Page 22 of Sanctuary

For all I know, Aidan kept going all night. I’m sure I must be ahead of him since I made such good time yesterday, and I can’t lose my lead to get more half-assed rest.

My hands and feet and cheeks are freezing, and every muscle in my body is aching as I start climbing again. It’s not currently raining or snowing, but the clouds are thick and low. The air is damp. The higher I climb, the frostier the broken pavement on the road becomes.

I haven’t seen a single soul since I parted ways with Aidan at the ranch. No one else but us is fool enough to be making this trek in this weather.

These mountains aren’t like the picturesquely wooded, gentle slopes around Monument. They’re taller, rougher, bleaker. It’s easy to see how this area was perfect for a ski resort, but I hate it. Ever since I left the gross, swampy coast, I’ve been used to a western Virginia landscape that’s pleasant, welcoming—with happy creeks, cozy trees, and knowable rhythms.

This is not any of that. And it feels like the dead of winter in late November.

It takes a brutal effort, but I keep trudging. The weather has slowed down my pace, but I should still reach my destination by mid-afternoon unless I run into trouble. According to my memory of the maps I studied, I should only have two more mountains to climb.

The second to last mountain is the highest. The road doesn’t go to the top—it winds around about halfway up. It’s easy to see that they had to blow out the rock face in order to lay the road, and over time the cliff surface above and below it has started crumbling. It’s barely walkable. I’m not sure how Aidan could possibly manage it with his cart.

The wind has been picking up as the day progresses, and at around noon, it starts to snow for real. Big, fat, wet flakes that quickly cover the sleeves of the coat they gave me atthe compound since my own jacket wouldn’t have been warm enough.

I don’t let it stop me. Instead, I raise my hood and pick up my pace so I can reach shelter before the snow accumulates. After about an hour, I’m in a weird kind of daze, aware of nothing except each footfall on white covered ground and the blur of blowing snow in front of me. Because I’m so out of it, I gasp when I take a step, and it suddenly feels like I’m stepping out into nothing.

I jerk back so abruptly that I fall backwards onto my ass. There’s at least four or five inches of snow now, so my landing is cold but not too jarring. I’m already soaked to the skin, so sitting in the snow doesn’t alter my condition.

Staring out ahead of me, I squint through the whiteness of the snowstorm and realize the road crosses a bridge over a river to the next mountain. On the far side of that mountain should be the ski resort.

I’m almost there, but I have to cross that bridge first.

It was clearly a two-lane bridge, and at one time it was stable and well-constructed with numerous supports and high guardrails. But time hasn’t been kind to it. The guardrails are mostly gone, and half the surface has broken off and fallen into the deep gorge below.

I’d never trust a car to safely pass over it, but I’m one woman. One lane of the bridge is still in place. It’s not swaying or wobbling, despite the wind. It’s not going to be any fun, but I’m not scared of heights. I see no reason why the bridge can’t carry my weight.

So I take one step onto it. Bounce on my feet to test its security. The pavement doesn’t shift or crumble. It seems okay.

It will be a risk—of course it will—but this whole job is a risk. Leaving the safety of walls is a risk. Living is a risk in this world,and I’m not willing to dull my own flame for fear of being snuffed out.

Not anymore.

So I take a deep breath of freezing cold air and keep walking.

And it’s fine. It’s all fine. My footing is slick from the snow, but otherwise secure. And it’s unnerving without any guardrails or anything to hold onto, but I look ahead of me instead of down. I make pretty good progress considering.

Until I get toward the middle of the bridge and the wind picks up.

Away from the protection of the mountains, the wind is much, much stronger. A gust hits me with the force of a train and knocks me over.

It literally knocks me over.

I fall sideways, and the bridge has gotten narrower, so I grapple to hold on to something—anything—before I slip right over the side and fall into the gorge.

It’s touch and go for a few seconds until I grab for a jagged piece of pavement and hold on.

My heartbeat doesn’t slow for a long time. I’m frozen in a panic in an awkward sprawl with my face barely lifted above inches of snow. I can’t assess my condition until the adrenaline levels. Then I decide I’ve pulled a couple of muscles and I’m literally freezing, but otherwise I’m uninjured.

So I try to get back up on my feet.

I can’t.

I don’t know why, but I simply can’t. I can barely let go of the broken piece of pavement I’m still clinging to.

The wind is still roaring above me. If I stand up, it will knock me over again. And next time I’m absolutely certain I’ll fall.

But I also can’t stay here. I’ll freeze to death. As it is, even with thick gloves, my hands are getting numb.

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