AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m making my way to Gunnar, trying to hurry while also trying to stay silent. And it isn’t only the shooter I need to worry about. Gunnar saw me. He could be playing possum, ready to leap up and knife me when I try to help. The fact that I consider this might suggest I’ve watched too many movies, but it actually just means I spent too much time in Rockton. Which, granted, might mean Yolanda is right to say I take too many risks, especially when it comes to saving someone I’m worried might murder me for trying.
The moonlight provides enough illumination, and I’m dressed in dark clothing. I pull up my hood and cinch it, minimizing the amount of skin exposed. I might not be as pale as Gunnar—who fairly glows—but I can still be seen in the twilight.
I dart from tree to tree, and while every squeak of my boots and crunch of dirt sounds as loud as gunfire to me, the shooter doesn’t seem to hear it. I’m going to need to climb soon. Gunnar is on the ledge about thirty feet off the ground, and the best spot I can see will require a combination of free climbing, scrabbling, and clambering. Yes, those are all different things,and if you spend enough time around mountains, you come to know the difference.
I pause to assess my path. The problem is that once I hit the climbing area, I’ll be exposed on the mountainside for two sections. I need to know where the shooter is. Or, more importantly, what their line of sight is.
I squint up. Rocks crunch far overhead, and when I blink to adjust my vision, I spot a figure. Not just a figure, but a figure holding a rifle. It’s almost certainly Mark, because it looks exactly like the figure I saw on a ridge two days ago.
He’s peering over the edge, as if trying to find Gunnar. When he paces along that edge, I realize he’s not trying tofindhim. He’s trying to figure out how togetto him. It’s almost a straight drop from where he stands. He points the rifle down, as if seeing whether he can line up a shot. Then he pulls it back. He doesn’t actually see Gunnar. He just has a very good idea where he is and can’t find an easy way down.
After another moment of pacing, Mark slings the rifle over his back and strides to his right, away from me, heading for an easier path. I wait until I’m certain he’s fixed on that path. Then I ease out and begin my ascent.
For the first part, I can scrabble, staying upright as I pay more attention to noise than speed. This is where I’m most likely to send down a mini-avalanche of dirt and rocks. I get through that, and if I make any sound, Mark presumes it’s just Gunnar moving around. His steps continue in the same direction, his booted footfalls loud in the stillness.
Next comes a bit of clambering, where I’m hunched down and grabbing what I can to help me up. Finally, I reach the first actual climb. I edge to the left, where I can get behind a protruding rock that will, with any luck, hide my ascent.
While this part makes me more easily spotted, it’s silent, asI place one foot on a solid spot, grab another, and haul myself up. It’s also slower, and it seems to take forever to scale ten feet. I’m finally lifting my head over the edge when I hear a snort.
I go still. Something is on that ledge. I can hear it, snorting as I disturb its sleep. Then a thick musky scent washes over me. I stay frozen, barely daring to breathe.
As careful as we are about bears on the ground, we’re more likely to encounter them here in their mountain homes. I peer into the shadow of an overhang, ready to scramble back down—
A shape lunges from the darkness. Something big and pale and charging straight at me. My brain screams a warning and an order:Let go.
My fingers release the rock, and I fall back, and my feet slide off. It seems to happen in slow motion, and in that moment, I see what is charging me.
A sheep. A Dall sheep.
Goddamn it.
I flail to grab the ledge again, but it’s long gone and I’m falling backward. I hit the rock below. Pain slams through me, stealing my breath and then my brain in fresh panic when I can’t breathe. I roll over… and start sliding down the slope.
I jam my arms out, stopping my slide. I’m on my stomach, staring at the last ten feet of the way down, and I can’t get my breath. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I fell on my back and broke something and—
And I rolled over, didn’t I? I stopped myself from sliding down this slope, and my hands and feet are both dug in to keep me here.
I’m okay.
Relatively okay, at least. Everything hurts, and when I try torise onto my hands and feet, I gasp and find air and fall to my stomach again.
I’m winded. That’s all.
Okay, I don’t know whether that’s all, but that’s the story I’m telling myself. Just winded.
When a shadow moves past me, I convulse and twist to look up, only to see the sheep, yellow eyes with elongated pupils watching me.
I resist the urge to shake my fist at the sheep. There was a running joke in Rockton that the only things that hadn’t killed anyone were the Arctic hares… and even that was only a matter of time. The mountain-dwelling sheep might not be particularly dangerous, but out here, everything can be deadly under the right circumstances.
I’d startled this ram from sleep. It panicked and charged… and I panicked and fell. No one’s fault, and I settle for a quick grumble in its direction as it shakes its curved horns at me. Then I push up—
A gun fires, the shot hitting the dirt less than a foot from my outstretched hand. I yank away and half wriggle, half jump back into the shadows, and if my body screams in protest, I don’t even notice.
Another shot hit six inches from the last one. Six inches in my direction.
That is not a warning. Not at all.
Mark saw me fall, and he’s shooting at me.
