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A SHORT TIME LATER, the meandering waterway took a sharp turn to the south, and there he discovered a much larger outcropping of rocks in the crook of the stream. Amos studied the sprawling boulders with a critical eye, and knew he’d found as good a spot as any for crossing.
He centered the weight of the rucksack as best he could, and picked his way gingerly over the water-soaked jumble of rocks.
All of his concentration was required in choosing the most secure foot and handholds. His inner voice protested with vehemence, sounding the alarm over his lack of attention to his surroundings.
What other option do I have? Amos couldn’t think of any. I can’t fall into the water, so I’ll just have to risk it.
Fear retreated to a respectful but wary distance. Its icy tendrils refused to loosen their grip, urging him to make a speedy crossing. At least I don’t have to worry about being quiet. The rapids will cover any noise.
He crested the last boulder, sliding down to dry land. Well, almost dry land. Directly before him lay a muddy patch of ground, scored and torn. He crouched down, surveying the scene through narrowed eyes, absorbing every possible detail from the evidence.
A spirited struggle had transpired by the edge of the stream, judging by the churned and ripped earth in front of him.
Amos considered, for a brief moment, leaving some bloodstained evidence of his own, just to throw any pursuers off his scent.
Or perhaps he could plant the idea he’d come to an unfortunate and bloody end. It might—just might—be enough to dissuade his pursuers. But he had a gut feeling there simply wasn’t enough time to do a convincing job. Time was no longer an ally.
You don’t have that much blood to spare, either. His inner voice managed to sound practical and mocking at the same time. Not if you expect to keep the same pace.
Fear advised against any delay as well. Self-doubt joined on its heels, reminding him of the legendary abilities of the Trackers. His decision was made for him.
Amos skirted the edge of the muddy patch, pressing deeper into the forest. After the steep descent on the opposite side of the stream, the renewed uphill climb put heavy weights on his feet, slowing him down.
But the terrain was beginning to look familiar. Thick, towering pines surrounded him, their defiant roots anchored in the rocky ground, interspersed with ever-larger boulders and jumbled piles of stone. He was getting close.
For a moment, his inner voice balked as the still-unanswered question raised its head again. Did you tell the Story to anyone? Let anything slip? An unguarded reference to your past? A thoughtless comment?
Amos refused to be distracted by the nagging inner voice. The sun moved further west as he continued south. Or south-by-south-east, he guessed. His exact direction was no longer clear, muddled by his many twists and turns. But the landmarks, recalled from a much earlier time, were still as fresh in his memory as the first time he’d been here. When the Story began.
An outcropping of boulders, so high they formed a mini-cliff, benignly enforced another turn. He staggered down a short incline, and forged his way up the opposite side. He reached for a branch to pull himself to the top of the ridge, and then jerked his hand back.
Sure, pull on the branch! Maybe strip the leaves off as a pointer for Them to follow! Maybe re-open those cuts on your hand for a good blood-scent! Get it together, Amos!
The shadows lengthened at an alarming rate. Nightfall would come quickly after the sun set. The prospect of wandering blindly in the dark, feeling his way, was not a welcome one.
Amos dug deep into what remained of his adrenaline, quickening his steps. He paused only long enough to cover his back-trail as best he could in the final push to his goal.
A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he rounded another small boulder-cliff and spotted the cave’s entrance. His memory hadn’t led him astray.
Amos surveyed the dark opening with a critical eye, striving for an elusive objectivity. He was encouraged to realize the entrance was difficult to see. The cave remained well-hidden, unless one already knew where to look.
The underbrush was sparse on the steep slope, compared to the profusion of new spring growth framing the stream below. What little foliage there was served as an effective mask for the cave’s location.
Hope outweighed exhaustion as he navigated the steeper incline. Despite his weariness, he took extra time to ensure his tracks were all but invisible behind him. No sense in getting sloppy this late in the game.
He took one last cautionary look around. The forested slopes remained as silent as an empty cathedral, and even the rushing stream was muted by the distance. Amos cupped a hand over his bandaged ribs as he inhaled, and ducked down, crawling into the dusky recesses of his underground refuge.
The stone was rough under his hands and knees, and he paused for a moment as the cuts and bruises on his palm scraped painfully on the gritty surface. He sniffed cautiously, but smelled nothing to suggest the cave had become an animal’s lair.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom as he scanned the interior of his hiding place. The cave was as large as he’d imagined it, putting to rest any worries his memory had painted it more spacious than it was. A wave of relief washed over him, almost—but not quite—masking the icy presence of fear in his gut.
Amos shucked off his pack, pulling out a small lantern he’d wisely included in his hasty packing. Was it just yesterday? The ambush caught all of us off-guard. He shook his head, positioning the lantern to prevent its rays from betraying his presence outside the cave mouth.
He crawled deeper underground, and found the spot he was looking for. The cave was where the Story began, but it was the lowest part of the cave where the Story’s epicenter resided.
He reached into a crevice, his fingers brushing against the familiar piece of rock.
The one which slid to the right, if you knew just how. A useless pocket of space lay behind it, too small for hiding anything of value.
Almost useless. But not today. Not tonight.
He opened his pack a second time, removing the incriminating item—his Implant. He stared at it for a long moment, feeling anew the peculiar combination of fascination and revulsion. It lay dormant in his palm stained brown-red with dried blood. His blood.
To his relief, the diminutive piece of technology fit with ease into the pocket-sized space in the crevice. There were even a few centimeters to spare.
He slid the smooth rock back into place and pulled his hand out of the crevice with a small smile of satisfaction. His plan, hastily concocted, was working.
Don’t pop the champagne just yet. His inner voice scoffed at his brief sense of triumph. You’re playing a dangerous game, and Hoarders don’t play by the rules. Any rules.
For once, he didn’t argue. His life was filled with more than enough regret and guilt, and the Hoarders’ ambush at the Mission only added another layer. He was safe, for the moment, but there was no way of knowing how the other Runners had fared.
That didn’t prevent him from enjoying a sense of cold accomplishment. So far, so good.
He’d escaped the ambush at the Mission, and as far as he could tell, he’d made it out of the City without being followed. His Implant was hidden at the bottom of the cave, and as long as the Story remained untold, the Hoarders would have no reason to search for it there.
A lot had happened in twenty-four hours, but he’d made it this far. Tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow was another day.
Amos rolled onto his back, staring up at the shadowy recesses in the cave’s ceiling. Physical and emotional exhaustion conspired to overwhelm him, and he slept.