SAWYER
Time creeps into the night as I make my way through the thick forest, the temperature gradually diving, the light of the full moon dimmed by a fat cloud—drenched in dark gray. The humid air teases the oncoming rain which will make it harder to see the traps littering the ground, but even worse, harder to hear.
I listen intently for voices, the snap of twigs, the shuffle of brush, but so far, five thousand seventy-five steps into the trees, there’s been no sign of anyone. No sign of the mines, no sign of a cluster of Keepers guarding them, no sign really of anything but traps.
I walk another three hundred eighty-four steps, scanning the flashlight’s beam along the ground in search of rope or metal, piled leaves, unusual depressions, unnatural disturbances in the Earth. Every quarter mile, the traps seem to grow more dense, so Imustbe getting closer to the money, but…
“Fuck,” I hiss, slowing to a stop while shining the flashlight around at nothing.
Over two miles in, climbing quickly toward three…
I had to have veered off course.
“Son of abitch.” Clicking off the flashlight, I look into the distance all around, searching for even a flicker of lamplight.
Nothing.
Except…
I look to my left, eyes squinting into the distance not to see, but to hear. There’s a faint noise. Very faint, but high pitched. Human.
Crying. A high-pitched wail that becomes clearer when I close my eyes, crane my ear toward the sound.
Is that a … baby?
I blink my eyes open.
A baby… Three miles deep into the woods littered with animal traps, in forty degree temperature, with clouds threatening rain.
Am I hallucinating?
A nervous tremble slips into my laugh, something unsettled buried beneath. My arms jerk as something slithers up the cliff of my shoulder blades, and I squeeze my back to fight the sensation.
Ridiculous.
I’m not my mother.
I did not inherit her fucking disease.
Shaking my head, I click the flashlight and continue forward, memorizing a fallen tree so I can switch directions without getting lost. I count my steps away from the crying, but the quieter the noise gets, the harder it is to push forward.
I’m tired… I’mjusttired…
But is that a real fucking baby?
I stop again, the flashlight turning into a strobe light as I tap it against my knee. It’s weak, but I can still hear the cry. A minute passes without the wails ceasing, no indication that someone is trying to soothe the infant.
Looking ahead, I shine the flashlight over the landscape but don’t take another step. I don’t think I can.
“Goddamn it.” I turn toward the sound and start that way, spotting more traps with every passing minute. The forest becomes a minefield to navigate, the flashlight pointed at the ground as I move with caution, tossing leaves up with a stick and side-stepping every covered patch of earth.
I don’t know how far I walk before realizing I haven’t been counting steps. Anxiety creeps into my lungs, filling the tiny gaps, making it harder to take in air.
I keep moving.
As the wail grows louder, there’s no question it’s coming from a baby. If it’s a hallucination, it’s a vivid one, and the possibility is almost more frightening than finding an actual infant in the middle of a forest. Goosebumps spread over my arms with a chill that rolls through me.
I pick up my pace, weaving around dangerous ground I don’t even stop to catalogue. When the noise sounds like it’s right in front of me, I jerk the flashlight over the area, searching for an adult who isn’t there.
