The Unchipped

Chapter 11

Sara did not like the look of the sky. It was overcast with a light gray blanket, shifting darker towards the west. If the prevailing winds remained in charge, the worst of the sky would be overhead in a few hours. Ignoring her growing hunger, she applied more determination to her steps. Rain had been a distant thought while bathed in the sun yesterday, but now it looked imminent.

The hill she targeted was intermittently visible during breaks in the trees. Images of large boulders where the foliage was sparse increased as she neared. The number suggested plenty of natural crevices, hopefully at least one with a roof that would block the worst of a storm. She remembered squeezing between two boulders when she was ten, thrilled by Papa's inability to fit - a place she could go that a grownup couldn't follow. The memory gave her more faith that other nooks and crannies would be available.

Squirrels were out in force, scampering up trees as Sara broke through bushes and onto a well-worn path. It was probably a trail she had walked before, though the forest cloaked any landmark that might prove it true. There was no one near, or at least no one that could be sensed. She stayed on the trail to speed travel and beat the darkening clouds to boulder hill.

The path was more water-worn as it began to steepen. Ankle-deep furrows made Sara jump from one side to the other, glad that the ground was bone dry. The ever-darkening sky did not bode well for that condition to remain for long. Parts of the incline were steep enough to require help from the bordering trees, their trunks acting as sanctuaries for brief rests that her thighs appreciated. She was breathing hard, realizing that she had chosen a difficult path. There was an easier way up, of that she was sure. There was no memory of the climb she was making now. It was too late to choose another angle of ascent, so she ignored the soreness in her legs and continued.

The trees became sparse as she neared the summit. Rocks began to replace dirt, and they soon grew into boulders the size of small cars. The first she climbed past were like half-buried eggs, offering no shelter. There were others up higher, sticking up from the ground like eroded sentinels, some fallen over the others. That was her target. She sat on a smooth boulder for one last rest before finishing the climb. The sky hadn't darkened much more, so there was hope that the expected rain was just a feint from mother nature.

A bird was flying impossibly high to the west. Sara watched it approach and was surprised by its unerring direction. She'd seen hawks that high before, but they usually swirled about hunting or rose and fell in the thermals. This bird held direction and altitude with precision as if it was more arrow than animal.

Sara quickly checked the remainder of the sky and spotted four other birds on parallel courses. Either hawks had learned to synchronize their hunting, or they weren't birds at all. It became apparent that it wasn't distance cloaking the flapping of wings. They were flying wolves of the mechanical type. There were a hundred reasons for such a sortie to be launched, but only one made sense, and it sent fear surging through her veins.

A quick search of her surroundings left Sara with two choices. Go back down to the thicker trees, or finish the climb and hide among the boulders. She had seen hunts for fugitives on the news with a bird's eye view of the capture. Trees were poor camouflage for infrared, so climbing to the boulders was it. Her only hope was that the drone's sensors were concentrated down and not forward. She half-ran, half-crawled uphill, her legs somehow forgetting about being exhausted.

The first drone Sara had spotted would pass the closest. She kept looking back; each time it was nearer and moving much faster than her poor legs could carry her. The ground began to level as she neared the apex. Ahead, there was a once-tall boulder toppled over another. It would be a squeeze, but the gap between them looked generous enough to accept her entire body. A hundred feet away, at most.