It was that moment that drove him now, more than the dead boy, more than all this bullshit about something stalking them. It was the moment when he chose to save himself over his brother. He had been out of air, and his body began to panic, the cold draining the life from him. Michael felt himself slipping. During drowning, the body involuntarily forces you to inhale, and Michael felt his mouth opening, the black water slipping in. It would be only a matter of seconds. Rather than plunging down farther, he kicked to the surface and Conner was gone.
But now Michael had seen him. Now he knew Conner was not gone. He was out there. He was up and moving, and that meant he was alive. Jonathan was full of shit. How can you deny something when you’ve seen it with your own eyes? He had seen his brother staring at him across that expanse of trees. Now was the time to strike out and make that final plunge.
Michael was as hungry and tired as he had ever been. It was cold, and the clouds rolling over the mountains meant more snow. If the snow came hard, it could cover Conner’s tracks, so he had to move fast to get to him and bring him back to the cabin. With any luck, Jonathan would have reached it by then and have gotten help. It was all a simple matter of risk and reward. He risked much tracking his brother through the forest now; he risked much trusting in Jonathan to reach the cabin and find help, but the reward was too great to ignore. It was a calculated risk – statistically, this was the only acceptable course of action.
Michael left Jonathan standing in the endless field, which disappeared into the sky. He turned to his right and began to move quickly, pounding through the snow, keeping his footing as best he could. Through a break in the trees, Michael took one last look over his shoulder and saw Jonathan watching him like a scarecrow in the maize. It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but getting Conner.
Michael reached the spot where he saw his brother staring at him like a ghost. He could see the tracks. Solid proof. Incontrovertible evidence. The tracks led up from the lake. Conner had followed parallel to them the whole hike up the hill toward the meadow. Now his tracks led south, toward the adjacent mountain, which bordered the pass. The tracks disappeared into the trees. Michael called for Conner as loudly as he could, waited, and then called again. There was no answer, only silence. Looking into the staggered trees rising from the snow, he thought he detected movement, something just behind them, just out of sight. He couldn’t see anything definite, as if his eyes saw something whose form his brain could not distinguish. He thought of a child playing hide-and-seek, trying to hide behind a tree not thick enough to completely shield him from view. There was something, but he could not make it out. Michael looked down at the tracks and followed.
He moved quickly at first, trying to run through the snow. His daily regimen of jogging several miles around the block, followed by a workout with free weights in his garage, kept him moving. But the extra gear – the heavy backpack, the rifle, the hunting suit – slowed him down. The previous long days of hiking meant his legs were already sore and burning; the lack of food made him weak, and the thin, cold air hurt his lungs. But he kept his bouncing pace, slipping occasionally on the slope covered with the wet snow.
The tracks continued past the edge of the meadow and then turned and began to climb up the slope of the southern mountain. Fuck. How had Conner gone this far so quickly? Michael stopped, breathing heavily. The tracks seemed to trail on forever and again turned sharply up the mountain, moving straight up the incline. But they were there, and they were real; there was no doubt. Michael caught his breath for a moment. He called for Conner again but there was no answer.
He made a decision then, another calculated risk: drop the backpack here so he could move faster and better navigate the steep mountain. He could make better time, catch up with Conner and then follow his own tracks back to his gear. He kept the rifle, just in case of bear, or to signal rescuers by firing shots in the air. Michael unloaded the backpack and found a strong limb jutting out from a thick yellow birch. He hung the pack and strapped the rifle tight across his back so it wouldn’t bounce on his shoulders as he hiked. It seemed a momentous decision, but at times like these certain gambles had to be made. Besides, there wasn’t much in the pack that would help anyway. Jonathan had the tent. The food was gone. All he had was a sleeping bag and some tools. He should have reached Conner by now. Michael’s pace should have overtaken a weak, confused and injured man. He figured it would not be much longer. Conner would just be a little farther, beyond the trees. He had to push himself a little harder, move a little faster. Conner would be slowed down on the climb. Michael could catch up, get his brother and head for the cabin. They wouldn’t be able to make it by nightfall – especially if Conner were injured or in shock – but if they kept moving they wouldn’t freeze.
It was Michael’s only chance to bring his brother back from the dark depths; to bring him back from the dead was worth anything, even if it meant his own life.
Michael followed his Conner’s tracks
