Page 22 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The trail cuts through a dense stand of pines, branches heavy with snow that dumps on us as we brush past. At least here we'resheltered from the worst of the wind. I slow my pace, let Sierra close the gap between us. In conditions like this, losing sight of your guide means dying alone in the dark.
That's when I hear it.
A sound that doesn't belong. Sharp crack of a branch breaking, direction unclear through the storm. Could be wildlife—elk moving to lower elevation, maybe a bear still active despite the season. Could be nothing, just the mountain settling under the weight of snow.
Could be someone following us.
I stop, hold up a fist. Military signal Sierra probably doesn't recognize, but she freezes anyway. Good instincts.
Listen. Filter out the wind, the hiss of falling snow, the rasp of my own breathing. There. Again. Movement in the trees to our left, maybe thirty yards out. Too deliberate for wildlife. Too close for comfort.
"Chris?" Sierra's whisper barely carries over the wind.
"Quiet."
Another thirty seconds of silence. Nothing moves. Maybe I'm paranoid, seeing threats where there's only weather and exhaustion. Wouldn't be the first time eleven months of isolation has made me jumpy.
But staying alive means trusting paranoia.
"We keep moving," I say, low and urgent. "Fast as you can. Don't stop for anything."
"What did you?—"
"Move."
She moves. We both do, faster now, caution sacrificed for speed. The trail climbs steeper, and my lungs burn with the effort. Sierra's breathing comes harsh and ragged behind me, but she keeps pace. Whatever she heard in my voice convinced her not to question.
The terrain opens up again, exposed ridge that takes the full force of the wind. Snow stings my face like needles. Visibility drops to nothing, and I navigate by memory and feel—the slope of the ground, the texture of rock versus frozen earth, the way sound changes when you're near a drop-off.
No more sounds behind us. If someone was there, we've lost them in the storm. Or they've lost us. Either way, we need to get to shelter before exposure does what bullets couldn't.
The trek takes nearly two hours in the storm. My shoulders ache from breaking trail through fresh powder, and my ribs still protest every deep breath.
The shelter appears like a ghost through the storm—just a darker shadow against the mountainside, barely visible even when you're looking for it. It's dug into the slope beneath a rock outcropping, reinforced lean-to style with a tarp and branches that blend into the terrain. Small. Maybe eight by ten feet, and half of that's the sleeping platform. I've been living here since August, when my first shelter became compromised and the idea of four walls started feeling like a trap.
It's not much. Cramped. Cold. But it's kept me alive.
Sierra stops just outside the opening to the shelter, chest heaving, snowflakes clinging to her dark hair and eyelashes. She takes it all in with those sharp analytical eyes: the efficient setup, the hidden nature of it, the way everything speaks to survival rather than comfort.
"So this is where ghosts live," she says.
I don't respond. Move past her to check the perimeter alarms, make sure nothing's been disturbed while I was gone. Everything's intact. Good. I lead her to the protected spot twenty feet from the shelter entrance where I've set up my fire pit—positioned so the rock outcropping above disperses smoke, and the storm will swallow what little escapes. I kick snow away and start building a fire with practiced efficiency—bark shavings,small kindling, larger pieces arranged for maximum heat and minimum smoke. The lighter catches on the first try. Flames lick up, hungry and alive.
"Sit," I tell her, pulling a thermal blanket from the shelter. "Before you freeze to death."
She takes the blanket without argument and sinks down onto a flat rock near the fire. Her hands shake as she wraps the metallic fabric around her shoulders. Adrenaline crash mixing with the cold, the reality of what almost happened back at that cabin finally hitting.
I make coffee, because that's something I can do. Something concrete and practical that doesn't require conversation. The tin pot goes on the fire, snow melted down and mixed with grounds from my dwindling supply. It'll taste like dirt and desperation, but it'll be hot.
The storm rages beyond our small protected area. Wind howls across the mountain, but under this overhang we're sheltered. Almost peaceful, if peace is something that can exist when someone's trying to kill you.
I hand Sierra a tin cup. She wraps both hands around it, breathing in the steam.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"Don't thank me yet."
She looks at me across the flames, and the light catches the angles of her face—high cheekbones, determined jaw, eyes that have seen things most people only read about in newspapers. She studies me the same way, cataloging details. The scars on my hands from eleven months of mountain living. The stiffness in my movements from injuries that never got proper medical care.
