James Axler – Shadowfall

The trail had vanished, running out on the bare expanse of granite and wind-washed scree that lay just over the far side, before the trees began. The loose mass of tiny stones shifted as they started to move across it, with the risk of it gathering force into a full avalanche that might dash them helplessly into the valley far below.

Where the mutie pigs were waiting.

“Run it!” Ryan called. “Follow me, like this.”

The only safe way to get over the wide bed of scree was to run, taking great bounding strides, using the shingled movement of the stones to actually help you on your way, never waiting to let your feet sink deep into the sucking morass of pebbles, always keeping on the move.

It took great physical strength and agility, and Ryan was immediately aware of how much his wound was going to hinder him and slow him.

Every leaping step tugged the bandages away, opening the puckered holes wider, bringing a trickle of blood down over his buttocks and thighs.

“It’s great, Dad!” Dean whooped close behind him, overtaking him. He moved ahead of his father with an easy grace, toward the end of the scree and the beginning of the dense forest of dark spiky pines.

“Slow up, Dean!” Ryan yelled. “Get down and slide on your ass to slow.”

The boy heard him, waving a casual hand to acknowledge the instruction. But he found his own more effective way of slowing, zigzagging back and forth in short, tight turns, like an eager sailboat tacking up a narrow, winding channel against a strong head wind.

Ryan tried to emulate him, gasping out loud at the extra pressure it put on his back, nearly losing control and rolling helplessly.

But he fought the slide, gradually checking the frightening and exhilarating speed, reaching out and finally stopping himself by embracing the trunk of an elderly larch.

He was breathing hard, aware of his disgust at how his knees were trembling, his palms sweating, his fingers shaking.

Dean was forty or so yards to his right, punching his fist in the air in triumph.

“That was a real triple-hot pipe, Dad!” he called. “Best fun in ages.”

Ryan swallowed hard, controlling his breathing before answering the boy. “Pretty good, huh?”

“How’s that arrow wound, Dad?”

“Been better, thanks,” he replied, trying to ignore the steady warmth of fresh blood leaking through his clothes.

“Now what?”

“Now we keep our voices down. Pigs’ll have heard all that whooping. But they can’t see us this high up. We move through the trees, slow and careful. I want to try and get up to the head of the canyon.”

Under the spread branches, there were piles of dust-dry needles and cones,, enough to start a lethally ferocious fire if you weren’t really careful.

Or, if you were careful.

“WHAT’S THE SIGNAL, Dad?”

“I’ll fire a single shot into the air. Noise should carry easily enough, even out of the box canyon.”

“Might bring the brushwooders in after us if they’re in the area.”

“If they were going to come, they’d have been on our heels by now. Haven’t seen or heard a sign of them. Could be that they’re chasing after Krysty and the others. So, when you get your fire lit, watch out. You’re in more danger out on the trail than me snug in the canyon here.”

Dean’s face was bright with an unholy delight. “Love to see their fucking faces when they first see what’s coming rumbling their way.”

“Don’t say ‘fucking,’ Dean.”

“Trader says it all the time.”

“Trader’s his own man. Always was and always will be. That’s the problem between him and me since Abe brought him back to us. I’m the leader now. Trader can’t settle to that. It’s like him having a sand burr under his saddle. I’ve turned from being his trusted right-hand man for all those years to an itch that he somehow can’t get to scratch.”

“Will you have to fight him, Dad?”

It was a question that had been on Ryan’s mind ever since the grizzled old man with the battered Armalite had reappeared in his life.

“Hope not.”