Broken Mountain

Broken Mountain

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WpMetadataReadOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Jan 14, 2018
Thinking back on the trip, I can't seem to figure out where it all went wrong. We had a great time, setting up our camp at Broken Mountain and telling our ghost stories around the camp fire. We didn't know. We thought the stories were just that, stories. We never could've guessed the truth behind the story. And we definitely never could've guessed the horror that is Broken Mountain.
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The air smelled of gasoline and death. That's what woke me first. Not the searing pain in my side or the impossible heat coming from somewhere behind me. No, it was the smell. And then the memories hit me like the bus hit the tree. And I was rolling down the side of a mountain, surrounded by ten other screaming kids and three panicked adults. All of which had a ninety six percent chance of death. My eyes were open. My emerald eyes, so rare that only two percent of the population had them. And my throat was burning, and my skin was tingling. And all I could think about was the probability that I was dying. Scattered around me I knew were twelve other people with a ninety nine percent chance of already being dead. And I didn't look around to find out. Because I knew I was one hundred percent right.

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