and not giving up.
It tells me to cut the rope binding my wrists.
My panicked-self freaks out, but that small voice in my head is calm and tells me what to do.
I lean back, arching awkwardly, coughing with every breath, until I find the knife strapped to my shin. It takes several tries, but I finally get it free of its sheath. With hacking breaths and blurry vision, I saw at the rope until my hands are free.
The first thing I do is rub at my eyes. That’s a mistake, because it grinds soot into the delicate tissues of my eyes. But I need to see.
A quick look reveals the impossible. My tent is pitched. It billows in the wind. My camping gear’s set up, as if I made camp, but I’m virtually certain I did no such thing. The fabric of my tent melts, disappearing slowly as the heat consumes it.
Memories return.
A man with the beard.
He hit me in the head with a rock, but why did he set up my gear? That makes no sense, and I don’t have time to think because I’m surrounded by fire. The prevailing wind blows downhill, which sucks. There’s nowhere to go except up…into the thickest of the smoke. Smoke which will kill me before the flames, but if I stay, I’m toast; crispy, burnt, Evie toast.
The fire gains strength, fueled by dry grass and scrub oak. I’m in a tinder box rapidly turning into a firestorm.
I very much want to live, but I can barely breathe.
My gear.
The bastard went through my gear, setting up camp down to the last detail. Then I glimpse my hydration pack. I grab the water and a spare shirt out of my pack. After I take a quick pull of water, I wet the shirt and wrap it around my head, leaving only my eyes exposed. I grab another shirt, rip it in two, wet that, then wrap it around my hands. I’m trying to cover every inch of exposed skin because I’m going to have to leap over the small scrub which is on fire. My boots are thick and I hope that’s enough protection from the flames along the ground.
If I move quickly enough, I might be able to escape this blaze.
My heart thumps wildly as adrenaline surges in my body.
It’s going to be okay.
I’m strong. I can run. But I’ve already spent the day hiking up the hill. My muscles are sore, exhausted, and fatigue is settling in. A quick check of my things reveals I still have the bear spray, my fannypack but no revolver, and my knife. I don’t see my phone.
Less than a third of my water remains and I douse myself with all of it.
Then I run.
There’s one tiny gap in the flames and I make a break for it. Most of the fire flows downhill, spurred by the wind coming up over the ridge and flowing down into the valley below. I have what looks like twenty feet of burning brush to cross before reaching the leading edge of the fire.
I keep my arms tucked tight, my steps high, and sprint as fast as I can.
Heat encapsulates me. I’m literally running into what feels like a furnace, but I don’t stop. Every instinct in my body says to turn around, seek the safety of the campsite, but I’ll suffocate if I do that.
My boot catches a root. I stumble and my arms windmill, but panic is my friend and it powers my body as I regain my balance and keep going.
Smoke sears my lungs. Tears blur my vision, but I don’t stop.
I run.
I run until I’m out of breath. My eyes sting and I’m blinded by tears. I hack against the smoke that makes it through my makeshift mask, and catapult myself right over the side of the ridge.
The ground drops out from beneath me. My legs bicycle in the air.
I fall.
Dry limbs crack as I smack into the side of the steep slope. A rock digs into my hip. A bush slaps my face, slowing my fall, but I’m tumbling.
Completely out of control, I flip end over end down the rocky scree where I take out every bush and small tree along the way until I come to a bone-jarring halt.
The only good thing is there’s less smoke down here, but I’m in a small ravine and see no way to make it back up the ragged slope. I can see where I fell. My body dug a