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Instead, I fix my eyes on the smiler, trying to guess what he might be keeping in his pack. He pulls it open to hunt down flint for his new fire. I look for what he’s moving around—a sleeping pad, water purifier, some energy bars.
Then, my breath stops in my lungs. He’s carrying an ax. It’s small, more of a hatchet, really. But it would be just what I needed to make my log shelter for the winter.
The weather is comfortably cool right now. It’s easy to forget how merciless the winters can be. I made it through, but my food stockpile almost ran out near the end, and my hands shook so hard in the cold that I thought I might lose feeling in them. A solid shelter could make the difference in surviving the winter.
The ax makes it worth the risk. If I can sneak up to their camp and steal it, the odds of me making it another year get that much higher.
I can get in and out once they’re asleep. They won’t notice the ax is gone until the morning, maybe even longer. After all, the bracelet guy didn’t notice losing the black box. Maybe they’re less careful with their gear than I assumed.
All I have to do is wait.
FOUR
—
M E M P H I S
We’ve each set up our own lightweight tent, and Camden’s rock pit holds a crackling campfire. The past few nights, it rained nearly until dawn. Tonight it’s finally clear, and stars wink down at us from gaps between the tall trees. I’d prefer to be out here by myself, like I do on my hunts. But the guys aren’t bad companions. Denver keeps us moving at a good pace, and even if Camden’s a little chatty, at least what he has to say is usually interesting: tidbits from his research about this corner of the wilderness.
There’s not much for me to complain about.
Except for the food.
Tonight’s camp, set up the way it is, reminds me of camping with my uncles as a pup. Makes me crave the sticky sweetness of half-burnt marshmallows pressed between graham crackers and chocolate.
My nose wrinkles in distaste as I work my jaw through another strip of turkey jerky. Nothing wrong with jerky, but it gets old fast. When I hunt, I like to eat what I catch. But this is a search party—we move forward, instead of doubling back so there’s no point in setting snares.
So jerky and nuts it is.
“Sure you don’t want some dandelion greens?” Camden asks, offering me a tin bowl filled with rough torn greens and forest berries.
I shake my head. I’m not that desperate.
“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, I can always forage more. Nature always provides.”
Across the fire, Denver opens his MRE. Looks like sweet and sour rice and chicken, and I can feel my mouth watering.
Unlike Camden, though, he doesn’t offer me shit.
We stay quiet while we eat, even Camden. We’re all tired. We’ve traveled some fifty miles by now without a single sign of the Omega. There’s no way to know if we’re any closer.
I don’t mind. I’ve taken hunting trips longer and more hopeless than this. Part of tracking is patience.
The forest around us is alive with sounds. The wind makes thousands of tree branches rustle. In the heartbeats between, there’s the occasional hoot of an owl. They’re just starting out on their own hunts.
By habit, I skim the tree line on the far side of camp, watching for movement from an animal. Camden might be hoping for a flying squirrel, but I’m after a Roosevelt Elk. I’ve never seen one before, and the largest herd of them are right here in Olympic. It doesn’t matter if I can’t pull out my crossbow to take a shot. I’m not a guy who hunts just for the hell of it, to show off how big a buck I can fell. For me, hunting is what takes man out of the constricting rules of the world outside and back to nature. Back to his instincts.
On the hunt, I’m a predator. The animal I’m chasing isn’t my prey—they’re my partner—and it’s my job to move with them and learn their secrets. The paths they’ve created, the water they drink, the dens where they rest. Tracking them is where I excel, and I love every minute of the chase.
Killing them gives me no pleasure. Sometimes, I don’t even take the shot—I aim my crossbow, then let my quarry go. If I do kill, I use every part of the animal. Its hide, its meat, its bones. It sits better with me to eat an animal I’ve killed myself than some poor creature in a factory who never stood a chance.
People leave different traces than animals do. Tracking humans is a whole different ball game, one I rarely choose to play. In fact, I’ve only done it once before. A missing teenager who wandered off from his family on a trip in the Smoky Mountains.
I didn’t find him in time.
I can still remember how young he looked, lying in the ravine, his body twisted. Barely fifteen. His life hadn’t even started. Did he ever get to fly to a new country? Have his first girlfriend? His first kiss?
When I take down a deer, I never lie awake thinking about it. It’s why I never planned to take another job tracking a person. Until I saw Brooklyn’s photo. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. It’s not her looks, though she is beautiful. The dark hair, the olive skin, the small chin almost overwhelmed by her lush mouth.
