Page 22 of Green Ravens

Sawyer’s chuckle was choppy while he was still trying to catch his breath from the near-death experience.

“I think I’m good,” he answered, flipping him off.

“Good. Now get off that ground before ants cover you.”

Oakley held out his hand and helped his partner up, then gave him back his weapon.

Hopefully, I won’t need that anymore, but damn, I’m glad we had it.

Sawyer got back on his boots, brushing off anything that may have taken interest during the couple of minutes he was down there.

With another quick look at his compass to ensure they were still on the right heading, Oakley pulled out his knife and returned to slicing vines out of their path.

“We’ve only got two hours until dusk. It’s time to start looking for another place to sleep…and rest.”

He was sure they’d walked at least ten miles. If the terrain hadn’t been so rough, they probably could’ve done fifteen.

Needless to say, his thighs were burning and he was thirsty and starving.

The skies began to darken to a hazy, indigo-gray, and Oakley was beginning to worry about adequate shelter and if they would have to eat frog legs or one of the many tarantulas he’d seen on their trek.

Sawyer’s breathing was labored, his steps slowing every hundred or so yards.

Then he heard it.

Oakley stopped so abruptly that Sawyer stumbled into him, clutching his shoulder so he didn’t fall.

“What, what is it?”

“Shhh,” Oakley ordered.

“Oh fuck, not another carnivore.”

“Sawyer, shut the hell up.”

He’d been right. To his left was the faint flow of rushing water.

“Oh, thank god.”

He continued to follow the sound until they came to a small stream covered with boulders that created a shallow waterfall.

Nothing had ever looked more glorious.

Chief Styles Sawyer

Sawyer hauled ass toward the clear running water, hollering over his shoulder. “This is drinkable, right? It’s not poison?”

The sound of Oakley’s light laughter mingling with the gentle gurgle of the stream was all the affirmation he needed.

The oppressive weight of extreme thirst had been bearing down on him from the moment Oakley had pulled him out of the river. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his throat ached as if it’d been scraped by barbed wire.

Without checking around to see if anything dangerous was also partaking—he didn’t give a shit—he fell to his knees at the edge of the stream.

With trembling hands, he scooped the cool liquid to his lips and swallowed what tasted like pure ecstasy.

Each drink was a wave of rejuvenation, washing away two days of parched torment and reviving his senses.

Oakley knelt beside him and dipped his head under the running water before he opened his mouth wide.

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