My fist connects with a thwack. The figure reels, and I swing again, a right jab this time. It’s a glancing blow, my knuckles grazing his snowsuit as he dodges. And then he’s gone.
He’s retreated only a foot or two, but it’s enough. He disappears behind the snow veil. I lunge, swinging, and I’m moving slow enough that I keep my balance when my fist strikes air. I do, however, hit a tree. Pain rips through my arm, and I keep moving, wheeling, to put that massive trunk at my back. I press up against it, fists raised, watching for movement through the swirling snow.
I wait. And then I wait some more.
There’s not a damn thing else I can do. I can’t see through the snow. I can’t hear over the howl of the wind. I am frozen here, quite literally starting to freeze as snow pelts my face and melts and freezes again, and then it’s not melting; it’s coming so hard and fast that it’s piling on me, and still I don’t move.
I think of that hole where Nicole was held captive. It’s all I can think of, and I know if I make the wrong choice here, that’s where I’m going.
My brain screams that I’m an idiot for letting Anders leave. I’d been focused on protecting Nicole, keeping her out of that hole. The thought that I could end up there myself did not occur to me until now, as I stand against this tree, letting the snow pile over me as I blink to keep my eyes clear of snow because I do not dare shut them for a second.
EIGHT
I stand there as the snow piles up, and my muscles whine and then screech in complaint. Yet I do not, for one second, think, Oh, I’m sure he’s gone by now. I can’t take that chance.
So I stand there until distant gray on the horizon fulfills its promise. While I don’t see the sun—the storm still rages, and its rays can’t pierce the clouds—it becomes light enough for me to distinguish shapes, and that’s all I need. To be sure there isn’t a man in a snowsuit standing right there, waiting. I drop to a crouch and peer at the ground. Through the snow, I see the indentations of our fight. On the other side is his exit path. Those footprints haven’t filled with snow, meaning he did stand there, waiting, as blind as me, ultimately deciding I’d slipped away.
I crawl through the woods. Part of that is staying close to the ground so I can follow those fast-filling footprints. Part is so, if I find him, I won’t be an upright human shape, easy to spot.
The footsteps lead to an open area, and I lose them as the forest cover opens and the snow dumps down.
I straighten. I still can’t make out more than the dark shapes of trees. The storm shows no sign of letting up, and now that I’ve lost my attacker, I need to hole up and wait for help. Anders will have reached Rockton by now. Once the storm subsides, they’ll be out searching, and I need to be ready.
I head in the direction I’m certain will lead me to the path. But I’m moving slowly, and I can’t judge distance, and it feels as if I’ve been walking forever, while at the same time, it feels as if I haven’t slogged more than fifty feet. There’s no sign of the path. I pull out the compass. The glass is completely fogged. I hold it at every angle and knock it against my leg, to no avail. I scan the forest, squinting, searching for at least the distant swell of mountains, but there’s nothing.
I swing left, hoping to find the path I made and follow it to the main trail, but soon I know I’ve gone too far, my crawl-trail filled with snow. And that’s when I drop. I just drop, my ass hitting the ground, snowmobile suit whispering against the snow. I sit there, and I stare out, and it’s as if that hour of standing in place and holding myself so tight finally hits in a wave of complete mental and physical exhaustion.
I have no idea which way is north, south, east, west. The snow continues to fall, cold and wet, and I can’t feel my face, can’t feel my toes. Even my glove-covered fingers are numb.
I’m lost. In so many ways. Lost and defeated.
The north has won. The forest has won. I thought I could do this. Thought I could adapt, learn not to fight nature but work with it. That was Dalton’s one overarching lesson. The forest isn’t the enemy. It’s not trying to kill you. It just doesn’t particularly care if you live or die.
Well, I’m going to die. Maybe that should seem ironic—I escaped my attacker only to perish in the forest. But if I have to go, I’ll take this. A simple and painless death. I can feel lethargy creeping over me, and I know it’s hypothermia. Just get sleepy and drift off.
I swear I hear Dalton snort at that. Snort and shake his head and settle in to watch, not the least bit concerned because he knows that simple and painless is not the way I’ll die. I’m just sulking.
Better hurry it up, Butler. You sit there much longer, you might get that easy death whether you want it or not.
I’ve spent twelve years refusing to feel sorry for myself. Whatever problems I faced in life, I brought them on myself. Self-recrimination instead of self-pity. Yet one is as pointless as the other. I’m learning to indulge in emotions I’ve kept tamped down so long—anger, outrage, grief, and yes, self-pity. So I wallow in poor-me for another minute. Then I push to my feet, ignoring the muscles that scream for me to stop, just sit down, take it easy, it’s not like I’m going anywhere while this storm rages.
Which I’m not—going anywhere, that is. I won’t waste my energy when I might very well end up walking away from Rockton. I have a plan, which I was formulating while sulking. I might have allowed myself those moments, but that doesn’t mean I allowed them to be unproductive.