‘Right,’ Marc says quickly.
‘And I’ve looked at maps,’ Linus says, ‘and read the police report. It was a hairpin bend and there aren’t so many of those on this road. Also, I remember that.’ He points to Lion Mountain, which lies on the other side of a tree-filled valley. ‘The two peaks – the ears. See? It looks like there’s only one because they’re perfectly lined up. If you lose your bearings sight your course along the ears to head back to this spot.
‘So I’m east,’ Linus says, ‘Kimble north, Marc west. We’re looking for some kind of entrance. It might be in a cave, it might be in the ground. There might be some kind of structure around it. They never found it, so I’m guessing it looks natural. It will be concealed,probably overgrown. But animals will almost certainly be using it.’ He pauses. ‘Hopefully not large predators. So look out for animal trails that lead into undergrowth and don’t come out the other side. OK.’ He hitches up his pack. ‘Let’s go.’
They go up the bank and head in their assigned directions. Marc soon loses sight of the other two among the trees. The sounds of their voices fade and now he is alone in the forest.
Marc doesn’t look for the tunnel. He takes his bearings, glances at his old compass, the one he’s had since he was a kid. Marc sets off west around the hill towards the far end of the valley. He gives the gate a wide berth, following narrow deer trails through the trees. Below Lion Peak he steps over an old chain which lies among the pine needles. Hidden in the brown and gold of the forest floor is a dented sign: DANGER – ROCKFALL.
The ground is covered in Indian paintbrush and mountain violets. The air is filled with wild thyme.
Branches rustle ahead and Marc stops dead. He stands motionless, listening. Through the trees to the left of the path, something is coming with a slow tread. He thinks of Leaf Winham coming through the forest through shadow and light, back of his head a red crater lined with white bone splinters. They say he nearly took his own head off before they shot him, cut a gash in his throat like a yawning mouth, like a canyon in his flesh, so they say, yes, that’s what they say … Marc can almost see him now, the lithe figure in the green shadow. He can smell rot and the salt of blood. Imight faint, he thinks.If I faint I don’t have to see him.
Something is moving, beneath the busy noise of life and insects, sun, sky, air. A tawny shape emerges from the trees. Marc catches his breath.
The puma is muscled, summer-healthy. She turns her head and looks at him for a moment, before padding back into the trees in the low afternoon. Mountain lion.
It’s some minutes before Marc starts to breathe again. He shakes himself and runs up the magnolia path, fighting the heat and his hacking, laboured breath. Too many cigarettes. Clouds of pollen hang in the air and he wheezes, eyes watering. The sky is warm and golden, air still fresh with morning. Marc goes faster, cannoning off tree trunks. A hummingbird keeps pace with him for a few moments. In the distance above the treeline, the high peaks are pale blue, just as they are in his dreams, white-capped, almost blending with the sky. He runs faster along the narrow cliff path, faster and faster, coughing, slipping on shale, trying to keep close to the rockface.
He jogs through the forest, slipping on fallen pine needles. The missing half of his leg aches, it will be sore tonight.
Marc bursts from the trees and slides to a stop, arms windmilling, at the edge of the cliff. For a moment he thinks he’ll go over and adrenaline fills him with its electric touch. He stumbles back, away from the drop. He can see the stump where there was once a pulley or zipline or something similar. Below, the meadow is stroked into different colours by the wind. A rabbit bounds through the long grass.
Marc hunts through his pockets. He finds a broken pen and a tattered gas station receipt. He scrawls quickly on the back of the receipt, wraps it tightly around a stone. Then he hurls the stone into the air. It arcs high then falls down, down into the valley where it bounces on the turf then comes to rest. Marc waits and watches, every muscle held. He doesn’t know if he wants someone to come or not. The breeze moves in the grass in the valley below. No one comes.
Marc turns and runs back through the forest. His heart pounds heavy and bitter. Maybe no one will find it, maybe the note will lie there in the wild grass, the thin paper driven to pulp in the next rain. Or maybe it will be found and read.
When Kimble and Linus make their way back to the hairpin bend opposite Lion mountain, Marc is already there, leaning against a tree which grows from the rutted asphalt. He is eating an apple.
They come back to camp in the pink dusk. Linus hands over the SD card from his camera to Kimble.
‘My battery glitched,’ Marc says. ‘Nothing from today.’
Kimble shrugs. ‘It wasn’t a very interesting day.’ She hums. ‘And we do it all over again tomorrow.’
It’s quiet around the fire. The three of them are lost in thought. ‘Let’s do something else tomorrow,’ Marc says suddenly. ‘Let’s hike to the gate instead.’
‘They might shoot at us,’ Kimble says.
‘Exactly.’
Kimble looks at him with a slow smile. ‘Ok.’
‘We’re five hours from the nearest hospital,’ Linus says. ‘You’re welcome to a gunshot wound. I’ll watch tonight and sleep tomorrow.’ He gets up and lumbers away from the fire.
‘I’m hungry,’ Kimble says. ‘Is there another burger?’
‘No more vegan ones,’ Marc says.
Kimble takes the patty from the grill with her bare hands and eats it in three mouthfuls.
Marc stares. ‘I’ve never seen you—’
‘I only eat meat when I’m afraid,’ Kimble says. ‘And I’m never afraid. But this place scares me.’ She gets up and wipes her hands on her pants leg. ‘I’m going to bed.’
They creep through the resin-scented pines, bent double. It’s a mountain summer’s day, sky aching blue through the branches above, the sun a white disc overhead. Crickets sing and somewhere a woodpecker drums.
When the gate comes into view ahead Marc and Kimble come to a halt, keeping to the shelter of the trees. Close to, the gate looksworse – dead animals impaled on metal, faces shrunken into snarls. An orange t-shirt flutters in the wind, worn to rags by wind and weather. One lone child’s shoe swings by its laces. Broken glass and razor wire gleam in the sun.
