Chapter Eighteen

Clay

Refusing to look back, Clay trudged away from the cabin. He kept a steady eye on his watch and the compass it held. Due west. That path would take him the direction of the town or home called Otis. He wouldn’t think about how far off it might be. As he passed the pile of saplings he’d cut just a few days prior, he thought about the futility of the idea of a giant arrow, the signs, the bonfires. No one had come for them. Now it was up to him to set out and bring help back to the cabin.

Marching was nothing more than a mental game. He’d put in miles and miles with far more on his back than what he now carried. It was a matter of focus and refusing to dwell on negative thoughts.

Dawn came at ten o’clock in the morning. He’d been on the move for close to three hours and would have almost six hours of daylight. So far, he’d seen very few animal tracks. Still, his rifle was loaded and ready should he need to scare away a predator. By the time the sun descended, he’d only seen a few Arctic hares. Nothing more.

He didn’t stop, only taking a few bites of food and sips of water as he continued trekking westward. His legs burned. His body ached, but he refused to rest. If Ross had appendicitis, Clay was in a race against time.

Darkness fell and in the distance a lone wolf howled. The sky darkened rapidly or so it seemed. One moment he hiked in gritty Alaskan light, and the next, stars twinkled above. In the distance he thought he saw lights on the horizon, and while they appeared closer with each passing hour, Clay still couldn’t tell how far off they were.

“Hang on Ross,” he muttered as he climbed a ridge.

The clear sky and quarter moon offered some light, and at the top of the ridge he got a good look at the lay of the land. Bands of forest, mostly dense spruce, spread out before him, with stretches of open tundra. He hoped to stick to the tundra, rather than negotiate forests. Animals could hide in the trees and surprise him more easily than out in the open.

Never had he ventured into the wilderness with so little. In Sitka Lake he’d volunteered on Search and Rescue missions. When the State Troopers put out a call for a missing hiker or hunter, he liked to lend a hand and put his military training to use. Before leaving, he’d read Doppler radar maps and pack flares, extra water and first aid kits.

And he always knew where he was going. SAR missions were set up in teams, each team assigned to a precise area. On this mission he only knew he headed west. Nothing more.

Unless it was how his body would rebel somewhere around the tenth hour of walking. Which would happen around five pm. When he’d walked out of Tabuk and later when he’d trekked to Samobor, he’d pushed himself so hard he had visions, ones he still remembered.

Now, he held fast to the image of the faces of Victoria and the children.

He pushed the other images away, and kept walking. The lights growing nearer as night passed. Just before dawn, a blizzard swept through. Despite the whiteout, he continued, checking his compass every two or three minutes. Winds howled and buffeted him, but he persisted until the blizzard blew into the distance and the morning dawned bright and clear.

He stumbled and when he looked down he realized he stood on asphalt. Crouching he tugged his glove from his hand and rubbed the dark surface, wondering if it was truly a road or a figment of his imagination.

Red lights washed over the roadway and a siren pierced the stillness. Clay rose and stared as a police car rolled to a stop on the side of the road.

“Not a good idea to stand in the middle of the road, son,” the officer said, shaking his head. “Lucky for you, I wasn’t an oil tanker.”

Clay swallowed, his throat dry as sand.

“Can I see some ID?”

The man squinted in the early morning light, his shoulders hunched against the cold wind, waiting for Clay to say or do something.

“I, uh…” Clay’s words trailed off.

The police man scowled. “You been out hiking? Ah shit, I can’t tell you how many of your kind we get. Guys from the lower 48 who read a few issues of Outdoor Magazine and decide they want to take a walk on the Alaskan wild side.”

“Right.”

The man shrugged. “Show me your ID and if it checks out, I’ll take you for some pancakes. That’s what I always do when I find some lost hiker. They’re always starving. I’m about to go on break. Rough night, huh? You look like you could use a coffee.”

“I didn’t bring,” Clay whispered. “My wallet.”

“Sure. You left it back at the Holiday Inn, huh?”

Clay shook his head and swayed. “I don’t need pancakes. I need a helicopter.”