Page 107 of One Step Too Far

I have my pack. Miggy has his. But we have so few supplies left it hardly matters. Help, Miggy said. We must get help for Scott and Neil.

But not Bob. No longer for Bob.

I take a tree branch to the face. My eyes well again, needles adhering to my cheeks, lodging in my mouth.

“Sorry,” Miggy gasps. He’s faster than me, taking the crazy-steep sections with a rapid-fire sidestep I try to emulate but can’t.

We hit a narrow gurgling stream. I fall to my hands and knees. I think of Neil, his head resting in the water as he laughed with his friends. I remember Scott, instructing me to slice open his own chest with a good-natured smile.

I don’t want to get up again.

“Frankie,” Miggy gasps.

“A tree killed them. A tree killed our friends.”

Miggy splashes back to me. He scoops up a handful of water and uses it to scrub the needles and mucus from my face. His dark eyes are so large, so intent, as he peers into mine.

“I saw him,” he says.

“The tree man?”

“Full army camo. Short branches stuck into his hat. Textured shooting gloves. He had a black bandana over the lower part of his face and some kind of high-tech goggles over his eyes. That’s why the bear spray didn’t help. He was prepared, Frankie. Outfitted, geared up for anything and everything.”

“We’ve been outclassed since the very beginning.”

Miggy nods. “In my worst nightmares, I never imagined something like this. This guy, he’s hard-core. He’s ready.”

“At least you shot him.”

“I winged him. At best.”

“Scott and Neil?” I can barely say their names.

“I hid them. Tucked them away behind the bushes. Neil’s head took a second hit. He regained consciousness long enough to vomit. He and Scott. They can’t make it out of these woods, Frankie.”

“We’re not going to make it out of these woods.”

Miggy doesn’t deny it.

“This is how Tim died,” Miguel states at last. “All these years, I’ve wondered. Now I know.”

He pulls me to standing. I let him. We’re both soaked. And yet I can still feel the blood caked beneath my nails, embedded in the palms of my hands.

“I have five bullets left,” he says.

I understand. “It’s a race now. Can we make it out of these woods before he finds us again.” I start smiling then, I just can’t help myself.

“What’s so funny?”

“You and me. We’re the weakest links. Remember? First day hiking up. Of everyone, we’re the ones who struggled the most. And now, of everyone, we’re the only two left.”

“Ironic, I know.”

He doesn’t get it yet. I smile again, and now I scoop up a handful of water to rub the dirt and blood from his face. My fingers are gentle. I feather them across his brow, the planes of his cheeks, the underside of his jaw. It will not make my next words any easier to take.

“Strategy for taking down a group,” I murmur softly. “You start by eliminating the strongest members first. Nemeth. Luciana. Martin. Bob. We are the weakest links. And for our reward, he is saving us for last.”

Miggy places his hands over mine. He replies, very somberly, “I wanted to go golfing that weekend. I would’ve been happy to just fucking whack a little white ball around eighteen holes.”

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