver June, reporting a road hazard, despite totally panicking on the inside. “But Dad, I’m trapped up here. There’s no way down.”
“Shit. Okay, hold on.” I can hear him moving around, probably to the big topographical map we keep pinned to the office wall. “What about the service road that connects to Highway 2?”
I close my eyes. “That’s down-mountain from the slide. Even if it’s still there, I can’t get to it.”
More silence, then a heavy sigh. “You’re right. There’s no alternate route off that ridge. Damn, Junebug. A slide that size…” He trails off, and I can practically hear him calculating. “Could take days to clear. Maybe longer if there are others.”
“Others?”
“This kind of weather can trigger multiple slides. Let me call it in to emergency services, see what the situation is county wide.” His voice shifts into crisis-management mode. “What’s your supply situation?”
I twist around to inventory the emergency kit I keep stocked in the back. “Full emergency kit. Water for a week, MREs, sleeping bag rated to ten below, first aid, flares, camp stove. I can survive up here just fine.”
“That’s my girl.” There’s fierce pride in his voice, but it’s mixed with worry. “Okay, I’m putting you on hold to report this. Don’t go anywhere.”
As if I could.
The hold music is some tinny instrumental version of “Hotel California,” which feels darkly appropriate.
