Left to Die

Author

Rita Herron

Reads

15.4K

Chapters

Author

Rita Herron

Reads

15.4K

Chapters

🏙️ Contemporary

Chapter One

Keep running. One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop or he’ll get you.

She touched her temple, where blood matted her hair. Her head throbbed. Her memory was fuzzy.

The wind whistled, shrill and violent, through the tall pines, hemlocks and oaks. Tree branches shook and bent, cracking. Thick snowflakes blinded her as they swirled in the darkness.

Where was she? How had she gotten here? Which way should she go?

Why was he after her?

She pawed her way through a cluster of pines. Everything looked the same. Endless trees so close together you couldn’t see past them. Snow. Fallen limbs. Wet leaves and brush.

She pivoted, searching for a sign as to how to get to a road.

Nothing but more trees. The mountains rising in front of her.

Footsteps crunched behind her. Twigs snapped. A limb broke off and hurled to the ground in front of her. She stumbled and tripped over it, grasping for something to break her fall. Her hands hit the rough edges of an oak and bark scraped her already bloody palms. Her knees sank into the foot-deep snow. Her clothes were damp, freezing against her skin.

She had no coat. No hat. No gloves.

Shivering, she looked around for a place to hide. Some place he couldn’t find her.

“It’s over!” a deep voice shouted. “You can’t escape.”

No...she silently screamed. She had to get away. Instincts told her he’d kill her if he caught her.

Ice clung to her hands and clothes as she shoved herself up. One foot. Another. She trudged forward. Ahead, a path wound to the left. Up a hill. Maybe it led to the road. Or at least to a shelter. A place to hide.

An animal howled in the distance. A coyote? Bobcat?

Bears also roamed these mountains.

Another foot. Another. Her boot caught in a pile of weeds. Her ankle twisted and she lost her footing. She swayed and clawed for something to hold on to. Her nails dug into the bark of a thin pine, and she hugged it, gasping for breath.

Another howl. Louder. Closer. A wolf?

Trembling, she peered through the trees. There it was. A large gray wolf perched on a boulder ahead, its nose in the air, sniffing. Beady eyes darted across the land, searching for prey.

Terror shot through her. If the man didn’t get her, the wolf might.

Forcing herself to remain still so as not to invite an attack, she eased back a step. Clung to the trees. Footfalls light. Another step. Then another. No sound.

Only the shrill wind again, and the wolf pawing at the rock.

Tears clogged her throat. She had to stay calm. Breathe in and out. Keep moving. A few steps more, and she ducked behind a cluster of rocks to hide. Maybe she could wait him out.

But the echo of footsteps crunched ice and brush again. She pushed up to run, but two gloved hands grabbed her. A big body behind her. Rough clothes. The scent of a man’s musky odor.

“Let me go.” Determined to fight, she raised her arm and swung her elbow backward at an angle, but she missed.

“I warned you that you couldn’t escape.” Something sharp and hard hit the back of her head. A gunshot followed, ringing in her ears.

Pain ricocheted through her temple. Then the world went black, and she fell into the darkness.

ALL FLETCHER—FLETCH—MAVERICK wanted to do was enjoy a little bro time and then hit the sack. He’d been working double shifts the last two days. Ever since the big snowstorm had hit Whistler and the mountains, his search and rescue team had been on the clock.

Warnings had been issued. People had been advised to stay in. Cancel their plans for hiking the trails. Stock up on food.

That part the locals had listened to. The grocery stores had run out of milk, bread and bottled water. Battery pack phone chargers, generators, flashlights and batteries had flown off the shelves.

Larry’s Liquor store had lines backed out the door.

Still some people refused to stay home. As if the predicted five feet of snow and windchill temperatures below zero was propaganda the meteorologists had fabricated to stir up a frenzy at the stores.

This time the weather forecasters had nailed it, though. Clouds started unleashing snow the night before, and it had been a constant downfall of white ever since.

Trouble was weather forecasters missed so often that people didn’t pay attention or just blew them off. School closings for possible snow that turned into rain made the South a laughingstock in the national news.

But this one was for real and had only just begun.

Fletch sank onto a barstool at the high top across from his brothers, Jacob, Griff and Liam. He was so bone-weary he could barely muster a smile.

“You look like hell,” the firefighter of the four, Griff, said.

“I feel like it, too,” Fletch muttered as Liam poured him a beer from the pitcher on the table. Liam was with the FBI.

Fletch’s mouth watered as his fingers gripped the mug. The beer was an IPA. His favorite.

Jacob, the oldest of the four and Whistler’s sheriff, pounded Fletch’s back. “Good work finding those hikers yesterday.”

Fletch took a sip from his mug, then snagged a wing from the platter and bit into it. “Glad we found them when we did.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Man broke his leg and needed medical assistance.”

He reached for his beer again, but before he could take another swig, his phone buzzed on his hip. A quick glance at the number and he cursed. “Work.”

His brothers traded grim looks as Fletch answered the call. “A family has been reported missing on the trail,” his boss, Captain Hanley, said. “I know you just got off duty, Fletch, but we’re slammed. Had two other calls. I need you to come in.”

Fletch pushed his beer away, stood and clipped his phone back onto his belt. “Be right there.”

“You have to go in?” Jacob asked.

Fletch nodded. “Missing family.”

Liam motioned for the waitress and asked her to bring a to-go box and a large sweet tea. “At least take some food with you. I know how these things go.”

Fletch accepted the take-out food and tea, knowing his brother was right, then headed to the door.

Thirty minutes later, he was geared up with his pack, and he and two fellow rangers, Todd and Danny, met at the beginning of the trail leading to Whistler Falls, where the family was supposed to be hiking.

“Family’s named Patterson. A father, two boys, ages seven and nine,” Todd said. “They’re from south Georgia.”

Where it was sunny and warm. They were definitely out of their element in this frigid mess.

The family’s white Expedition was parked in the lot. The Appalachian Trail consisted of over two thousand miles of trails through the wilderness running from Georgia to Maine. Designated spots where hikers began their trek still required parking and hiking in. Throughout the states, lean-to shelters had been built to provide accommodations for emergencies, but were barely pieces of wood nailed together with one side open to the elements.

Experienced hikers carried packs equipped with tents, food and water, emergency supplies, compasses, maps and tarps they tacked up over the open side of the shelter to ward off the wind when temperatures turned dangerous.

Conditions were dangerous now. He hoped the Pattersons had had the good sense to come prepared.

Danny pointed to the trail map, and they scrutinized it together. The areas had been marked with names and points along the way to guide hikers in planning their route and to keep them from getting lost and walking in circles. After a few miles, the trees and rocks all blended together.

“There are two ways they could have gone to reach the falls from here,” Danny said. “East—”

“Or west.” Todd gestured to the dark clouds. “Let’s divide up.”

Fletch nodded. “You guys take the eastern section. I’ll head west.”

They checked to make certain their radios were working, strapped on their packs, then pulled on gloves and hats and headed in opposite directions.

The temperature was nineteen now and dropping, the precipitation from the night before freezing to ice. More snowflakes thickened the air, making visibility difficult. Protective goggles helped, but the fog of white swallowed the ridges and paths in the distance.

Fletch used his flashlight to illuminate the ground, searching for footprints or signs the family had recently walked this way. An animal print here and there caught his eye, but no human prints.

Every few feet he paused to listen for sounds of voices calling for help, and he yelled out as he climbed the hill. Wind howled from the ridges and peaks, the trees shivering as the gusts barreled through at record speed.

His flashlight lit on something red on the ground. He stooped to examine it and decided it was blood. Could be from an injured animal.

Or a person who needed help.

He aimed his flashlight ahead and noted more blood dotting the snow. Enough to suspect the animal, or human, might be in serious trouble.

Pulse pounding, he followed the blood trail up the incline and around a cluster of hemlocks. A branch lay on the ground, soaked in blood. He scanned the area, listening again. Nothing but the shrill wind whipping through the forest and off the mountaintop.

He panned the light in each direction, then spotted drag marks across the snow. Drag marks mingled with blood.

His radio buzzed. “Located the Pattersons,” Todd said, his voice cracking with the static on the line.

“Status?” Fletch asked.

“Nine-year-old sprained his ankle, father has a bum knee, and the other boy is close to hypothermia. We’re warming them up, then going to get them back. I’ve already radioed it in. Medics will be waiting. Meet us at the car.”

“No can do.” Fletch removed his battery-powered camera from his pack and snapped a picture of the blood trail and the indentations where the body had been dragged. “I found blood in the snow. Looks like drag marks from a human. I’m going to follow it.”

“Dammit,” Todd said. “I’d help, but it’ll take both me and Danny to haul the family down.”

“They’re our priority now. Get them to safety,” Fletch said. “I’ll let you know if I find something and need assistance.”

“Copy that.” Todd hesitated. “Be careful, man.”

“Always.” None of them liked to leave a coworker out here alone. But sometimes it couldn’t be helped.

Besides, they’d trained for it. And no way could Fletch go home without determining the source of that blood and if it was human.

FACEDOWN IN THE SNOW, she roused from unconsciousness, dazed and confused. A dull throb occupied her head, making the trees spin.

Wind knifed through her. Where was she? What was wrong with her?

She mentally rifled through her fleeting memories for how she’d ended up here. But nothing made sense. Gunshots. Running. A fight. Blood...everywhere.

Her name was... Wait, what was it?

Panic seized her. What was her name?

A sob caught in her throat. A foggy blur occupied the space where her memories were stored.

The sound of footsteps crunching twigs and ice echoed somewhere in the distance. Footsteps... He was coming after her again.

This time he’d kill her.

She struggled to crawl forward, but her limbs were too heavy and stiff to move.

Her teeth chattered. Her skin stung from the cold, and her chest hurt as she tried to draw a breath.

The sense that she was in imminent danger overwhelmed her as scattered memories broke through the haze. Someone chasing her. A sharp blow.

She clawed at the ground, fingers digging into the brush and icy ground. Her feet pushed at the surface but sank deeper into the frigid snow. Tears of frustration blurred her eyes, then trickled down her cheeks, freezing on her face.

She had to move. Hide.

But her body wouldn’t cooperate. She tried to flex her fingers and grappled for a tree limb, something to help propel her forward. But the branch was too far away. She couldn’t give up, though. The cold could be deadly.

Summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, she managed to scoot on her stomach and dragged herself a few feet.

Every muscle in her body throbbed with the effort. Even her bones hurt.

Then a gust of wind shook the trees, sending a deluge of icy snow and more limbs down onto her, and she collapsed.

She cried out for help, but her voice faded into the howling wind. Terror bled through her as she sank back into the darkness.

FLETCH TUGGED HIS hat over his ears as he tracked the bloodspots on the ground. He’d been hiking for over an hour.

Something shiny caught his eye near a tree stump, and he waved his flashlight across the area. There it was. Glittering against the white ground. It was caught in the weeds. He hiked over to it, knelt and dug the object from the fresh snow.

A wedding ring.

Questions needled him as he examined it. A woman’s ring. Too small for a man. Silver. What was it doing out here in the wilderness?

Someone could have lost it while camping or hiking.

Judging from the fact that it wasn’t buried yet, it couldn’t have been here long.

He studied the tracks ahead. More blood. Did it belong to the woman who owned this wedding ring?

Another violent gust of wind snapped tree limbs and sent them flying to the ground. The snow was falling faster, accumulating so quickly that it obliterated the blood trail.

He needed to hurry, or he’d get trapped out here himself.

But the mantra he and his fellow rescue workers lived by reverberated in his head—leave no one behind.

If someone was injured and needed help, he had to find him. Or judging from the ring—her.

He jammed the wedding band in his pocket, then set out again. Another mile. Then another. Upward toward Vulture’s Point, named so because several suicides had occurred at the spot, the bodies drawing the vultures to the canyon below.

What if he was tracking someone contemplating suicide? She could have dumped the ring and then hiked toward the point. But...if so, why was she bleeding? And what about the drag marks? That indicated there was more than one person...

The storm intensified, snow thickening with each mile, the wind the kind of biting cold that stung your skin and clawed at your bones.

Finally he turned the corner past the boulder marking the rise to the point, and spotted something black. A boot? No, a dark red wool scarf...

Adrenaline churning, he took off running. The thick snow sucked at his boots, but he crossed the area and picked up the scarf. More blood drops. Indentations in the snow that looked like paw prints—no, hands digging.

He was close. He could feel it.

The flashlight fought through the blurry haze, and a minute later, he spotted a body. Facedown on the ground, body half buried in the blanket of white.

A woman.

He jogged toward her and lurched to a stop when he reached her. Long dark hair dotted with snow and ice lay in a tangled mass over the woman’s shoulders.

He sucked in a breath and stooped to see if she was alive.