Page 49 of Wandering Wild

Hawke’s eyes round with panic, and he shoves Bentley backward, before lunging for Charlie and me and yanking us with him.

But it’s too late.

Because whatever Hawke heard, whatever warning the water sound revealed to him, there wasn’t enough time to pull us clear of the earth before it erodes beneath us, crumbling away into nothing.

And then we’re falling.

A scream leaves me as the forest floor gives way, sending me plummeting down the steep slope of the mountain on the world’s muddiest waterslide. I was closest to the edge, so I’m leading the fall, but I can hear Zander, Hawke, and Bentley all tumbling with me, none of us having realized that the deluge from last night must have carved a channel for the rain to flow through—a channel that wasbeneathus. We’re entirely at the mercy of Mother Nature as we plunge downward, zigzagging around roots and boulders and trees and shrubs, having no control over the direction we move or the speed at which we fall.

I expect to break my neck any second now, my life flashing before my eyes. There’s so much more I want to do, so much more I want to see, so much more I want to experience, all of which I’ve only just begun to acknowledge over the last few days. But now?—

Another scream leaves me as I suddenly lift off the ground and fly through the air. It feels like I’m suspended for years before I land unceremoniously in a pool of deep, muddy water. The sole thought in my mind—other than to marvel that I’m still alive—is that I need to get out of the way before three large male bodies crush me, so I half-swim, half-scramble through the sludge, barely making it a few feet before the others splash into the pool behind me.

I’m covered in so much mud that it takes three swipes at my face before I can clear my eyes enough to see properly. I’m also trembling fiercely and struggling to believe I’m not dead, but I force my incredulity aside to do a quick inventory of all my new aches and pains. Miraculously, apart from some light grazes and numerous bruises, I’m unharmed.

“Is everyone all right?” Hawke asks from the middle of the pool, swiping mud from his own face.

Zander is equally filthy and only manages to nod along with me, both of us too shaken for words.

Bentley’s glasses are gone, his camera has disappeared, and he’s pressing a hand to his head while looking dazed, but he also confirms he’s fine.

Hawke glances up at the chute we all just slid down—which is still flowing in a sludgy cascade—and there’s a thoughtful look on his face as he murmurs, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

I have to bite my cheek to keep from screaming,WELL, OBVIOUSLY!and instead lead the way toward the edge of the pool, slushing into the shallows and crawling on my hands and knees until I’m free of the squelching mud. It’s almost worse to be back on solid land, because now sodden leaves and forest gunk stick to the grime covering us, making us look like swamp creatures straight out of a low-budget horror film.

I clean myself as best as I can, wiping my clothes and skin and grimacing at how much muck is wedged in places that will make hiking a special kind of unpleasant. But then I realize we have bigger problems than my physical discomfort.

Zander, also wiping away mud, comes to the same realization, his eyes widening in alarm as he says, “All our gear is back in the cave.”

There’s not so much as a backpack between us, and given how rain-soaked the slope is, there’s no immediate means for us to hike back upward, especially without any proper climbing equipment other than Hawke’s rope.

“That’s actually the least of our worries,” Hawke says, his voice uncharacteristically strained.

I belatedly notice that he hasn’t risen to his feet like the rest of us. Instead, he’s sitting against a tree, holding his leg.

No—not holding it.

Cradlingit.

“You’re hurt!” I cry in dismay, squelching my way over to him.

Bentley curses under his breath and reaches Hawke first, kneeling down to check the damage. They share a loaded look, and I instinctively know I’m not going to like whatever they say next.

“Your ankle?” Bentley asks, carefully rotating the muddy boot.

Hawke nods. “I landed badly when we fell—I’m pretty sure it’s broken.” His voice is still strained, but it’s also level enough to hide the extent of the pain he’s undoubtedly feeling. He’s clearly in survivor-mode, his mind jumping to solutions rather than dwelling on problems. A broken bone is nothing compared to a lion attack, but even so, I’m amazed by his composure—at least until he adds, “But that’s still not our biggest concern.”

“Howis that not our biggest concern?” I demand, panic welling in me as I wonder what could possibly be worse than him—our leader and guide—having a broken foot.

There’s a look of apology on Hawke’s face, as if he’s dreading what he’s about to share. “I’m not sure if you were paying attention during our unscheduled mudslide, but we... got tossed around quite a bit.”

That’s the understatement of the century.

“And we’re now way off course,” Hawke continues. “As in,wayoff course.” My stomach hollows out at the grim look in his eyes, a feeling that grows exponentially when he adds, his voice full of regret, “And I can’t walk.”

I swallow back my fear and say, “We’ll take turns carrying you. And we’ll get back on course.”

It seems like an easy answer to me, and I’m the least survival-y of us all, so I’m certain Hawke will agree. Carrying him will be difficult—he’s not a small man—but between Zander, Bentley, and me, we’ll make it work.

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