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17

JENSEN

T he wind rips through the cabin, slinking through the thin panes and rattling the shutters like it’s trying to get in. I’ve been sitting by the window on watch for the past two hours, rifle across my knees, unable to shake the feeling of eyes on us. After what happened at Cedar Creek, I’m not taking any chances.

Hank is on watch outside, keeping an eye on the horses in the lean-to and checking the perimeter. I told him to stay close to the cabin, to come back inside if the weather turns. From the look of things, it’s gotten a hell of a lot worse in the last hour, and once again I find myself swearing at the weather service for leading us astray. I should have known better, but sometimes I’m an optimist.

It always bites me in the ass.

I check my watch—2:17 a.m. Hank should have checked in fifteen minutes ago. The rules are simple: every hour, the person on watch outside makes contact. No exceptions. This far up in the mountains, you don’t take risks. Especially after today. I told the others we can’t afford a mountain lion to swoop in and kill one of the horses, even though the big cat is the last thing on my mind.

I rise from my chair, muscles stiff from sitting motionless in the cold. Across the room, Aubrey sleeps on the bearskin rug by the hearth, her sleeping bag pulled tight around her shoulders. The fire burns low, casting dancing shadows across her face. Everyone else is upstairs in the loft—Cole, Red, and Eli, all dead to the world after the day’s events and a hearty dinner of pasta and what was left of the rye whiskey.

Moving silently to the door, I grab my coat and pull it on, checking my gun before slipping outside. The cold hits me like a physical blow, wind-driven snow stinging my face. Visibility is near zero, the world beyond the porch lost in swirling white.

“Hank?” I call, my voice swallowed by the storm. “Hank!”

No answer.

I make my way toward the lean-to, following the guide rope we’d strung earlier between the cabin and the outbuilding. The horses are restless when I enter, Jeopardy nickering a welcome while Duke shifts nervously in his stall. All six horses and mule accounted for—so wherever Hank is, he didn’t take off riding.

Back outside, I scan the area around the cabin, looking for tracks. Fresh snow has already filled in any footprints, leaving the surface unbroken except for my own trail from the porch. I circle the perimeter of the immediate area, calling Hank’s name, fighting growing unease.

He wouldn’t have gone far. Not in these conditions. Not without telling me.

Unless something took him.

The thought sends ice through my veins that has nothing to do with the temperature. I complete the circuit around the cabin, returning to the porch without finding any sign of him. Inside, the warmth is momentary relief as I stamp snow from my boots and hang my coat.

“Something wrong?” Eli’s quiet voice startles me. He stands on the loft stairs, shotgun in hand, sleep-tousled but alert. I glance at Aubrey again but she’s still in deep sleep.

I’m envious.

“No sign of Hank,” I whisper, mindful of the others still sleeping upstairs. “No tracks I could find, but in this snow…”

Eli descends the rest of the way, concern etching his features. “How long?”

“Missed his check-in. Twenty minutes now.”

He curses under his breath. “I’ll get dressed. We’ll do a proper search.”

“Wake Cole and Red too,” I say. “We might need all hands in weather like this.”

While Eli rouses the others, I crouch beside Aubrey, reluctant to wake her but knowing she needs to be informed. Her eyes open at my touch, instantly alert in a way that speaks to training, to instincts honed by danger. It makes me pause for a moment, then I figure of course she would be on high alert here.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up.

“Hank’s missing,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Missed his check-in during watch. I did a quick search outside, didn’t find him.”

She’s on her feet immediately, reaching for her boots to put over her pajama pants. “I’ll help search.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “I need you to stay here, keep watch over the cabin. If he’s lost in the storm, he might find his way back while we’re out looking.”

She doesn’t like it—I can see the argument forming behind her eyes—but she nods. “Be careful out there. Please.”

“Anything for you, Blondie,” I say with a faint smile.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs announce the others. Cole looks irritated at being woken, while Red seems almost amused, as if Hank’s disappearance is an inconvenience rather than a potential disaster.

“Get your gear,” I tell them. “We’ll search in pairs. Eli with me, Cole with Red. Check the lean-to, the outhouse, then expand outward in a grid. Stay within sight of the cabin lights if possible. Use the rope lines when you can’t.”

“He’s probably just around the corner,” Red says, pulling on his jacket over his long johns. “Probably just took a leak and got turned around in the storm. Man has a small bladder.”

“For half an hour?” Eli counters. “In this weather? Hank’s not stupid. If he needed to use the bathroom, he could have used the one inside.”

“Still,” Cole adds, buckling his gun belt, “he could have slipped, hit his head. Might be laying out there unconscious.”

“All the more reason to find him fast,” I say, ending the debate. “Check your weapons. If something is out there, we need to be ready.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air. After what we saw at Cedar Creek—the butchered deer arranged in that unnatural pattern—we all know this might be more than just a man lost in a storm.

At least Eli and I do.

Aubrey watches us prepare, her expression a mixture of concern and frustration at being left behind. I understand her need to be useful, to help—it’s one of the things I like most about her—but I can’t risk her out there. Not when I know what might be waiting in the darkness.

“Fifteen minutes,” I instruct as we prepare to head out. “Holler if you find anything. If you don’t, return to the cabin and we’ll reassess.”

Outside, the storm has intensified. Snow falls so thick it’s like trying to see through a white veil, the wind driving it horizontal. We split up at the porch steps, Cole and Red heading toward the outhouse while Eli and I move toward the north side of the clearing.

“Stay close,” I tell Eli, grateful for his steady presence at my back. Of all the crew, he’s the only one who truly understands me, as well as what we might be up against.

We sweep the area methodically, calling Hank’s name, our voices lost in the howling wind. The storm erases all signs of passage, making tracking impossible. If Hank came this way, the evidence is long gone.

Ten minutes into the search, Eli catches my arm, pointing to the ground ahead. At first, I see nothing but unbroken snow. Then I notice it—a subtle discoloration, dark against the white.

Blood.

I crouch, examining the spot more closely. It’s fresh, not yet fully covered by falling snow. A few feet beyond, another spot, larger this time. And then another.

A trail, leading toward the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Eli meets my gaze, understanding passing between us.

This is bad. Very bad.

We follow the blood trail, weapons ready, senses on high alert. The drops become larger, more frequent as we near the tree line. Then, abruptly, they change character—no longer distinct drops but long smears.

Drag marks.

Something pulled a bleeding body into those trees.

“Jensen.” Eli’s voice is tight with tension. “We should go back. Get the others.”

I know he’s right—whatever left these marks is dangerous, possibly still nearby—but the thought of Hank out there, wounded, perhaps dying, drives me forward. I left him behind in the tunnels. I won’t leave him behind again.

“Five more minutes,” I say. “Just to the tree line. See if there’s any sign of him.”

Eli hesitates, then nods reluctantly. We press on, following the gruesome trail to the forest’s edge. The trees loom like sentinels under our flashlights, snow-laden branches creating deep pools of shadow. Perfect hiding places for things that hunt in the dark.

The drag marks lead directly into the trees, where they’re quickly lost in the underbrush and gathering snow. I scan the trunks, searching for any sign of movement, any indication of what might have taken Hank.

Nothing moves in the darkness, but the sensation of being watched intensifies. It’s the same feeling I had at Cedar Creek—eyes tracking our every move, assessing, calculating.

“We need to go,” Eli says with quiet urgency. “Now, Jensen.”

This time, I don’t argue. We retreat from the tree line, moving at a measured pace despite the instinct to run. Running triggers the predator response. I learned that lesson the hard way.

Back at the cabin, Cole and Red have already returned, their search equally fruitless. Aubrey watches from the doorway, hope fading from her expression as she sees us return without Hank.

“Nothing?” she asks.

I hesitate, glancing at Eli. “Blood. Drag marks. Leading into the trees.”

Cole’s face pales. “Christ Almighty. What the hell did that?”

“Bear, maybe wolves,” Red suggests, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “Or mountain lion. Same one that stalked Aubrey, could be.”

“No bear or mountain lion makes tracks like that,” Eli says quietly. “Not in the way they drag. They’re messy. Not that precise.”

As precise as that chopped up carcass from earlier.

A heavy silence falls over the group as the implications sink in.

“We could call for help,” Aubrey says. “Maybe we can get a signal.”

“Half our phones are dead and dying,” I tell her. “Unless you’re in the exact right spot and luck is on your side, you’re not getting a signal out here. And forget that SOS button too, these mountains don’t get along with the satellites.”

“So what are you saying?” Cole asks, voice rising with tension. “That someone took him? Like, a person? Who else is up here in this weather?”

Eli and I exchange another look. I know what he’s thinking—that we need to tell them all the truth, or at least part of it. But I’m not sure they’re ready to hear it.

Not sure they’ll believe it.

Especially Aubrey.

“I think whatever’s out there,” I say carefully, “isn’t something we’re equipped to handle. Not in these conditions, not in the dark.”

“So we just abandon him?” Aubrey asks, incredulous. “Leave him out there to die?”

“If he’s not dead already,” Red mutters.

I shoot him a glare. “First light, we’ll organize a proper search. Follow the trail, see where it leads. But right now, going out there blind is suicide.”

“Jensen’s right,” Eli adds. “Whatever took Hank is still out there. Likely watching the cabin. Waiting for another opportunity.”

“This is insane,” Cole says, pacing the small confines of the cabin. “We need to get out of here. Head back to the ranch at first light. This whole trip has been cursed from the start.”

He has no idea how right he is.

“We’re not leaving without knowing what happened to Hank,” I say firmly.

“The hell we aren’t,” Red counters. “I’m not ending up like him, dragged off into the woods by some…whatever the hell it is.”

The argument escalates, tension that’s been building since Cedar Creek finally erupting. Cole sides with Red, insisting we abandon the search and head back to safety. Eli stands with me, arguing for a measured approach. Only Aubrey remains silent, her eyes moving between us, calculating.

“Enough!” I finally bark, silencing the room. “We stay until first light. Search for Hank. Then make a decision based on what we find. That’s final.”

Red looks like he might argue further, but something in my expression stops him. Instead, he spits on the floor—a deliberate show of disrespect—and stalks up to the loft. I normally solve disrespect with my fists, but this time I let it pass.

After all, it is my fault we’re all here.

I shouldn’t have taken the money.

“You’re gonna get us all killed, McGraw,” Cole mutters before following him, seeming to pick up on what I’m feeling.

Eli remains, his boyish face grave in the firelight. “They’re scared. Can’t blame them, after what we saw.”

“I know,” I sigh, the weight of leadership heavy on my shoulders, leadership I never fucking asked for. “But I’m not leaving a man behind. Not without knowing.”

“What if we already know?” Eli whispers as he leans in, the question loaded with meaning. “What if it’s like last time?”

Last time.

Three years ago.

When I came up here with someone else who was searching for something and I barely escaped with my life.

“Get some rest,” I tell him, avoiding the question. “I’ll keep watch. From inside.”

Eli studies me for a long moment, then nods, heading up to the loft. Aubrey moves to the fire, adding another log. The flames leap higher, pushing back the darkness but not the fear that permeates the cabin.

“You’re not telling them everything,” she says once we’re alone. Not a question but a statement.

“No,” I admit, seeing no point in further deception. “I’m not.”

“Why?”

I take in a deep breath through my nose, before running my hands over my face, feeling exhaustion hit me. “Because the things I know, the things I’ve seen…they wouldn’t believe me. Because the truth is harder to accept than whatever theories they’ve come up with.”

She sits at the table, facing me directly. “Well, you haven’t tried me.”

For a long moment, I consider deflecting, offering the same vague warnings and half-truths I’ve been feeding her since we met. But looking at her now, determination hardening her delicate features, I realize she deserves better. Deserves the truth, as much as I understand it.

But how much of the truth, I’m not sure.

“Something lives in these mountains,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “Something that used to be human, a long time ago.”

“You’re talking about the legend,” she says. “About the transformation or whatever. Zombies.”

I nod, knowing how ridiculous it sounds, especially when you throw the term zombie in there. “As I said, the locals have stories, passed down through generations. About how some of the settlers changed after eating human flesh. Transformed. Became something…else. Yes, zombies if you will.”

“But that’s not possible,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“There are examples. Rabies. Cordyceps. And what probably happened here, prion disease.”

“Like Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease? Mad cow?”

“Some say there’s a curse, and maybe that’s true,” I begin. “I would never discount the stories from the Indigenous peoples here. That would be unwise. They know better than any of us settlers. But I’ve been doing a lot of research. Based partly on the accounts of what my great-great-great-granddaddy Jake McGraw told the generations. What if when the Donner Party consumed the flesh of their dead companions they unknowingly exposed themselves to a rapidly mutating prion disease? Perhaps the pathogen was initially a rare variant of prions that spread through infected cattle and oxen, but in the isolated wilderness of the Sierra Nevada, it evolved into a much more insidious strain capable of crossing from animals to humans.”

Aubrey gnaws on her lower lip for a moment. “You know, with the way preventable diseases are being spread in this country, I wouldn’t be surprised. But still…people get sick from things. They don’t turn into zombies.”

“But what if they did?”

She lets out a low laugh, even though the humor doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, I’d say we’re even more fucked than I thought.”

I nod. “Three years ago, I saw them,” I tell her, the memory sending ice through my veins. “Tracked them to a cave system out here, beyond Benson Hut, at Soda Springs. They were people. Pale, feral people. Too strong. Too fast. Eyes like blue fire. Teeth…”

I trail off, the image too vivid, too terrifying to fully describe.

“Feral people?” she repeats in disbelief, and I realize how fucking foolish I sound. “Don’t tell me you believe the lore about the ferals who live in the tunnels beneath the park systems. Those are just stories. Made up stories. I should know because…” she trails off, as if catching herself saying something she shouldn’t. Then she clears her throat and straightens up. “They don’t exist, I can tell you that much. If they did, it would be all over the news and law enforcement?—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I say, lifting a hand. “Law enforcement doesn’t do shit for the citizens and you know it. You know you know it. You said it yourself about Lainey. And she was white. Had she been Indigenous, Black, Hispanic, they never would have looked. Now I’m not saying the rumor of feral people living in tunnels across the country is true. That’s a Jordan Peele film and a weird one at that. But if it were true, the cops, the FBI, they wouldn’t do shit about it. People disappear all the fucking time.”

She seems to bristle at that. “Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you can listen to what I’m saying and believe me, or don’t. But I know what I saw. I know what I escaped from. There are people in these mountains, call them zombies if it makes you feel better, and they’ve been here for a very long time. They hunger for human flesh and if I were a betting man, I’d say they have Hank right now.”

Silence fills the cabin, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. I’ve never admitted so much in my life, let alone to a stranger. And yet here I am, telling Aubrey my deepest, darkest secrets.

Well, almost all of them.

When I tell her the biggest one, I think whatever we have between us, this tense and fragile thing, will evaporate into thin air.

And I would deserve it.

“I think they’ve been watching us since we crossed the pass,” I go on. “Testing our defenses. Waiting for someone to make a mistake.”

Aubrey absorbs this, arms crossed over her chest as she processes the implications. “Okay. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re telling the truth. Why didn’t you tell me this before we came up here? And I mean, lay it all out, instead of hinting at shit left and right. Why risk all our lives for a search you know is probably hopeless?”

The question cuts to the heart of my guilt. “Because I need the money,” I admit quietly. “And because…a part of me hoped I was wrong. That we’d find nothing but old bones and you could have closure.” I pause, leaning forward to gaze into her eyes. “I still have that hope.”

She stares back at me. I know I’ve been careful to never give her false hope, I know she’s talked about Lainey being dead, that she expects it, and yet I see her beautiful face crumble in front of me.

It breaks my damn heart.

I go on. “Lainey came up here looking for answers about her family history. About your family history and the McAlisters in particular. And I think she found them.”

Her brow furrows. “The McAlisters? You mean the baby? Josephine?”

“The blood remembers what the generations forget,” I murmur, repeating what my grandfather once told me, what his grandfather told him, and so on.

Understanding dawns in her eyes, horror close behind. “Are you saying my sister was related to the McAlisters?”

I take in a deep breath through my nose, steadying myself for the worst. “Related to the same baby that was rescued and adopted into a new family. A family whose name eventually became Wells.”