Mountain Captive by Cassie Mint

 

One

Natalia

Istumble along the forest path, trees stretching high overhead on both sides. My hiking boots are stiff, the leather new and unbroken, and there’s a blister rubbed raw on my heel that stings with every step. My legs burn, my shoulders ache beneath my heavy backpack, and my lungs scream for oxygen in the thin air.

It’s amazing. I feel so alive.

Out here, away from the constant buzz of people and cars and electronics, I’m hearing things I never really noticed before in the city. The whisper of the breeze in the leaves; the strange cries and screeches of the birds. Distant shuffling in the undergrowth. The snap of twigs and the burble of far-off water.

I don’t think I’ve ever been left alone for more than a few hours in my whole life. Certainly not outside in the wilderness. At home, when I want a simple walk in the park, two of my father’s men have to escort me.

A pang of guilt echoes through me, and I swallow hard. My parents would be so angry if they knew I was here. Not on the heavily supervised class trip like I promised, but on a solo hike through the mountains. Far from my college professors’ watchful eyes and the safety of the other students.

I’m not sorry for lying. Well, okay—I am a bit. It doesn’t come naturally.

But it’s the only way I could take this for myself. Two whole weeks, all on my own. Two weeks of freedom.

And my father has not been a reasonable man recently. For the last few months, he’s been angry and vicious, prowling the halls of our family estate like a wounded animal. Any time I tried to speak to him, he lashed out, his words crackling with violence, sending me scurrying back down the halls to the safety of my bedroom.

In those moments, I wished more than ever that he’d let me live in the college dorms. But no—the daughter of the Volkov empire does not get a normal life. Does not get to choose her own destiny.

I try not to be ungrateful, but sometimes I want to scream and rake my fingernails down the walls.

No. There’s no way I could have asked my father about this trip. He’s been too stressed, too moody. But I also couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by: a spring break where I’ve finally been left to make my own plans, an afterthought compared to my parents’ business worries. Someone’s been causing them trouble—some dark, distant figure sabotaging their every move. Cutting off contacts and spoiling deals; undercutting offers and tipping off the FBI about my father’s shadiest operations.

My parents have been furious. Snarling at each other as their net worth swirls away down the drain. I’ve been the last thing on their minds.

I don’t mind. It’s a relief. I’ve been waiting for this taste of freedom for my entire life.

The mountains weren’t an obvious choice, even to me. I’m a girly girl, with painted nails and a weakness for expensive hair products. Bugs make me squeal, and before I left on this secret trip, I’d never even seen a tent in person.

But what better way to test myself? To feel true freedom than alone, vulnerable and defiant, out here in the mountains?

It will be okay. I’m not attempting any crazy hikes or dangerous routes. Just taking in the scenery, feeling my leg muscles burn, and trying to keep myself alive. Cooking my own food; carrying my own pack. There are even cabins beside the mountain path sometimes, with the scent of wood smoke lingering in the air. I stumble past one now, sweeping my dark blonde hair out of my face so I can peer at the shadowed windows.

There’s no movement inside. No signs of life—except the faint smell of cooked bacon, no doubt from breakfast a few hours ago. So you see, if I really got in trouble, I could find my way back to one of these cabins and knock on the rough wood door. Bring out one of the silent, sturdy men who make their homes in the mountains and beg for help.

The thought renews my confidence. I straighten my back and push down my shoulders, striding faster down the path.

I won’t be knocking on anyone’s door.

I’m going to finish this trip all by myself.

* * *

I set up my tiny camp when the sun sinks towards the horizon. I got caught out on my first night, bumping and fumbling around trying to set up my tent in the dark, my breath freezing in my chest when I heard animals moving nearby.

Nope. Nuh-huh. I’m not doing that again. When the last light drains from the sky, I want to be tucked up nice and cozy in my tent, feeling the day’s tiredness weigh down my limbs. Sometimes I read a few chapters of my book by flashlight, or scribble a journal entry into my notebook.

Mostly, I crash. All this fresh air knocks the stuffing out of me.

I pick a pretty spot on the side of a stream. Not too close—I learned that the hard way, when the bugs ate me alive. No—I set myself up a little ways back, close enough for the pretty view and the soothing gurgle of water, but away from the clouds of mountain bugs.

My backpack crashes to the hard dirt and I let out a groan, rubbing the sore spots on my shoulders. I tilt my head this way and that, twisting my spine until my back pops, and I freeze when I twig snaps nearby.

I don’t move. I barely breathe. I stand completely still, and listen.

There’s no huffing of a bear. No birdsong. No sounds at all. The hairs rise on the back of my neck, and I turn on the spot, peering into the trees all around me. In all directions, there’s nothing but forest and rock.

I’m alone.

Alone.

Probably.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as the youngest Volkov daughter, it’s that bad people do bad things all the time. People are capable of horrors that most normal people can’t even think of, and they do them without a flicker of guilt.

I’ve seen my own father in action.

So maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe it’s foolish to keep walking as the light dies. But my gut tells me there’s something here in these trees—something watching me. Something bad. Something that wants to do me wrong.

I scoop my backpack off the dirt and heave it back onto my shoulders. Then I turn away from the stream and keep walking.

My heart pounds as I follow the dirt path, but not from the exercise this time. My breath comes in short pants, but I strain to listen for the sounds of someone following. There’s nothing—no snapping twigs or heavy footsteps—and after twenty minutes of stumbling through the dying light, I find a clearing. It’s small—just a gap in the trees—but there’s a boulder in the center.

Perfect.

I pitch my tent quickly, as close to the boulder as I can manage. I face the door towards the trees, and for the first night of the trip, I don’t make a fire or try to cook. Even though my stomach growls with hunger as I work, I pitch my tent as fast as I can then shove my backpack straight inside and crawl in after it.

I sit cross-legged in the mouth of the tent, shoving handfuls of trail mix into my mouth, and peer into the trees. That shivery feeling of being watched—it’s still here.

There are eyes on me in these mountains.

Unfriendly eyes.

For the first time since I began my secret trip, I regret this decision. No one knows that I’m here. If they did, they would have stopped me, and I couldn’t risk that. But now, with a dark presence following me through the trees, I’m suddenly so alone and vulnerable my stomach swoops.

I wrap the trail mix tight and stuff it in my food bag, too queasy to eat any more. I should hang it from a branch far away, to keep away the bears, but somehow when I weigh the risk of a hungry bear against the malevolent shadow in the trees…

I’m not leaving this tent.

I zip the door closed and shuffle back as far as I can, clutching my heavy flashlight in my hands.