Untraceable

Survival Skill #23

Signs of passage include signature footprints, broken limbs, or flattened vegetation.

~

“Are we there yet?” Wyn calls out from a few yards back as he crashes through the leaves.

I continue sliding through the underbrush without any issue. Daylight is fighting for extra time as darkness invades. The sky has blackened and the rain has already started. Every fifteen feet or so, I stop and wait for Wyn to catch up. “You hike like a girl.”

“How would you know?” Wyn’s breath comes out in spurts. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t had this much exercise since we were five.

I can’t help but stifle a snicker when he gets tangled in a web of branches and begins battling against the menacing vines. My little woodland warrior. “You sure you’re okay?”

He pushes a branch that slaps him back in the face. “No.” A few steps later, he breaks free and trots to catch up. “At the risk of sounding like a total sissy, I should have changed my shoes. These Converses are toast.” He lifts up khaki-colored shoes soaked in mud. How Wyn ended up so neat while living in a small mountain town is one of North Carolina’s greatest mysteries.

“I’m not even going to respond to that.” I break off a crooked stick and hand it to him. “This might help.”

Wyn grabs the thick branch and chuckles. “Three legs are better than one.”

I flick his ear. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

His face scrunches up as if he’s sucked on a lemon. “If I kissed my mother, you’d have more to worry about than my sick sense of humor and sexual innuendos.”

“Hm. Good point.”

Wyn and I walk for a few more miles, chatting about nothing, ribbing each other, and getting digs in whenever we can. When we reach the top of the trail, it splits into two. We veer right and head up. The deeper we travel into the woods, the darker it gets.

As soon as we reach another mile marker, I check my GPS. “We’re almost there.”

He rests on a boulder and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “Why does it have to be so hot?”

I take a swig of water and hand him my canteen. “Don’t get too tired, we still gotta hike back.”

He groans and he guzzles my water.

A scratching noise catches my attention. I press my finger against my lips as my heart flips around in my chest like a fish on land. “Did you hear that?” Wyn stops in mid-gulp and shakes his head. Then I hear a noise, like a door is being slammed. Without explaining, I dash off toward the station. Wyn crashes after me. Once I reach the site, I hide in a bush at the edge of the clearing. Watching.

Panting, Wyn squats next to me and hits my arm. “Thanks for the warning.”

With one finger to my lips, I poke him. “Sshhh. I heard someone.”

“Well, it can’t be those guys you were talking about. They’re still locked up.”

We both peer over the bushes at the crooked station. Something’s different, but I can’t tell what. I signal Wyn to follow, but he shakes his head in disagreement. He points to the space next to him, telling me to stay put.

Ignoring his protest, I emerge from the bushes and slowly approach the building. Scanning the dusty earth, my eyes hone in on some faint parallel lines, resembling rake marks. I point them out to Wyn, but he only shrugs. Clueless.

Something draws my attention to the fire pit. It’s empty. No old ashes. No charred sticks. Nothing but a circle of small boulders. I motion to Wyn again, trying to hint that something is wrong. Again, he appears clueless. Continuing up the steps, I stop in front of the rickety door.