Jason

We pitched the tents fast, hands clumsy, movements jerky.

No one suggested cooking.

We chewed protein bars in silence while the storm moved away, grumbling to itself.

That night, something changed.

Up until then, whatever was out there had felt… curious.

Malicious, sure, but like it was poking at us, figuring us out.

That night, it felt like it had decided on something.

It started early, before we'd even zipped our tents.

We were sitting in a tight circle, each with our backs to a rock or a pack, like five points of a star.

No one wanted their back exposed.

The sky was a low lid of clouds, reflecting a faint sickly light back down into the canyon.

The air smelled like wet stone and something else, something sweet and rotten, like meat left too long in the sun.

From somewhere up canyon we heard whistling.

Just three notes, over and over.

Low, then high, then low again.

The kind of tune you'd use to call a dog.

It echoed off the walls in a way that made it hard to pinpoint direction.

It wasn't any of us.

We were all staring at each other's mouths.

"'Don't whistle back,' Aaron said, her jaw clenched.