After checking to make sure Hestia’s colorful locks are still with us, I count my packmates. I can feel them in the bond, but it’s best to have a visual too.
Recently I’ve felt like there’s a blank space in my mind, an empty spot that itches and chafes where I should be feeling Hestia. I need to bond with her so I know she’s okay, that she’s happy. So I can tell if she needs something I can provide.
That sensation is even worse now that I can barely see her. I would feel so much better if I could sense that she’s safe.
I’m not worried about Hestia taking care of herself, but accidents happen. The snow is disorienting, and with the way it’s piling up, it’s hard to tell where it’s safe to walk.
We did just find that unrecorded mineshaft. There could be more waiting to collapse at any moment.
A crackling noise interrupts my churning thoughts, but nothing comes through the radio. It’s the one that connects to dispatch, not our short-range radio. The sound quality isn’t usually like this, but all our long-distance frequencies have been bad today.
“Pause while I radio dispatch,” I tell my teammates.
I hold down the talk button, and it doesn’t sound like it connects.
I talk into it anyway. It’s possible I just didn’t hear it over the wind.
Except there’s no reply.
My packmates send questioning feelings through the bond. Apparently I didn’t manage to hide my concern.
I send calm thoughts back despite my unease.
I cycle through a few troubleshooting steps and get nothing but static.
I swap out the long-range radio for the satellite phone, typing in the number from memory.
I push my hood back and hold the bulky phone up to my ear, heart pounding as it rings. The phone said it was connected to a handful of satellites, which should be enough, but usually it gets signals from more than a dozen.
After a few rings, it connects, and I close my eyes in relief as a voice comes through, “Rescuer dispatch. Is this Team Montanus?”
“This is Montanus, Orion speaking,” I say.
“We’ve been trying to contact you. Your call was resolved half an hour ago, you need to leave the area immediately,” the operator says.
I radio my teammates, telling them to join me, before replying.
“Why didn’t you call the satellite phone?” I say flatly, or as flat as I can while yelling to be heard.
“We tried that, it didn’t go through. What’s your location?” the operator says.
I tell him our coordinates after checking the GPS. Our dot keeps shifting, but it’s a narrow enough range to give them an estimate of our whereabouts. We’ll be returning to our vehicles soon anyway.
“There’s an abandoned cabin a few miles from there. There’s no telling what kind of shape it’s in, but it’s your best bet,” he says.
“Was there an emergency call from there?” I ask. I don’t think the call cut out, but what he’s saying doesn’t make sense.
“No, it’s for your team. The edge of the blizzard is over you now, and it’s only going to get worse. You’d be walking right into it if you tried to go back to your station. Finding shelter is your safest option,” he says.
“What about the Hollvinrs?” I say.
“They left shortly after the dog returned. They called to let us know he’d been recovered, and we advised them to leave as soon as possible since the storm was coming in fast. They should be off the mountain ahead of it.”
“How do we get to this cabin?”
Henri and Charm checked the radar every twenty minutes, and it never indicated a blizzard like he’s suggesting. Though if our long-range equipment isn’tworking, it’s possible the storm was already blocking our signals.
“Hold,” the operator says.
