Page 56 of Not This Place

Guttural sounds echoed from the distance— a call of the wild or another human out in the vast wilderness? She couldn’t tell in the darkness swallowing them whole. She needed to reach Ethan. Their only chance at survival was their coordinated efforts.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a radio— thankfully waterproof— clicking it on with wet fingers.

"Ethan," she said into the device, her voice hushed but firm. "I’ve got him."

Rachel's words hung in the air for a moment.

No response.

She frowned, glancing down.

The screen was dead. She stared. Waterproof, wasn’t it? Shit. She tried turning it on again, shaking it.

But the screen remained blank.

Rachel swore under her breath. The radio was their lifeline, their only means of communication in this vast wilderness. She examined it once more, but the screen remained unflinchingly blank. Broken, perhaps due to their tumble down the gulley.

She stuffed the useless radio back into her pocket, casting a glance at the captive gunman. The man was visibly shaking from cold and apprehension, his body drawn into a defensive huddle.

"Stay here," she directed him sternly.

He grunted in response, a sound somewhere between relief and resignation.

Rachel took a few steps away from him, keeping an eye fixated on him. But he seemed too exhausted to fling himself back in the river.

Instead, he just sat hunched, trembling and dripping on the shore.

Her own gaze returned to the tree line. The river had moved fast, carrying them far, far down the wilderness.

The terrain was steep, and the trees lining the shore provided a nearly unpassable barricade.

“Shit,” she whispered under her breath.

A hunter was still out there, and he had a scope. They needed to keep moving. But if they head back up the river bank, they’d be spotted.

If they kept going south, though, they would go deeper into the wilderness.

They had to circle around. Cross the river and cut into a highway where they could flag a ride.

She nodded, reaching a decision.

“To your feet,” she snapped, aiming her gun at the man on the ground. “Move. Now!”

Reluctantly, he struggled to his feet.

Casting a wary glance at Rachel, he followed her as she moved away from the bank, back into the dark forest. Her senses were heightened, every shadow a potential threat. But she kept moving, one eye on their path and the other on her captive.

As they pressed on, Rachel felt the unmistakable rumbling of thunder in the distance. A storm was rolling in. The air tasted of wet earth and rain, and the first droplets were soon hitting the leaves overhead, drumming out a staccato rhythm that echoed across the dense woodland.

Despite her circumstances, Rachel felt a familiar chill of anticipation. She had always been good under pressure—thrived

on it even. Her mind was clear and focused; her every thought was how to stay alive and outmaneuver their pursuer. They had to move fast and silently, with no room for mistakes.

Her eyes flickered again to the gunman trudging along beside her. He was quiet now, subdued by their dire predicament. His previous bravado had deserted him, leaving a raw fear that prickled at Rachel's own nerves.

"Listen carefully," she murmured to him without slowing their pace. Her tone left no room for doubt or disobedience. "We need to cross this river. We're being hunted."

The man looked at her, his eyes wide in the gloom. He was already shaking from their earlier dunking—Rachel could see the visible tremors wracking his body—but he gave a small nod of understanding.

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