Hostile Territory by Paul Greci

Author:Paul Greci
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Imprint

CHAPTER 52

“WE CAN’T CARRY IT WITH us,” Brooke says. “And even if we could, what good would it do?”

“Don’t you see? Someone packed this up and tried to conceal it.” Derrick points down at the waterproof gray bag the size of a washing machine. It holds a parachute and had been mostly covered with spruce boughs someone had cut to camouflage it. “They’ll be coming back for it.”

“It is the best sign we’ve had so far,” Shannon says, “even if it’s nothing conclusive. The boughs aren’t green. Either they cut up a dead tree to cover the parachute, or they were cut green and have since dried up.”

“What do you mean, not conclusive?” Derrick says. “We still haven’t even gotten to the spot where I saw that green thing.” He huffs. “They have to be related.”

“It could be a low priority now,” I say, “with the quake and all.”

“Why is this bag even here?” Brooke asks.

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Derrick says, “up there.” He points. “Where I saw the—”

“I know, I know,” Brooke says, “where you saw the green thing.” She says ‘green thing’ in this high-pitched, singsong voice.

It’s still hard to believe the green thing wasn’t just a tree, I think but don’t say. Instead, I say, “Let’s leave the chute and keep going. If nothing else, the sooner we get out of the trees and brush and back on the tundra, the easier the walking will be, and the easier it’ll be to get spotted by a plane or a helicopter.”

Shannon takes off her pack and pulls out her journal. “I’ll leave a note on the parachute saying who we are, where we’re from, and where we are going, on the outside chance that after we walk away from this thing the owner will come along.”

We all wave our arms to keep the mosquitoes away as Shannon writes. When she’s finished, she reads us what she’s written, and then she tucks the note just inside the gray bag.

She looks at Derrick. “Okay, Frank. Lead on.”

Derrick smirks at her. “You can thank me later.”

The uphill climb through the spruce forest would be hard enough given our lack of energy, but when you add in the thick brush, it brings us to a much higher level of punishment.

In some spots, the brush is so tall that it hangs down the slope, so instead of just having to step through it, we now have to deal with it being at eye level. In these places I use my arms, swimming the breaststroke uphill to keep the thorns off my face. I start to sweat, which makes my rain gear stick to me, and any cleanliness I felt after being submerged in the creek is replaced with the same old stink I’ve been exuding since the earthquake.

We hit a level spot and stop to rest. I pull out my water bottle and take a long drink.

“If we find another clearing,” Brooke says, “like the one we discovered earlier, can we stop for a rest?”

“You mean, can we set up the tents?” I ask, looking at her.

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