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I wake to sunlight and sit up, startled. I’ve slept in. I never sleep in, but the sun is streaming through the window. It’s late, and the wind is howling.
Except—that’s not the wind. The wind stopped long ago.
That’s an engine.
That’s a plane.
They’re here.
I’VE IMAGINED THISday a thousand times, but it still takes me a few seconds to truly realize what’s happening, to start to move.
I grab my shoes, my coat. I sleep in everything else. It’s too cold not to. I take the rifle and head out the door, hobbling as the cold stiffens my leg.
A whistle to Bo keeps him at my side, but he seems to know what’s up. He has the tight gait he gets on a hunt; his ears are pricked.
The trees are too thick to see the sky. The plane is still coming; I can hear it, but I can’t see it. I can’t be sure it’s them.
Some part of me has never quite believed they would come. Even now I’m sure it’s just another traveler passing overhead, nothing to do with me. It doesn’t seem possible that the end could be here. Everything has been leading to this, but until I break free of the thickest trees and spot the plane, I don’t believe it’s truly happening.
It’s risky, landing on the lake. My own scrape with the wolf-dog proved that. But they’re not the sort to be scared off by risk, I suppose. I take note of that, remember it. They will take risks. I can use that.
The plane draws closer and closer. I crouch at the tree line, still as I can be. I have nothing bright enough to stand out against the snow and give me away, but they might spot movement.
The plane dips. It roars over the ice, touches down for a brief moment, flies up again. The air hums and shivers with the sound of the engine. It works its way down into my breastbone and speeds up my heart until it beats like a hummingbird’s wings.
The plane circles around. They were testing the ice, found it solid, and this time their glide down is smooth and final.
It might not be them. It could be rescue. Another friend, like the man who came before. It’s not the same plane—but that doesn’t mean anything; they couldn’t land the float plane from before on the ice.
The plane taxis over the ice toward the north end of the lake. It comes to a halt. I squint. It’s too far away to make out any detail.
Rescue or not, Raph or not, it’s time to go.
I stumble back to the cabin. I’ve planned for this, I’ve practiced this, and still fear makes my blood like acid and my breath so cold it feels like I’m being strangled. I stop myself at the door of the cabin, taking steadying breaths. I have time. The ground is frozen; it will take them time to dig through it.
I make myself slow down, running through my preparations over and over so I’m sure I haven’t forgotten anything. The rifle. A two-day supply of food and a pack with enough gear to keep me alive in the open for at least that long. A hunting knife at my belt, another, smaller knife strapped to my leg. The fight with the wolf-dog taught me the importance of having extra weapons.
And now it’s time to go.
The shortest route is across the ice, but I’ll be spotted if I go that way. Instead I hook to the east until the rest of the shore hides me from the plane, then bolt across the lower section of the lake and into the woods again.
There’s a deer trail most of the way, thin but easily navigated. I follow it, breathing through my teeth, the air making my lips sting. Bo is silent as ever.
At my pace—much faster than that first trip down, half-starved and newly shorn of hope—it takes maybe an hour and a half to get to the north end of the lake, to the spot I’ve chosen. It’s near the wreck of the cabin, but far enough back that no one can see me from there, and well away from the path you’d take to anywhere interesting. It will take a long time to dig, I tell myself. Longer with the ground frozen; they’ll need pickaxes, I bet, and plenty of strength to break up the icy ground. I have time.
I crouch low. The plane sits on the ice twenty feet from the shore. The wind has cleared the snow, making it smooth and easy to land on. I squint. Is the plane empty? No. Movement inside; the pilot is still there. Just like last time.
Bo growls so softly it’s barely a vibration in the air. I put my hand on his shoulder to quiet him.
I wonder if it’s the same pilot. At least one of the men who came before has to be back—no way they’d rely on directions to get to that patch of ground and dig it up again.
Raph is here, I know it. And maybe Daniel, too.
This is where I make my first gamble. The pilot is alone, but if I go after him now, I don’t know how much time I have before Raph and Daniel come back. I have to decide now: do I attack now, or do I wait, and hope they don’t just leave? I’ve got no guarantees once they find out the crate is gone. They might split up. They might group together. They might take off and leave me behind, wasting all my preparation.
I tighten my grip on the rifle. I have a chance. I have to take it. I start to rise.
And then: a shout. Raph comes striding out of the woods, and my decision is made for me. With Raph here now, there’s no chance to pick off the pilot on his own. I drop back into my hiding place, breathing fast.
