Tracks In The Storm

Tracks In The Storm
Rain lashed the forest, the slope’s mud slick under Jinx and Chris’s boots as they reached the wreckage of Addicus’s car. The twisted metal smoldered, sparks hissing in the downpour, the air heavy with gasoline and wet earth. Jinx peered inside, her flashlight cutting through the dark.

“Empty,” she said, scanning for bodies.

She knelt, studying footprints in the churned soil. “Three sets—two men, one woman. Peter, Sharon, Addicus. Heading west, deep into the forest.”

“How do you know?” Chris asked, rain dripping from his leather jacket.

“Terrorist camps,” Jinx said, moving forward. “Years in jungles, tracking was a must. Learned to read the ground like a book.”

Chris followed, the forest swallowing them, its canopy a black shroud. “What was it like? The group?”

“Not your business,” Jinx snapped, glancing at the sky. “Storm’s coming. We’ll lose the tracks.”

“We need to hurry,” Chris said, picking up the pace.

They ran, boots splashing through puddles, following the faint prints before the rain erased them. Thunder cracked, and the heavens opened, a deluge turning the forest into a maze of shadows. Visibility dropped, branches clawing at their faces, the neon glow of Denver long gone.

“Shelter,” Chris shouted over the roar. “We can’t keep going.”

“Downhill,” Jinx said. “Rain washes roots, softens soil. Animals dig caves under trees—natural shelters.”

“Find one?” Chris asked.

“Follow the water,” she said, pointing to a stream forming in the mud.

They slogged downstream, rain blinding, until Jinx spotted a massive tree, its roots framing a dark hollow. “There,” she said, sliding down. Chris followed, slipping but catching himself.

The hole was pitch-black. “Can’t see shit,” Chris muttered.

Jinx pulled a waterproof flashlight from her backpack, its beam slicing the dark. A gun glinted, aimed at her. “Relax, fool,” she said. “It’s us.”

“Peter!” Chris exclaimed, crawling in to hug his friend. “You’re okay.”

“Sorry,” Peter said, lowering his pistol. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

“Sharon?” Chris asked, hope in his voice.

“Not yet,” Peter said, eyes haunted. “I was tracking them, but the dark and rain forced me here.”

“We’ll find her when the storm clears,” Chris said, forcing optimism.

Jinx scoffed. “By then, the tracks’ll be gone. No clue where they’re headed. It’s hopeless.”

“Be positive,” Chris snapped.

“I’m real,” Jinx said, shrugging. “Not helping?”

“You’re not,” Chris said, glaring.

Peter’s face darkened, visions of Sharon’s fate—Addicus’s cruelty, her bruises—tormenting him. Chris gripped his shoulder. “She’s fine, Peter. We’ll get her. Stop thinking the worst.”

Peter nodded, forcing hope. “You’re right. We’ll find her.”

The hollow was cramped, water seeping through the roots, the storm’s roar a constant drone. Jinx checked her SMG, its metal cold, while Chris adjusted his near-empty pistol. Peter’s gun had one round left, a last resort. The forest felt alive, its shadows hiding threats beyond the rain. A faint howl carried on the wind—not a wolf, but something abstract, deliberate, circling their refuge.

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Inside the shack, Sharon curled in a corner, the floor damp, the air thick with mildew and tension. Addicus rummaged for fire-making tools, finding dry rocks among the shack’s debris. He gathered twigs and leaves, his left hand fumbling, his right arm’s absence a curse Sharon had inflicted. He tried striking the rocks, but they slipped, his grunts of frustration echoing.

Sharon watched, unyielding, no pity for the monster who’d taken so much—her parents, Lily, Seb, Martha. He gave up, slumping opposite her, his gaze heavy. The cold bit deep, both shivering, the storm’s chill seeping through the walls.

Sharon stood, grabbing the rocks. She struck them, sparks flying, and nurtured the flame with twigs, blowing gently until it caught. The fire grew, warming the shack, its flicker casting ghosts on the walls. She returned to her corner, silent, the fire’s crackle their only dialogue.

“Throw it,” Addicus said, voice low, gun raised.

Sharon frowned, feigning confusion. “What?”

“The wood,” he said, impatient. “Toss it.”

She pulled a jagged stick from her dress—her makeshift weapon—and threw it at his feet. “Thought it’d be that easy?” he mocked.

She stayed silent, glaring, her mind racing for escape. The shack was a cage, one door, no windows, the storm trapping her with him. His gun never wavered, but his eyes betrayed something—desperation, obsession.

“I know you hate me,” Addicus said. “Watching me fail at the fire must’ve been sweet. I wasn’t always this… broken.”

“Don’t,” Sharon cut in. “Martha told me your sob story—your uncles, your mother. It doesn’t excuse you.”

He fell silent, the fire’s glow deepening the lines on his face. “Guess how many women I’ve been with?” he asked, voice distant.

“Don’t care,” Sharon said, jaw tight.

“Three,” he said, ignoring her. “A man like me—wealth, power, fifties—and only three. You, against your will. Samantha Logan, who raped me. And another… she broke my heart. I swore off love after her.”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed, his words a twisted confession, but the storm raged on...