Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“Probably just a deer,” Jensen says, but he doesn’t lower the rifle. “Trail narrows ahead. We need to go single file, nice and slow. Eli, take point. I’ll bring up the rear.”
The reorganization happens quickly, efficiently, everyone taking their new positions without question.
But as we move forward, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being herded, guided along this ancient path toward something waiting ahead. The thought is irrational, I know, a product of altitude, exhaustion, and Hank’s contagious paranoia.
But rationality does little to quiet the alarm bells ringing in my mind, and the conversation with Jensen earlier about pioneers who “transformed,” coupled with the fact that I was attacked by a rabid horse the other night, doesn’t help.
The sky begins to change as we near the summit, brilliant blue giving way to streaks of high, thin clouds that race across the sun, casting the landscape in alternating light and shadow. The temperature drops noticeably with each passing cloud, the wind growing sharper, more insistent.
“Weather’s turning,” Cole mutters as we pause to let the horses catch their breath. “Wasn’t supposed to storm today.”
“Mountains make their own weather,” Eli replies, his eyes on the darkening western horizon beyond the peaks. “We need to reach the pass before it hits.”
Jensen, who’s been unnervingly quiet since the incident with Duke, nods in agreement. “Another hour, maybe less if we push.”
I’ve given up trying to pretend I’m not affected by the altitude. My head throbs with each heartbeat, and the world has taken on a slightly surreal quality, edges too sharp, colors too vivid. I sip water mechanically, knowing dehydration will only make it worse, and stretch my aching limbs on the ground beside Duke who is munching on some sparse grass.
“How you holding up?” Jensen asks, appearing beside me.
“Fine,” I manage, though the word comes out breathier than I intended.
His eyes narrow, unconvinced. “We’re nearly there. Just a little further. You’re doing good, Blondie.”
That brings a smile from me, along with a swimmy feeling in my stomach. Pretty pathetic, considering he was eating me out this morning. Every time I’m reminded of it, it feels more like a fever dream. Did that really happen between us?
Then Hank calls out, his voice tight with alarm.
“Look!”
We all turn toward where he’s pointing, back down the trail we came up, where it disappears around a bend. At first, I see nothing. Then a shape moves into view, distant but unmistakable. A figure, standing motionless on the path.
“Is that…a person?” Red asks, squinting against the sun.
The figure is too far away to make out clearly, but something about its stillness sends chills through me. No hiker would stand like that, so utterly immobile in the biting wind.
Seeming to stare right at us.
Jensen raises his rifle, peering through the scope, and for a moment I fear he’s going to shoot the person. Then, whatever he sees causes his jaw to tighten before he lowers it.
“Mount up,” he orders, voice clipped. “Now.”
“What is it?” I press, but he’s already swinging onto Jeopardy’s back. “Who is it?”
“Now, Aubrey.”
The urgency in his voice propels me into action. I scramble onto Duke, wincing as my stiff muscles protest. The others follow suit, no one but me questioning Jensen’s sudden shift in demeanor.
We press on at a pace that borders on reckless given the narrow trail and steep drops. The horses sense our anxiety, their ears pinned back, nostrils flaring. Twice Duke nearly stumbles on loose shale, and I have to fight to keep the both of us on the trail.
“They’re gone now,” Cole says, but no one responds. We don’t turn around either, just keep riding forward.
The trail curves around a massive outcropping, then begins a final ascent toward the ridgeline above. As we climb, the wind shifts, now carrying the scent of diesel and asphalt—a jarringly modern but welcome intrusion that signals we’re nearing Interstate 80 that now crosses Donner Pass.
“Almost there,” Jensen calls back, though his voice is nearly lost in the gusting wind.
The summit appears suddenly as we crest the final rise, a saddle between peaks, where the mountains briefly part to allow passage from one side to the other. The view is breathtaking, both literally and figuratively at this altitude: the steel-blue expanse of Donner Lake below, the endless procession of Sierra peaks stretching to the horizon, the distant ribbon of the interstate cutting through the pass.
But it’s what lies directly ahead that draws my attention, a series of dark openings carved into the mountainside. Tunnels, their entrances like gaping wounds in the pale granite.
“The old railroad tunnels,” Eli explains, seeing my expression. “Built in 1867, abandoned when they rerouted the line in the 1990s.”
“We’re going through there?” The prospect of entering those dark maws makes my already racing heart skip a beat, even though there are ugly signs of civilization with countless graffiti tags across the rock.