Mason

A shadow moved between trunks.

I saw the outline of the man, low and cautious, moving toward us.

Mason fired the spray into the darkness.

The orange mist burst out, and for a second it lit the rain in our headlamp-free world like a faint cloud.

The man jerked back with a strangled sound.

We heard him coughing, swearing under his breath now, the calm voice cracking.

We ran.

We didn't stop running until our legs failed and we had to stumble.

We didn't know where we were going.

We just moved downhill because downhill meant water and valleys and maybe a trail.

Morning found us near a creek, bruised and exhausted, clothes torn from branches.

We drank water without treating it because we were out of our minds and thirsty and didn't care.

We ate handfuls of trail mix with shaking fingers.

Mason's face looked different, like he'd aged.

His eyes were red-rimmed.

His hands shook constantly.

He kept looking over his shoulder like he expected a blade to appear at any second.

We needed a plan, a real plan, not just running.

Mason pulled out the paper map with trembling hands and spread it on a flat rock.

The map was damp, edges curling.