contact with any of the other prisoners. Actually, I never want to come in contact with the others.
When I reach the base, I turn right and dash along the edge several yards while I open the pack and drop my ninja knives inside. I pull my arms into the pack and start running up, through the bushes, dodging trees and boulders. A roaring cheer echoes behind me and I wonder what I missed. I glance back to see that several prisoners have started down the trail; it won’t be long before they reach the base of the mountain.
I pump through the shrubs, slide on the rocks, disregard the thousand brambles pricking at my skin. I continue my course, veering off to the right to put plenty of distance between me and the typical route everyone else will take.
A shot rings out. I’m not sure why, but I don’t turn to look. I wouldn’t be able to see anything from this distance anyway. I just keep going. When I reach a rocky ledge I’m forced to make a decision: waste time looking for a better way up, or climb over it. I already know what I’ll do before I finish thinking about it. I find a foothold first, then reach for a place to pull myself up and repeat.
The going is slow and when I finally clear the boulders and I’m on steady ground, I see that I’m only halfway up. Before I continue, I allow myself a couple of breaths and promise myself a drink of water when I reach the top. Racing ahead, I stumble over a patch of deadfall, almost losing my footing when I hear shouts carry through the forest from my left. The prisoners are spreading out, keeping their distance from each other. It’s too close for me so I swing right another dozen yards or so before working my way up again. The hill is a steep hike, but the ground is easier to negotiate here than it was below. I keep my momentum and my focus.
A rabbit sprints toward me from my left. Someone spooked it and my heart goes berserk. I duck behind the nearest bush and wait, trying to control my breathing so I don’t give myself away. I don’t see anyone but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I search the area the best I can from my position. Lots of trees and bushes block my view. All I see, other than foliage, is an old cowbell half buried in the ground next to me.
When I don’t hear anything for several minutes I move out from behind the bush. I’m cautious about it, just in case whoever it was is doing the same. But it’s clear from what I can see so I make a run for it, toward a thicket of trees that’ll help keep me under cover. Several times I have to stop when my legs cramp up. It aggravates me since there’s not a lot of time to be massaging the pain away. I’m used to running in place for hours at a time. I’m not used to running uphill.
I’m panting for breath by the time I reach the top of the ridge. The collar is already suffocating me and I can’t imagine it tightening more. I try to adjust it while I survey the valley. This side of the mountain is as rugged as the other; with rocky parts that look almost impossible to climb and sheer drop offs. The bottom meets with a forest of pine trees that goes on for miles.
I’m already thinking about water. I take cover behind another bush and inspect the contents in my pack, first pulling out the blanket so I can see everything. I’m pleasantly surprised to see two canteens full of water, but it’s definitely not four days’ worth. I only swallow down a couple of gulps, knowing water is critical and I’ll need to find more as soon as I can.
I’m looking at what other supplies I have; particularly I’m curious about the chow the goodie two shoes gifted us with, when I hear a rustling in the bushes somewhere below me. Birds flutter from the trees, flapping their wings with great force and squawking nervously. I cap the canteen, shove it and the blanket inside the pack, and hightail it out of there on tiptoe, down the other side of the mountain and cringing at every crunch my boots make in the
When I reach the base, I turn right and dash along the edge several yards while I open the pack and drop my ninja knives inside. I pull my arms into the pack and start running up, through the bushes, dodging trees and boulders. A roaring cheer echoes behind me and I wonder what I missed. I glance back to see that several prisoners have started down the trail; it won’t be long before they reach the base of the mountain.
I pump through the shrubs, slide on the rocks, disregard the thousand brambles pricking at my skin. I continue my course, veering off to the right to put plenty of distance between me and the typical route everyone else will take.
A shot rings out. I’m not sure why, but I don’t turn to look. I wouldn’t be able to see anything from this distance anyway. I just keep going. When I reach a rocky ledge I’m forced to make a decision: waste time looking for a better way up, or climb over it. I already know what I’ll do before I finish thinking about it. I find a foothold first, then reach for a place to pull myself up and repeat.
The going is slow and when I finally clear the boulders and I’m on steady ground, I see that I’m only halfway up. Before I continue, I allow myself a couple of breaths and promise myself a drink of water when I reach the top. Racing ahead, I stumble over a patch of deadfall, almost losing my footing when I hear shouts carry through the forest from my left. The prisoners are spreading out, keeping their distance from each other. It’s too close for me so I swing right another dozen yards or so before working my way up again. The hill is a steep hike, but the ground is easier to negotiate here than it was below. I keep my momentum and my focus.
A rabbit sprints toward me from my left. Someone spooked it and my heart goes berserk. I duck behind the nearest bush and wait, trying to control my breathing so I don’t give myself away. I don’t see anyone but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I search the area the best I can from my position. Lots of trees and bushes block my view. All I see, other than foliage, is an old cowbell half buried in the ground next to me.
When I don’t hear anything for several minutes I move out from behind the bush. I’m cautious about it, just in case whoever it was is doing the same. But it’s clear from what I can see so I make a run for it, toward a thicket of trees that’ll help keep me under cover. Several times I have to stop when my legs cramp up. It aggravates me since there’s not a lot of time to be massaging the pain away. I’m used to running in place for hours at a time. I’m not used to running uphill.
I’m panting for breath by the time I reach the top of the ridge. The collar is already suffocating me and I can’t imagine it tightening more. I try to adjust it while I survey the valley. This side of the mountain is as rugged as the other; with rocky parts that look almost impossible to climb and sheer drop offs. The bottom meets with a forest of pine trees that goes on for miles.
I’m already thinking about water. I take cover behind another bush and inspect the contents in my pack, first pulling out the blanket so I can see everything. I’m pleasantly surprised to see two canteens full of water, but it’s definitely not four days’ worth. I only swallow down a couple of gulps, knowing water is critical and I’ll need to find more as soon as I can.
I’m looking at what other supplies I have; particularly I’m curious about the chow the goodie two shoes gifted us with, when I hear a rustling in the bushes somewhere below me. Birds flutter from the trees, flapping their wings with great force and squawking nervously. I cap the canteen, shove it and the blanket inside the pack, and hightail it out of there on tiptoe, down the other side of the mountain and cringing at every crunch my boots make in the
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