Resurrection Pass by Kurt Anderson

Author:Kurt Anderson [Anderson, Kurt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-01-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Jake stood at the top of the ridge, bent over with his hands at his hips. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and there was a sharp pain in his side as though he’d been stabbed. In front of him the tents were a bright jumble of colors, still covered in dew from the night before. There was no smoke from the fire, but he could smell it as he sucked in breath after breath, the sharp, acrid scent of the blackened embers. It was a welcome smell after the constant boggy odor of the river bottom. The rain clouds had not arrived yet, but he could see the front coming, a low bank of dark clouds scuttling in from the west.

Below and behind him, no more than the length of three football fields, the rest of his party was huddled on the rock pad. There were still several seams of mud from where the ground had opened up the day before. From up here it looked, if not peaceful, then at least unremarkable. If they had been unhurt, it would be just as easy for each of them to do what he had done, weave across the valley floor and up the slope, staying on rocks where possible, until the ground steepened and grew hard under his feet. Then up to this place, this wooded highland forest that was so much safer, so much more accommodating, than the muddy valley below.

A thought circled his mind, gaining traction with each breath.

Leave them.

There was nothing hostile in the thought. Other than Warren, he didn’t dislike any of the survivors below. They were all different people with different faults, none of them saints nor devils. It was not their fault that this, whatever this was, had happened. They had drilled into it, yes, but similar acts of intrusion the world over had been met with shrugging acceptance by the ground. Of course, those places were not Asiskiwiw.

He straightened and filled his lungs with the cool, pre-rain air. Asiskiwiw, the muddy valley, also known as Resurrection Valley. The former name had been around for a long, long time, ever since Jake’s father’s people had drifted south and east to this place, where the moose and caribou were thick and the rivers were full of fish. The other name, the English version, was newer, a reflection of the Christian religion that had infiltrated the region with the French, then later the British fur traders.

Below him a shout drifted up, cutting off his thoughts. One of the members of the party—he thought it was likely Warren—waved his arms over his head. Yes, it was Warren, and he could see Jake standing there on top of the ridge, above the panic and out of danger. The shout came again, undecipherable but the meaning was clear: Get your ass moving, Trueblood.

Leave them.

Turn and walk into the woods. Leave them with their drill rig and their wounded and dead bodies—let them clean up their own mess. It was early, barely autumn.

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