Page 7 of Randall (The Tenth Step #3)
Flynn
His paws hurt. He’d been running scared for hours already. Every time he slowed to catch his breath and give his legs and lungs a break, he’d hear the crack of a limb or feel an icy breeze brush through his fur, and he’d leap forward full-tilt.
He was going to die. Flynn Fisher, death by… Something. Evil. Fuck, he couldn’t even think; he was exhausted. All he knew was that he needed to keep moving, and though he didn’t have a final destination in mind, his instincts pointed him south and east toward Riverside.
Their clan’s shaman had seen it, but not one of them had believed him, except Flynn.
As their shaman’s apprentice, he’d seen the horror etched across his master’s face as the vision engulfed him.
Maybe if they had, Flynn wouldn’t be the only one left.
He prayed that someone else had escaped the devastation, but he had little hope.
The fires had burned bright against the inky dark sky; plumes of smoke billowed and curled, blowing in the wind, lifting to the heavens and obscuring the stars that he could see whenever he chanced turning around.
The grasslands had offered few options for places to hide, so Flynn had headed due east toward the Wintervale Mountains before turning southward amid the thick forests at their base. A low rumble had started some time ago, the sound getting louder as he hurried on, putting him even more on edge.
Exhaustion pulled at his limbs. His eyelids drooped, causing him to stumble over rocks and downed tree branches sticking up in the deer path he’d found and now followed.
He knew it was a risk to stay on the path, but he hoped he might spy a squirrel or rabbit; even a tiny chipmunk would do to sate some of the hunger he bore.
He needed water; with that thought, the low rumble he’d been hearing registered.
A waterfall. Flynn tilted his head, pausing to locate it, and happily realized he’d been heading right toward it.
He picked up his pace, and when the first drop of mist hit his whiskers, he lengthened his stride even more.
He stopped abruptly at the edge of the drop-off, licking water droplets off his muzzle.
A raging wall of water crashed over an outcropping of rock, falling into a wide basin of swirling white foam before trailing off in a steady stream, miraculously still in the direction he wanted to go.
Flynn picked his way down the steep incline to reach the bubbling river.
He dropped to his belly on the embankment and lapped at the clear, fresh water.
After drinking his full, he cautiously stepped into the fast-moving water, breath-stealing snowmelt-cold, letting the current wash the dust, dirt, and detritus from his fur and cool his aching paws.
He scanned beneath the surface, hoping to see a fish or something else he could catch and eat, but saw nothing except a loose log swishing back and forth, caught on tree roots.
Checking the angle of the sun and spying the growing moss on nearby trees, Flynn determined the river was indeed flowing in the direction he wanted to go.
If he followed the water, he would eventually reach Riverside.
Swimming—or floating—would cover his need to keep moving while concealing his scent trail.
He paddled to the log, finding it much bigger than he thought, and pulled it free with his teeth. With his front paws looped over the top, and his chin resting on the wood, he let the current drag him downstream.