Page 67 of High Frequency

I suspect the entire bottom of this gulley is flooded during the winter runoff, since the bottom is rockier here, slippery with moss and lichen. I have to watch my footing. The last thing I want is to slip and mess up an ankle.

Once I reach the bend, I’m able to see where at the end of the winter, the water would start flowing down the mountain. In spring this would be a waterfall, but right now it’s not more than a trickle finding its way down the pile of rocks and larger boulders filling the far end of this valley.

A pile of rocks I might be able to climb.

I can’t go back the other way and make myself an easy target, when the shooter could still be up there, and I can’t count on someone else coming to rescue me. Hell, I don’t even know if anyone would’ve heard those muffled shots. Normally a rifle discharge would make a sharp cracking sound, but these were dull snaps, most likely suppressed. It’s more than possible those guys have no idea what’s going on, and are on their way to that clearing I asked them to find. I may have lured them right into the sights of that shooter.

I’ll have to get myself out of this gorge and then backtrack along the ridge. Hopefully, I can approach whoever is up there without being seen, and keep the element of surprise on my side.

All of that is assuming the shooter is still up there.

Only one way to find out.

The rocks are treacherous, slimy and slick, and I’m having a hard time keeping my footing.

Pausing to catch my breath, I lean back a little to look up the rest of the way. I’m about fifty or sixty feet from the top, but those remaining feet are a lot steeper. I already tucked my gun back in its holster, needing both hands to climb, but I feel like an easy target.

I can do this.

I’m not exactly sure how much time has passed but, glancing up to the patches of sky visible through the tree cover, I’m guessing it’s mid-afternoon. The last thing I want is to still be stuck on this mountain when darkness falls. I have only a general idea of where I am in relation to base camp, or how long it will take me to get back there. Plus, there’s the matter of the shooter between me and the others. Unless, of course, he’s already gone, but I won’t know that until I get to the top.

Determined, I resume my climb, making sure my foothold is solid before shifting my weight. I’m so focused on getting to the top, I don’t notice the branch hanging low over the ledge.

Or the owl perched on the tip of it.

But when it suddenly lets go, swooping close before it flies off, it startles me enough to lose my footing. For a moment I’m literally hanging on by my fingertips as my feet try to find purchase, but then they slip and I land hard on the next rock down, twisting my ankle.

I can’t hold back the yelp as a sharp pain shoots up my leg, and I sink down on my ass. My eyes sting with tears, but I blink them away. That fucking hurts.

I may well have just royally screwed myself.

Taking in a few deep breaths, I wait until the sharp edge of the pain ebbs to a steady throb. I don’t think I broke it, but I don’t want to take off my hiking boot to check. I may not be able to get it back on. Grabbing the radio from my pocket, I try to call out again, but the moment I depress the button, all I get is a high-pitched squeal, followed by static.

I’m not going to be able to call for help so it’s up to me to get my ass out of here. There’s only about twenty feet to go to the edge. Once I’m up there, I hope I’ll have more luck here putting out a call, so the sooner I get up there, the better.

Pulling myself up, I tentatively test my ankle, putting a little weight on it. The pain has me grit my teeth, but the ankle itself seems to hold. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk on it much, but right now my main worry is getting up these last twenty feet.

With my jaw clenched and sweat running down my face and back from the effort, I manage to get up high enough I can almost reach the edge with my fingertips. Almost, but not quite, and the rock up to the ledge is worn smooth by the water, nothing for my hands or feet to grab hold of.

So close, and yet so far.

I sink down on my butt to get off my ankle, and battle tears of frustration. I could head back down a bit and try to follow a different route up. There may be an easier climb to my right. But first I need a break, I’m getting pretty dehydrated. Unfortunately, my water and my granola bars are in my pack down in the gorge.

I’m suddenly not so sure I’ll be able to get myself out of this situation. A growing sense of panic has bile surge up from my stomach and I fight to keep it down. Panic is the most unproductive emotion; it paralyzes if you let it.

Desperate for something to do, I pull free my walkie-talkie again. Surely, I’ll be able to transmit something from here, I’m almost at the top. But when I depress the button, once again the walkie-talkie makes all kinds of noise. It’s not until I try to figure out how to adjust the frequency, I notice the metal casing of the radio has a deep dent I’m pretty sure wasn’t there before. It also looks like one of the buttons next to the short antenna is missing. When my hand automatically wanders to the pocket where I’d tucked the radio, I find a hole in the fabric.

That is definitely new.

Holy shit.

I’ve been in survival mode, not really thinking about the fact someone was taking potshots at me. Of course I never realized how close I came to actually getting hit. I’m thinking about it now.

As I lean my head against the cool rock and close my eyes for a moment, Aspen’s beautiful little face pops in my mind. For the first time since the bullets started flying, I allow myself to cry.

I cry until my tears run dry and my eyes feel gritty and swollen. I would kill for a drink of water, but that’s not going to happen unless I get moving. I can’t sit here all day.

Tilting my head back, I open my eyes and look up at the ridge…

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