Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren

1

Roxy

The mountains are cold. Even with golden sunshine filtering through the branches, the breeze slices straight through my sweatshirt. No one mentioned this on the blog posts I read—that the longer you stay up in the mountains, the more you get chilled to the bone.

The air is thinner, too. For the first few days here, I kept gasping for breath, trying to figure out what was wrong with me.

Well… it’s up for debate. But the air thing, that’s all on the mountains.

I lift my camera to my eye, fiddling with the focus. Through the lens, miles of craggy pale rock stretch down and away, bristling with trees and shrubs and the odd cabin. The sky yawns wide open overhead, so close I could almost touch it, and yes.

This is perfect. This will take my travel blog to the next level.

“Suck it, Travels with Jenny.”

I started talking to myself on the third day of hiking. I’m a city girl down to my pedicured toes, no matter that they’re squashed and blistered now in my boots. I’m so used to having constant bustle around me; to hearing neighbors fight and traffic rumble past in the street. The silence out here, broken only by the whistling breeze and the rushing river and the cries of wildlife…

It’s creepy. I can’t wait to hear the blare of car horns again.

First, though, I need to document this trip. Create the best damn article I can about solo treks on Lonely Mountain.

This will work. It has to. Because if my blog doesn’t work out, if I have to resign myself to a life tapping away in a plain gray cubicle…

Cold sweat breaks out on my spine.

Not gonna happen.

“Come to mama.” A squirrel pauses part way up a tree trunk, its fluffy tail twitching as I step closer. It cocks its head, practically posing for the camera, and I grin as I snap a series of photos. “Hell yeah. This is what I’m talking about.”

The squirrel twitches its nose.

“Don’t judge me,” I grumble. “It’s freaking lonely out here.”

I snap two more photos before the squirrel bounds away up the tree, claws scrabbling against the bark. When I watch it go, my neck aches from tilting my head back so far—these trees don’t mess around. All around, they tower into the sky, dwarfing me, reminding me how tiny and soft and fragile I am.

I bite my tongue and snap another photo of the sky, the branches reaching out towards each other like spindly fingers.

A huffed breath makes me freeze. My body’s reaction is immediate, instinctual, my muscles tensing as my heart slams in my chest. My brain takes a second longer to catch up, but as I turn, dread is already sliding through my gut.

The bear is twenty feet away. Watching me from between two trees, its dark fur puffed and bristling. Those eyes are fixed on me, unmoving, its jaw dropping open, and my scream traps in my throat. Comes out as a squeak.

The bear lifts its head and bellows. Roars so loud, the stone practically trembles beneath my feet. And I’m stumbling back, ready to run, all those bear safety tips I read before I came wiped clean from my mind, and—

Air whooshes past me. I’m weightless, plummeting, my arms flailing out to the sides—

Crack.

The breath knocks out of me, pain flooding in to take its place. I stare up at the clouds drifting lazily above the branches, too numb to understand.

Shadows creep along the edges of my vision.

I blink.

The world goes dark.

* * *

“Motherfucker!”

The word comes out garbled, the syllables slurring together. I blink hard, my vision fuzzy, the rest of my senses slowly fading back in.

The breeze rustling the trees.

Whooping bird cries.

The lumpy ground beneath my body.

The pain. The motherfucking pain.

“Ow ow ow ow ow ow.” Tears slide down my cheeks into my hair as I work my way down my body parts. Wiggling fingers; twitching toes. That’s what you do, right? Check everything is still working, and not gnawed off by a bear?

The bear.

I lurch onto my elbows, cursing roundly at the hot flare of pain in my side. The mountains spin around me then settle, cool and quiet and empty as they were before.

Honestly. That fleabag didn’t even have the decency to finish me off. And now I’m stretched out on the rocks, battered and bruised, too woozy to think straight.

I take stock of my surroundings. Breathe slowly, counting to ten as I do. Anything to keep my mind present, to force myself to concentrate.

I’ve fallen about fifteen feet. Shit, is that all? It felt more like fifty. My backpack is upside down beside the rock face; my poor camera lies within reach.

Smashed. Ruined. I look away, fresh tears stinging my eyes.

Stupid bear. Should be made into a rug.

“Sweet Jesus, that hurts.” I tip gingerly over to one side, working my way onto my knees. I pause for a second, my head hanging as dizziness washes over me, then wobble to my feet.

“Mother—”

Okay, not the left foot. Gotcha. I sniffle, peering down the length of my bare leg below my shorts, but other than bruises and scrapes, it doesn’t seem mangled. There are no shards of bone or other horror-movie injuries. Just a hot throb of pain when I try to step on that ankle.

“This had better make a good freaking blog post.” I’m rambling, not making sense, half delirious with pain as I limp to my camera. I gather up the biggest shards—god knows why—then blink at my backpack.

It seems fine, just tossed around. And there’s important stuff in there. Stuff I need to survive.

But my brain clearly isn’t back online yet, because the thought of lifting that weight onto my bruised body…

I can’t do it.

“Nope. Sorry,” I croak, limping away, my ruined camera clutched in my palms. “Not today. No, thank you.”

Lonely Mountain. Freaking Lonely Mountain. I curse this wretched pile of rock for the next twenty minutes, winding my wobbly way to find a path. And when I do, I’m too exhausted and sore to celebrate, limping grimly forward onto the level dirt path, coated in a fine layer of pine needles.

People. I need people. Preferably sane ones and not serial killers. Someone with a phone and a first aid kit; someone who can make this nightmare be over already. I try calling out a few times, but my reedy voice bounces through the tree trunks and no one shouts back.

I’m alone. Hurt and lost on the mountain.

And I ditched my backpack.

Fresh tears brim in my eyes.

Nope. Oh, no you don’t.I lecture myself sternly, sniffing hard and picking up the pace. This is no time to fall apart. I can do that later, sure, but for now, I need to keep it together. I need to survive this stupid trip to hell, then write a scathing blog post about Lonely Mountain warning everyone else to stay away.

At first, I think the cabin is a mirage. That I’m hallucinating the sturdy wooden structure nestled between the trees. It blends so well to the surroundings, it’s practically camouflaged, but it’s big, I realize. Not just an outhouse—someone’s lodge. With a deck wrapping around the outside, and a stack of chopped firewood tucked under the shelter of the slanted roof.

“Oh my god.” I change direction, limping off the path with jerky movements. Making a beeline for safety. The cabin’s curtains are drawn, the windows dark, but that firewood…

Someone lives here.

The tang of old woodsmoke clings to the cabin. The wooden steps up to the deck groan under my boots, and I grit my teeth against my body’s loud complaints. I shouldn’t be moving right now—I should be tucked up somewhere warm and sleeping. I should be drifting on clouds of painkillers, or sweetly digesting in the belly of the bear—anything but dragging my sorry ass up these steps. When I reach the top, I might as well have climbed Everest.

I tip my head back and let out a ragged sigh.

Okay. Okay. Just a few more steps. I shuffle across the deck, the wooden boards swept clean of pine needles. A bird startles nearby, exploding out of a tree in a whirl of feathers, but I don’t even glance over.

Nearly there.

Tap… tap…

My knock is feeble. I can’t get my freaking arm to work. I scowl and knock harder, using every last ounce of my concentration to do it.

Then I wait.

The cabin is silent.

I tip my forehead against the door.

“Come on,” I mutter, knocking again. “Don’t do this to me, you bastard.” Whoever owns this cabin—they’d better get their ass here right this second. Or they’ll find a passed out travel blogger on their deck.

Nothing. Silence. I might as well be knocking on a tree. I groan, shaking my head from side to side, my forehead still pressed against the door.

A thought slinks through my mind.

A bad thought.

The kind of thought that could get me in trouble.

People who live in the mountains—they’re pretty weird, right? Hunters and preppers and loners—Lonely Mountain is famous for drawing the people who don’t fit in anywhere else.

Those kinds of people are intense about property. They shoot first and ask questions later, and yet…

Pain throbs sharp in my side.

And yet this is it. My best chance for a rescue.

“Please don’t be a nutjob,” I pray, reaching down to try the handle. The door’s locked, but that’s no surprise. What is surprising is the surge of energy that crackles through me now I have a plan.

I place the shattered remains of my camera gently on the deck, white spots floating in my eyes as I bend over.

Then I limp back down the wooden steps and hunt around in the undergrowth for a rock.

It doesn’t take long. I heft it in my palm as I wobble back to the cabin. I grit my teeth as I climb the steps, barely wincing this time—I’m on a mission.

Door or window?

I’ve never done this before. How do you break into a cabin? What’s the most effective way to get into a building when your body doesn’t work, and you don’t want the owner to be pissed off at you?

I slam my rock at the door just below the handle. It rattles in the frame. That’s it.

Yeah, there’s only one way I’m getting in. I limp back a few paces, line up with the window, wind my arm back…

And let fly.