Page 29 of One Last Storm
“So, do we wait for a ride?” Shep asked, pulling his collar higher against the wind that had started to pick up, sending snow devils spinning across the road surface.
“No. We hike until someone comes.” Moose had started trekking on the narrow shoulder.
Axel tried his radio again. Ice had formed on the antenna, and maybe the storm interfered because he only got static.
He lowered the radio. Watched his breath form clouds that froze and fell, clogging the air before crystalizing into the wind.
He turned and followed Moose, Anchorage looking too far away. But, when Moose picked up his pace to a jog, so did he. Good idea.
Headlights cut through the darkness, moving toward them from the north. Axel stepped into the road, waving his arms while Moose stepped into the road.
“Please don’t be some lunatic,” London muttered, but she too turned, waved her arms.
The truck—a big Ford F-250 with a camper shell—began to slow. Snow spraying from its tires as the driver applied the brakes on the icy surface.
The truck rolled to a stop. The passenger window rolled down and Axel ran up to the truck.
“Hey—”
“Hey yourself. Are you guys crazy?” The guy at the wheel wore a wool hat, a dark grizzle on his chin and a smile. “Seriously—what is the Air One team doing out here at five am?”
“Could ask you the same thing Jericho,” Axel said, and reached for the door.
“Nope. I ride shotgun,” said Moose, coming up behind Axel. “Hey Jer.” He opened the door, like no big deal.
Not a miracle that they’d been rescued at just the right time from an old buddy from Copper Mountain.
Whateves.
“We need a ride to Anchorage. Emergency.”
Jericho didn’t ask for details. Just jerked his thumb toward the back of the truck. “Orlando’s back there, but he’s friendly.”
Shep had opened the back and Axel climbed into the truck bed under the camper shell. He found a large dog sprawled across a pile of sleeping bags and camping gear. Orlando was magnificent—easily eighty pounds of Bernese Mountain Dog and Poodle mix, with the distinctive tri-color markings of his mountain dog heritage but the intelligent, alert expression and slightly wavy coat that spoke of his poodle lineage. His massive head came up as they entered, brown eyes bright and curious, tail thumping once against a duffel bag in greeting.
“Hey pal, I hope you’re warm.” Axel scooted in next to him, and let the dog put his head on his lap.
“This is cozy,” Shep said, wedging himself between London and a stack of camping gear, his voice already showing the strain of trying to stay warm.
“Better than walking.”
London curled up next to Shep as Jericho took off.
Sort of felt like he’d gone from brutal to torture. The space was cramped and cold and the metal truck bed conducted the subzero temperature through their winter gear like an ice cube. Frost formed on the windows as their breath mixed with the enclosed air. Still, Jericho outfitted his truck for wilderness expeditions—sleeping bags, camp stoves, emergency gear, and what looked like avalanche rescue equipment secured against the sides.
Jericho’s voice carried back from the cab through the sliding rear window. “Should I be driving like my hair’s on fire?”
“Hospital,” Moose said. “Fast as you can manage without putting us in a ditch.”
He lifted the radio. “Echo, this is Axel. Any word on casualties?”
No response.
He leaned his head back, his eyes closing.
His hand going to his chest.
Please, God, let Flynn be alive.
