《Day Zero》 Prologue-The descent Just as Ashes looks out the window of the small twin-engine cargo plane, the right engine explodes. Over the roar of the wind and the shuddering fuselage, a voice crackles over the intercom: "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Cargo Charlie November Two Three Four. We have experienced a right engine explosion¡ªengine fire is not out. We are single-engine and losing altitude. Position approximately 80 miles northwest of Fort Nelson, over dense forest. Five souls on board, dangerous goods in cargo. Request immediate vectors for nearest suitable airstrip or emergency response. Mayday, Charlie November Two Three Four." The message repeats again and again¡ªnow from the lone pilot. The other has taken shrapnel to the head and slumps lifelessly over the yoke. The cabin becomes a storm of smoke and noise, and then chaos erupts anew as the damaged wing shears off, sending the plane into a violent, unexpected roll. Ashes and the four other passengers, unbuckled and unprepared after hours of steady cruising, are tossed around the cabin like rag dolls. One is killed instantly, their neck snapping against the ceiling. Ashes, in better shape and with a background in high school gymnastics, manages to orient herself just enough to spot a row of parachute packs near the emergency door. She lunges for one¡ªfingers catching the strap¡ªjust as something, a body or a piece of flying debris, slams into the emergency handle. The door bursts open with a shriek, the sudden pressure difference yanking her out into the sky, the parachute still clenched in her hand. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. She tumbles head over heels through the air. The world spins¡ªblue sky, green forest, and a thick black smoke trail twisting behind the dying plane. After what feels like forever¡ªbut is only seconds¡ªshe manages to strap the chute on and stabilize her fall. She pulls the cord. Nothing. A tangled mess of fabric flaps uselessly above her. Oh god, oh god, oh god, she repeats silently, panic spiking. She pulls the sever cord and cuts the useless main chute free, immediately yanking the handle for the backup. The harness jerks violently against her body¡ªbut the sudden, glorious deceleration makes her gasp in relief. In the distance, she watches the plane as it briefly pulls out of the spin, struggling for altitude. It doesn¡¯t make it. It disappears behind the treeline¡ªand a moment later, a massive fireball erupts. The sound doesn¡¯t reach her for several long, surreal seconds. A minute later, she¡¯s racing toward the treetops. There¡¯s no clear path, no good landing zone, and she¡¯s dropping faster than she¡¯d like on the backup chute. She braces as best she can. Branches tear at her as she crashes through the canopy, until finally, she slams into the forest floor in a heap. She lies still for a moment, stunned. Then she takes stock. Scrapes. Bruises. But nothing broken. She¡¯s alive¡ªmiraculously. No supplies. No map. No one else in sight. Just Ashes, a crumpled parachute, and an endless forest. This is Day Zero. Chapter one- Day Zero Chapter one Day zero location- somewere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada She lay there for a long moment, stunned. Breathing hard. Listening to the wind in the trees, the creak of branches high above, the distant echo of the explosion still bouncing through her skull. A plane crash. She had survived a plane crash. Ashes blinked up at the swaying canopy, trying to absorb the sheer magnitude of it. She''d been yanked out into the sky with a barely-grabbed parachute and somehow survived the kind of landing that should have broken bones¡ªor worse. With a groan, she rolled onto her side and began to take inventory. Arms: good. Legs: sore, but working. Nothing felt broken. Just cuts, bruises, and a deep, bone-deep ache starting to bloom. She sat up slowly. The parachute pulled behind her with the motion, rustling through the undergrowth like a whisper. Still no sign of anyone else. No voices. No wreckage. Just trees. Endless, towering trees. Ashes stood, carefully, brushing dirt and pine needles from her clothes. Her breathing steadied. She was alive. But alone. And Day Zero had just begun. Ashes pulled off the parachute harness and dropped to one knee, catching her breath. Time to take stock. On her: She turned to the mess of nylon and cord tangled in the undergrowth behind her. The chute had fully deployed, dragging through the canopy and scraping across the forest floor on impact. Lines were caught in roots and branches. A mess¡ªbut salvageable. As she started to gather it, she realized something strange: the gear wasn¡¯t standard-issue civvy stuff. The harness was heavy-duty, the cord thick and evenly cut, not frayed. This wasn¡¯t a cheap escape rig. Looks like the pilot¡ªor maybe the owner¡ªhad military surplus tastes. Probably a vet. Probably didn¡¯t trust standard kits. Lucky her. Scattered and tangled around her, she found: Ashes crouched there for a while, hands on her knees, letting the silence settle. It wasn¡¯t much. But in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but trees in every direction, it felt like treasure. She could work with this. Ashes gathers the parachute and coils of 550 cord into a rough heap, planning to deal with it later. For now, she takes a moment to survey her surroundings. Nothing but trees. Massive ones¡ªsome so wide it would take four or five of her, fingertip to fingertip, just to wrap around their trunks. The light filtering down through the canopy is dim and greenish, casting the forest floor in perpetual twilight. It makes her wonder how dark¡ªhow cold¡ªthe nights might get. The ground beneath her boots is soft and springy, a thick carpet of pine needles layered over years of decay. She needs to get her bearings. If the wreck is still burning, there¡¯ll be smoke. And if there¡¯s smoke, she might be able to find the crash site. Ashes approaches one of the towering trees and cranes her neck to look up. Climbing it by hand would be nearly impossible. Then it hits her¡ªthe cord. She turns back toward the pile and grabs one of the thirty-foot lengths of 550. It¡¯s time to improvise. She studies the tree again, then the cord in her hands. A memory surfaces¡ªsome old wilderness article she read once, maybe something her dad showed her. Not perfect, not safe, but maybe enough. Ashes sets to work. She cuts a length of cord and ties a sturdy loop for each foot, securing them around her boots like stirrups. Another line goes around the tree itself, lashed tightly with a friction hitch, and cinched around her waist like a crude harness. With one foot in each loop and the cord braced around the trunk, she hugs the tree and pulls herself upward. Push with the legs. Scoot the waist cord. Repeat. The bark scrapes her arms. Her thighs burn. The loops bite into her boots. But inch by inch, she climbs¡ªslow and awkward, like some kind of gearless lineman. The forest opens up below her, a green abyss. Still no wind. Still no sound but her own breath. She doesn¡¯t look down. After a few grueling minutes, Ashes is already sweating through her shirt. Her arms tremble. Her legs burn. She¡¯s glad¡ªreally glad¡ªthat she¡¯s stayed in shape over the years. Hiking. Climbing. Urban exploring. All of it adds up, but this? This is something else. The cord digs into her hips. Her boots are slipping in the loops. She grits her teeth and keeps going. At around twenty feet, she finally reaches the first branch¡ªa thick, ancient limb nearly as wide as her waist. She straddles it gratefully, arms wrapped around the trunk, legs dangling. The bark is rough against her skin, but it feels like salvation. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. She takes a few steadying breaths, then adjusts the harness¡ªre-tightens the cord, resets her footing¡ªand continues climbing. Higher. The air grows cooler. The light, greener. The wind, sharper. And then¡ªfinally¡ªshe breaks through the worst of the canopy. Roughly fifty feet up, the tree begins to sway with each gust. Not wildly, but enough to make her stomach twist. She clings tighter, eyes wide, and forces herself to look out. A sea of green stretches in every direction. And there¡ªon the horizon¡ªcurling faintly into the sky like a distant signal¡­ Smoke. Ashes takes a moment to catch her breath, steadying herself on the gently swaying branch. She pulls the signal mirror from her pocket and angles it just enough to check the tiny built-in compass. The smoke is northwest¡ªmaybe 9 or 10 miles out, though it¡¯s hard to judge through the shifting canopy and distance haze. Up here, the world feels unreal. Almost silent. Just her breathing, the creak of the great tree, and the soft rustle of wind pulling at her bright red hair. She scans the horizon carefully. To the west, a lake glints faintly through the trees. Beyond that, far in the distance, jagged mountains rise up in hazy blue layers¡ªframing both her and the distant wreck in the heart of a massive valley. It¡¯s beautiful. Vast. Terrifying. She feels impossibly small. After a long pause, she braces herself for the climb back down. No easy task¡ªespecially since she won¡¯t be able to see where she¡¯s placing her feet. She tightens her grip on the cord, swallows the knot in her throat, and begins the slow descent into green shadow. Ashes begins the climb down, slow and deliberate, her breath shallow with focus. The sway of the tree feels stronger now¡ªlike it¡¯s alive and shifting against her. Each movement of the harness takes twice the effort going backward. She can¡¯t see her footholds. Can¡¯t judge distance well. It¡¯s all feel and guesswork. About halfway down, her boot slips. One of the stirrup loops pops loose and her leg dangles free. The sudden jolt makes her yelp¡ªjust once¡ªand her heart slams against her ribs. She clutches the trunk, fingers scraping bark, legs locked around the tree in a desperate squeeze. She doesn''t move for a few long seconds. Just breathes. Then slowly, carefully, she finds the cord again, re-threads her boot, and continues downward¡ªthis time even more cautious than before. By the time her boots touch solid ground, her arms are shaking and her shirt is soaked through with sweat. She stumbles back from the base of the tree and sinks into a crouch, letting the adrenaline pass. But she made it. She knows where the wreck is. She knows the direction. And now, she has a goal. But the crash site can wait. Reaching it is the long-term goal¡ªbut survival comes first. Ashes wrestles the parachute and cords into the pack as best she can, jamming the nylon and tangled 550 into the frame until the zipper strains. It¡¯s awkward and heavy, but manageable. She shoulders it and turns west, toward the glinting lake she saw from the treetop. She moves carefully through the forest, eyes scanning for anything useful¡ªberries, fallen limbs, game trails¡ªbut finds only moss, needles, and silence. The towering trees press close, and time stretches oddly in the quiet. About fifteen minutes in, she spots something: a patch of swampy ground at the base of a small hill, thick with moss and dark mud. Above it, a tiny spring trickles down the slope¡ªclear, cold, and alive. She hikes up the hill, following the narrow path of damp earth until she finds the source: a thin stream emerging between two stones. Using a stick, she clears some debris from the tiny opening. The flow muddies at first, swirling with dirt and grit, but she waits, watching. Within two minutes the water runs clear again¡ªslow, but steady. Ashes smiles to herself. A spring like this, fed by an underground aquifer, is almost always safe to drink from. She cups her hands beneath the flow, lets them fill, and brings the cool water to her lips. It tastes like life. She fills both the water bag and the metal flask, securing them to the outside of her pack with loops of cord. The added weight is noticeable, but worth it. With one last glance at the spring, she checks the compass and heads out again. Northwest. Still heading for the wreck, but more importantly¡ªmoving forward. The hike is steady and quiet. After a while, she estimates it¡¯s around 3 PM. The light filtering through the trees is still strong, soft and green, but steady. There¡¯s time. No rush¡ªyet. Ashes silently thanks the spirits, or fate, or whatever was watching out for her, that it''s early summer. The air is cool but bearable. A little damp. If this were winter, she¡¯d already be halfway to frostbite and desperation. She hasn''t seen any berries, but she¡¯s found a few more small springs¡ªeach one a little reassurance that she won¡¯t die of thirst today. Eventually, after another spring bubbles up near a patch of ferns, she stops. Time to make camp. She knows from experience that building shelter and fire from scratch takes time, especially with nothing but a multi-tool and some cord. No point in pushing it too close to nightfall. She searches the area and finds what she¡¯s looking for: a massive fallen tree, maybe twenty yards from the spring. The trunk is weathered and half-embedded in the earth, its roots lifted and gnarled like a frozen wave. Beside the base, there¡¯s a natural hollow¡ªpart erosion, part animal den, maybe. Ashes gets to work. She clears it out with her hands and a stick, scraping away moss, dirt, old pinecones. When she¡¯s done, the space beneath the root and log is just large enough for her to lie flat. The ceiling of bark and root arches over her head. Cramped, but dry. Hidden. Solid. With the hollow cleared and the base of the fallen tree forming a sturdy wall behind her, Ashes unzips the pack and pulls out the battered parachute and coils of 550 cord. The fabric is torn and crumpled, but there¡¯s still enough surface area to work with. She rigs up a makeshift lean-to, securing one edge to a branch above the exposed roots and the other to stakes made from sharpened sticks, driven into the soil just beyond the hollow. The chute flutters slightly in the breeze, but once it¡¯s cinched down with the cord, it holds. It covers just over half the opening¡ªenough to keep dew or light rain off her while still leaving room for a fire at the front. She positions the fire spot opposite the tree, using the thick log base and root wall as a natural heat reflector. It¡¯ll bounce warmth back into the hollow and maybe even dry her gear a bit. It¡¯s not perfect. The corners sag. The chute smells faintly of smoke and fuel. But it¡¯s shelter¡ªand in the wild, that¡¯s everything. With the shelter in place, Ashes grabs the now much lighter pack and sets off to gather firewood. She focuses first on the easy stuff¡ªdry twigs and branches already off the ground, snapping them down to size and stacking them in the pack and cradled in her arms. She hauls the first load back to camp and drops it beside the fire pit, then heads out again. The second trip is for larger pieces¡ªthicker limbs that will burn longer and hotter. It takes more effort to snap them or haul them back whole, but she knows the truth of it: even a small fire burns through wood faster than you''d expect. She¡¯ll need a small mountain of it just to last the night, and if she stays here longer than that, it¡¯ll be a daily task. Fire eats calories. And so does collecting wood. By the third run, she¡¯s sweating, arms sore, but her rhythm is solid. As she skirts a mossy patch of fallen logs, a flash of color catches her eye¡ªbright orange against all the green. Salmonberries. She lets out a soft laugh and does a small celebratory dance in the middle of the clearing. The first real win of the day. She plucks a few and eats them right off the bush¡ªtart, juicy, and perfect. Not enough to fill her belly, but enough to lift her spirits. She notes the location carefully. She¡¯ll be back. Ashes eyes the pile of wood beside her shelter and gives a small nod. It¡¯s not a full night¡¯s worth¡ªnot if the temperature drops hard¡ªbut it¡¯ll do for now. She unscrews the cap on the metal flask and finishes the last of the water. Then she grabs the empty container and heads back toward the salmonberry bush. It doesn¡¯t take long to fill up. The flask¡¯s wide mouth makes it easy¡ªone handful into her mouth, two into the flask, repeat. The berries are sweet and tart, bursting with juice, and they ease the gnawing in her stomach just enough to keep her steady. By the time the flask is full, she¡¯s sticky-fingered and slightly less hungry. It''ll buy her a few hours, at least. She wipes her hands on her pants and heads back to camp. Now comes the real challenge¡ªthe hardest task so far. Starting a fire. Ashes starts with the driest stick she can find, using the blade on her multitool to shave it down into fine curls of wood. The shavings flutter into her palm like paper. Next, she cuts a short section¡ªmaybe an inch¡ªoff one of her precious lengths of 550 cord. She frays it with her fingers until it¡¯s a soft, tangled puff of fibers, easy to catch a spark. She layers the shavings over the fluffed cord, then builds up a tiny nest of twigs and thin kindling over top. It¡¯s delicate work¡ªone wrong move and it¡¯ll smother before it ever catches. With the foundation in place, she organizes the rest of her wood pile within arm¡¯s reach, ready to feed the flames quickly once they¡¯re lit. From the multitool, she pulls the tiny ferro rod¡ªbarely longer than her pinky finger¡ªand sets it near the base of the tinder. Striking it is awkward; the short length makes it hard to get good leverage. Sparks fly wide or fizzle out. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fifth strike, a spark lands just right. The frayed cord smolders. Ashes drops to her knees and leans in close, cupping her hands around the ember and breathing gently¡ªslow, steady breaths, coaxing it like a secret. The fluff glows red, then bursts into a fragile tongue of flame. The wood shavings catch. Then the twigs. She smiles, the flickering light reflected in her green eyes. Carefully, she feeds the fire¡ªsmall sticks first, then thicker ones. She keeps it modest, controlled. No bonfires out here. Just enough for heat, light, and a bit of comfort. She sits back and rests, staring into the fire, thinking about the day. It had all started so normally¡ªcatching a cheap ride on a cargo plane, just for the fun of it. Chatting with the pilots. Swapping stories with other adventure-chasers, all of them laughing about ridiculous layovers and tight budgets. Then everything went wrong in a second. The explosion. The sound. The terror. She hadn¡¯t had time to think about any of it¡ªnot really. Not until now. Every second since the fall had been about survival. About moving. Acting. Doing. But now, with shelter overhead and fire at her feet, the weight of it crashes down. The isolation. The silence. The sheer impossibility of still being alive. Ashes wraps her arms around herself, and finally, completely, breaks down¡ªsobbing, loud and messy, into the flickering dark. Eventually, the tears slow. The fire crackles on. And sometime after that, curled beneath the parachute tarp with her pack as a pillow and her thoughts still racing, she drifts into a troubled sleep. Chapter two- Day One Chapter two Day one Location- temporary camp- somewhere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada Fire. Sound. Smoke. Chaos. Wind rushing¡ª ¡ªand the snap of a parachute. Ashes startles awake, heart pounding, breath shallow. The nightmare slips away in pieces, already fading into smoke and static. She blinks against the morning light filtering through the parachute tarp, then stretches with a groan. Her muscles ache. Every cut and bruise makes itself known. The night had been long. Cold. Damp. The forest floor offered little comfort, and the fire hadn''t lasted nearly as long as she hoped. She crawls toward the smoldering pit, now just a heap of warm ash and faint embers. With practiced care, she feeds it dry twigs and needles, blowing gently until flame returns. The tiny fire sputters, then steadies. Outside the shelter, the forest is still. But the air has changed¡ªheavier, damp with promise. A storm is coming. Not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but it¡¯s out there, creeping closer. Ashes pats herself on the face, forcing herself to focus. ¡°Come on, girl. You got this.¡± She pulls a few lengths of 550 cord from her pack and stands. Time to secure food. With steady hands and well-practiced motions, she sets to work building a few snares. Later she moves through the underbrush quietly, the 550 cord coiled in her hand and her multitool clipped to her belt. The forest is still damp from the morning dew, the air cool and thick with the scent of pine and moss. Ashes isn¡¯t just wandering¡ªshe¡¯s reading the ground. Her eyes scan for subtle signs: broken twigs, pressed-down grass, faint trails where small feet have passed again and again. Ten minutes in, she spots it. A narrow path, just a few inches wide, winding between ferns and under a fallen log. The dirt is disturbed, and a few strands of animal hair cling to the bark. A game trail. Probably rabbits. Maybe something bigger, but she¡¯s not holding her breath. She crouches, gently clears a patch of ground, and gets to work. The snare is simple but effective. A fixed loop tied into the 550 cord, anchored to a flexible sapling. She rigs the trigger carefully, positioning it just above the trail, then masks it with leaves and a bit of dirt. Not too much¡ªjust enough to keep it from looking suspicious. She sets another snare near the base of a tree where the trail forks, then moves farther along to set a third at a narrow choke point where the brush funnels tight. Each snare takes only minutes, but she takes her time anyway. These need to work. She needs something by tonight¡ªmeat, fur, even just the hope of success. As she finishes the last one, she marks the spot in her mind¡ªshallow notch in the bark, stone turned just so. Then she stands, brushes her hands clean, and heads back toward camp. Now, all she can do is wait. On her way back to camp, Ashes stumbles upon a much larger patch of salmonberries¡ªbright orange and bursting with juice. She grins and crouches beside them, popping a few into her mouth with sticky fingers. The taste is sharp, sweet, and incredibly welcome. She eats just enough to take the edge off, then marks the spot with a small branch break for later. When she returns to camp, she eyes the sky and feels it again¡ªthat subtle shift in the air. The storm is still distant, but it¡¯s coming. No question. Time to reinforce the shelter. She starts by carefully untying the makeshift lean-to tarp and setting it aside. The chute crumples easily into a loose bundle near the tree roots. Then she grabs her multitool and a coil of cord and sets off into the forest¡ªthis time in the opposite direction from her snares. What she¡¯s looking for are small trees¡ªthin, strong, and straight. Something in the two-to-three inch range. After about ten minutes of combing through the undergrowth, she finds a good specimen. With effort, she works it loose and drags it back to camp, then goes out again. Over the next two hours, she hauls back six more, pausing between each trip to catch her breath and stretch her sore muscles. Once she¡¯s gathered enough, the real work begins. She selects two of the sturdiest poles, sharpens the ends with her multitool, then uses a heavy stone to drive them into the earth just in front of the root wall. They go in deep¡ªangled slightly back for stability. She carves notches into the tops of each upright, then grabs another pole to serve as a ridge beam. Holding it in place with one hand, she ties the corners tight with 550 cord, working the knots until the pole is locked into the notches, forming a basic A-frame. It¡¯s not pretty, and her arms ache from the repetition¡ªbut it¡¯s strong. Real shelter. Something that might hold against wind and rain. She sharpens two shorter poles next, driving them into the ground just outside the edge of the hollow¡ªopposite the root wall. They anchor quickly with a few solid strikes from her stone hammer. Then she fits another ridge pole between them, forming the second half of her frame. The remaining long sticks go across the top, forming the ribs of her shelter. She uses nearly all of her remaining 550 cord to lash them together, weaving the cord back and forth between the poles to lock everything in place. It takes time¡ªpainstaking, finger-cramping time¡ªbut by the end, the frame is sturdy enough to support real weight. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. She makes sure to leave a small gap in the roof, directly above where her fire will sit. It¡¯s not much, but it should be enough to let the smoke out and keep the inside breathable once the storm rolls in. With the structure complete, she drapes the chute over the top, pulling it down over the sides so it hangs past the beams like a curtain. She ties off each corner and tucks in the edges with rocks and sticks, pinning it against the wind. Finally, she collects pine needles, moss, and forest debris¡ªarmfuls of the stuff¡ªand layers it thickly over the top of the tarp. The chute will keep the rain off, but this layer will add insulation and help the shelter blend into the woods. When she steps back and looks at it, she sees more than just a lean-to. It looks like a home. Temporary, sure¡ªbut solid. Ashes kneels by the fire pit, checking the embers. Her stomach growls softly. .She grimaces as she stares into the fire. The berries helped, sure¡ªbut they aren¡¯t enough. Not with the kind of work she¡¯s been doing. Calories in, calories out, and the math isn¡¯t in her favor. Her stomach growls again. She tries to ignore it. She considers checking her snares but shakes her head. It''s far too soon. Trampling through that area now would only spook anything that might wander close. Patience is part of the hunt. Instead, she reaches for her multitool and gently buries part of the fire pit with loose soil, just like her papa had taught her. A hidden ember bed like this can smolder for hours¡ªsometimes all day¡ªwithout burning through precious fuel. And when she gets back, it¡¯ll only take a breath and a spark to bring it roaring back to life. She slings the empty water bag over her shoulder and sets off, walking in a wide, lazy spiral. Her goal is simple: find a stream. She knows the lake is out there¡ªshe saw it from the treetop yesterday. If she¡¯s lucky, one of its outflows might snake closer to her camp. The hours stretch long beneath the canopy. She paces herself, keeping an eye on the sun as it filters down through the trees in shifting shafts of green-gold light. Time slips by. Her feet ache. Sweat clings to her back. She''s starting to smell herself. And then¡ªfinally¡ªshe hears it. Not the faint trickle of a spring. This is louder. Fuller. Water tumbling over stone. She turns toward the sound, weaving through the trees, heart quickening with every step¡ªuntil she sees it: a narrow stream winding through the forest floor, fast-moving and clear, its banks soft with moss and speckled with gravel. She rushes forward, relief blooming in her chest. It¡¯s not the roaring whitewater she rafted last summer, but it¡¯s still a massive find. The stream is about six feet wide where it cuts past her, the dark water curling around rocks in slow, steady eddies. A stream this size means tributaries upstream. More water. More life. A good sign. Ashes steps carefully along the edge, scanning for tracks or signs of danger. No bear scat. No deep claw marks. Just deer prints in the soft mud and the occasional flutter of water skimmers. She exhales in relief, then pulls a stick from her pocket and scratches a mark on a nearby tree. A trail sign¡ªsubtle, but enough to help her find this place again. She circles back toward camp, following her earlier path and checking the snares she set that morning. The third one makes her stop short. A fat rabbit struggles in the loop, tangled but very much alive. She breaks into a bright, breathless laugh¡ªher first real food since the berries. She crouches low and approaches quickly, murmuring a quiet apology before dispatching it with a sharp twist and a rock. Quick. Clean. Her stomach clenches¡ªnot from guilt, but from hunger. She ties the rabbit by the hind legs to her belt and resets the snare, checking the others as she goes. No more catches, but one is slightly disturbed¡ªshe makes a mental note to adjust it tomorrow. Well away from her camp, crouched beside a fallen log, she takes out her multitool and gets to work. The rabbit is warm in her hands. She guts and skins it with quiet focus, saving the pelt, liver, and heart¡ªessentials she feels confident dealing with. The rest she buries, not wanting to attract scavengers or risk spoilage. It¡¯s messy, but clean enough. She wipes her hands on a scrap of bark and tucks the wrapped meat into the shaded corner of her pack. Dinner is secured. Back at camp, Ashes wastes no time. She uses the last of her gathered firewood to coax the fire back to life, layering kindling until the embers flare and crackle once more. The warmth is instant, welcome, and hungry for fuel. She scans the treeline for a suitable branch and spots a young sapling just thick enough to work with. With her multitool, she cuts a green stick¡ªfresh and sappy so it won¡¯t burn¡ªmaking sure it has a good fork at one end. She splits the rabbit along the ribs and threads the forked branch through the meat, spreading it open spatchcock-style to help it cook evenly. She braces the stick in the dirt beside the fire, angling it so the meat gets the heat without the flames. Slow and steady¡ªshe¡¯s not trying to scorch it, just roast it through. While the scent of cooking meat begins to rise, Ashes returns to her daily ritual: wood. Always more wood. She spends the next hour combing the forest for fuel, working in wide loops from her shelter. Each time she returns with a bundle, she turns the rabbit, checking its color, letting the fat sizzle and drip into the coals. Her stomach growls with every pass. By the fourth trip, the shadows have grown long and the undergrowth harder to navigate. A hidden root catches her foot, and she nearly falls¡ªstumbling hard, catching herself against a pine trunk. She grits her teeth, curses under her breath, and decides enough is enough. It¡¯s time for dinner. Ashes crouches by the fire, her breath curling faintly in the cooling evening air. The rabbit is golden now, the skin crisping, fat bubbling where it meets the heat. She leans in, eyes half-lidded, and inhales deeply. The smell hits her like a wave¡ªsmoky, earthy, primal. It smells like survival. She pulls the stick from its resting place and carefully lays the spatchcocked rabbit on a flat rock nearby, letting it cool just enough to handle. Her hands tremble as she lowers herself to sit, cross-legged in the flickering firelight. It¡¯s not just the hunger¡ªit¡¯s the weight of everything finally landing all at once. The first bite is too hot, and she burns her tongue, but she doesn¡¯t care. She tears a strip from the leg, holds it with callused fingers, and chews slowly. The flavor is stronger than she expected¡ªgamey, a little wild, smoky from the piney wood she¡¯d been burning. It¡¯s tough in places, tender in others, juices running down her wrist. She devours more¡ªripping into the meat like someone who¡¯s been cold and starving for days. And she has been, even if she only just realized it. Not just hunger in her belly, but in her chest. In her soul. The kind of hunger that builds without you noticing, that only makes itself known when you finally taste something that fills it. Each bite loosens something inside her. The shaking in her hands fades. The tight knot behind her eyes eases. Her body starts to relax in small, almost imperceptible ways¡ªshoulders sagging, breath deepening, jaw unclenching. Ashes doesn¡¯t realize she¡¯s crying until a tear falls into the grease on her hand. It¡¯s not sadness, not exactly. It¡¯s everything¡ªfear, exhaustion, gratitude. The fire¡¯s glow, the smell of cooked meat, the ache in her muscles¡­ it all feels too real and too fragile. Like if she blinks too hard, it might vanish, and she¡¯ll be back in the sky, falling again. She wipes her face with the back of her sleeve and laughs, breathless and hoarse. It¡¯s the kind of laugh you give when you¡¯ve had nothing to smile about for too long. ¡°Thanks, little guy,¡± she mutters, glancing at the stripped ribcage of the rabbit. ¡°You kept me going one more day.¡± She picks the bones clean, down to the tiniest shred of meat. The liver she eats slowly, thoughtfully¡ªit¡¯s bitter, but full of nutrients. The heart she saves for last, cupping it in her fingers like something sacred. She eats it in one bite and closes her eyes. It¡¯s warm in her belly. Real food. Real energy. Enough to keep moving tomorrow. Enough to keep fighting. When the meal is done, she sets the bones in the fire and leans back against her pack. The stars are peeking through the canopy now, cold pinpricks in the blackness. The wind rustles the needles above her, but she doesn¡¯t feel so small anymore. Ashes pulls the parachute tarp around her like a blanket and curls into her shelter, the fire a low glow beside her. Her stomach is full. Her body hurts. Her heart, though bruised, feels a little stronger. She survived the crash. She¡¯s surviving the forest. And for tonight, that¡¯s enough. Chapter three- Day two Chapter three Day two Location- temporary camp- somewhere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada Blue. Green. Blue. Green. A trail of smoke and the sound of a lonely, shrieking engine. ¡ªthen the snap of a parachute. Ashes wakes slowly. She feels like shit¡ªnot physically, but emotionally. The weight has finally settled. This isn''t just some survival weekend or wild story in the making. She¡¯s not going home anytime soon. No mama. No papa. No warm, safe place at the end of the trail. And damn¡­ she¡¯s going to miss movie night back at the college. She groans and checks her cuts. Most are healing¡ªscabbed over or faded to bruises. Just a dull, deep ache left in her bones from the crash. She sits curled in the shelter for a long moment, wrapped in silence, staring at nothing. Ten minutes pass. Then, she shakes her head, scrubs at her face, and mutters, ¡°Come on, Ashes. You¡¯re stronger than this.¡± She pulls herself to her feet. First priority: the snares. She treks out through the morning haze, heart low but steady. And when she sees them¡ªtwo fat rabbits caught cleanly¡ªher mood lifts just a little. It¡¯s not salvation, but it¡¯s something. Food. Stability. A win. Two, maybe three days'' worth of meals, if she stretches it. Enough to keep going. .Ashes sets to work quickly. The two rabbits won¡¯t clean themselves, and meat left too long turns fast in weather like this. With practiced hands and a few muttered curses, she uses her trusty multitool to gut and skin them. The blade is small and dulling from use, but it gets the job done. She slices one of the rabbits into long, thin strips¡ªjerky-style¡ªthen uses green branches to fashion a crude rack above the fire. The meat hangs high, out of the direct heat, to smoke slowly. It¡¯s not going to taste good¡ªpinewood smoke, no salt, no seasoning¡ªbut it¡¯ll last. And in the wild, that¡¯s what matters. The second rabbit she saves for something fresher. She finds a flat stretch of earth nearby and digs a shallow pit with a stick. Then, carefully, she transfers glowing coals from the main fire into the hole using two forked branches. She builds a small fire on top to heat the soil, then lays a wide, flat stone into the heart of the embers. Once it¡¯s hot enough, she places the whole rabbit on the stone and covers it with another, forming a kind of primitive oven. Ashes builds the fire back up around it, leaving small air holes at either end to keep it burning. It¡¯s a slow method, but it¡¯ll roast evenly¡ªand she won¡¯t have to tend it constantly. The wind¡¯s picking up now, cool and sharp, threading through the trees like a warning. The birds have gone silent. She glances up at the gray sky and narrows her eyes. A storm is coming. And fast. Ashes can feel it in the shift of the wind, in the pressure behind her eyes. The air is damp and heavy now, the kind that presses down on you before the sky opens up. She figures she¡¯s got until early evening¡ªmaybe nightfall if she¡¯s lucky. With the food handled and water nearby, there¡¯s only one thing left to worry about: firewood. A lot of it. The last thing she wants is to be out in freezing rain trying to scavenge wet limbs with numb fingers. It¡¯s miserable when she¡¯s dry¡ªonce she¡¯s soaked, it¡¯s a death sentence. She throws on her pack and heads out with purpose, making wide loops through the forest, looking for dry, deadfall wood that isn¡¯t too far gone. She grabs everything from thick, arm-sized branches to twiggy kindling and drags back load after load to stack beside her shelter. Her muscles burn with every trip, but she pushes through. The storm¡¯s coming, and this is her window. Somewhere between loads, she stops to catch her breath, leaning on a branch like a cane. Her eyes drift to the trees¡ªthe towering, silent giants¡ªand she mutters under her breath, ¡°I need a deer.¡± It¡¯s not just food. It¡¯s the hide. Winter¡¯s coming, and if she doesn¡¯t have leather or fur, she¡¯ll freeze. It¡¯s that simple. The clothes she has won¡¯t cut it for long¡ªnot out here. Not when fall rolls into snow. She makes a mental note: figure out how to kill a deer. Soon. Because survival isn¡¯t just day by day anymore. It¡¯s season by season. After five or six hours, Ashes is running on fumes. Her arms ache. Her back screams. Every trip into the woods had added to the growing pile beside her shelter¡ªbranch after branch, log after log. It¡¯s enough wood to last at least two days, maybe more if she¡¯s careful. Cramped as it¡¯ll be, she hauls the best of it inside her shelter. Better to trip over firewood than risk it soaking in the coming storm. She collapses by the cooking pit and brushes away the layer of dirt and ash from her buried rabbit. The scent hits her like a punch¡ªrich, savory, primal. Her mouth waters instantly. She uses sticks to slide the top stone away, then gently lifts the roasted rabbit onto a flat rock near the fire to cool. Glowing coals still pulse beneath it, so she scoops those up with a branch and adds them to the main fire, coaxing the warmth back to life. She doesn¡¯t rush this time. Ashes eats slowly, savoring each bite¡ªthe crisped edges, the tender meat near the bone. It¡¯s easily the best thing she¡¯s eaten since the crash. Maybe the best thing she¡¯s ever eaten, just by weight of effort and need. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. As she wipes the last of the grease from her fingers on her pants, her mind turns to the future. She¡¯s going to need to move the snares soon. Overhunting one spot is a fast way to wipe out the local rabbits, and she¡¯s not desperate enough yet to start gambling with sustainability. She leans back against the root wall, watching the smoke drift upward through the fire gap in her roof. Fishing. She¡¯ll need to figure that out next. And start learning the edible plants in the area¡ªsomething beyond the salmonberries. She¡¯s doing okay for now, but if this stretches into weeks, months¡­ Ashes exhales slowly. She might be here for the long haul. The idea of hiking 80 miles through some of the roughest wilderness in North America¡ªit¡¯s not impossible. But it¡¯s not happening anytime soon. Not without food. Not without a plan. Not without gear she doesn¡¯t have yet. So for now, she¡¯ll eat. She¡¯ll rest. And tomorrow¡­ she¡¯ll survive a little further. .Ashes glances up at the sky, reading the clouds like an old friend. The storm¡¯s still coming¡ªbut it looks like she has until nightfall before it hits. Just enough time. She rummages through her supplies and pulls out her last unused length of 550 cord, coiled and clean. Then, from a small pouch in her pack, she takes one of the rabbit rib bones she saved. She crouches by a flat stone and snaps the rib down to a piece just a few inches long. With quiet focus, she begins grinding the ends against a rough rock, sharpening both sides to wicked points. A crude hook. Or maybe more of a gorge. Either way, it¡¯s functional. As she works, her thoughts drift. She can¡¯t believe her papa insisted she learn how to make a fishing hook out of ¡°damn near anything,¡± as he¡¯d say with a grin. It had seemed silly at the time¡ªoverkill, even. But now? She smiles faintly. She remembers the long bushcraft trips from her childhood¡ªweeks in the backcountry with nothing but a knife, a tarp, and a bit of food. Her mama teaching knots, her papa whittling tools from scraps. Sleeping under the stars, melting snow for water, learning how to read wind and wood and sky. If not for those summers¡ªand those bitter, beautiful winters¡ªshe knows she¡¯d be in a much worse place right now. The bone hook is finished. Rough, uneven, but sharp and ready. Ashes ties the cord to the middle of the bone with a solid knot and tests the tension. It holds. She exhales slowly, tucks the line into a pouch, and gives the sky one last glance. There¡¯s still time to try it out. .Ashes slings her pack over one shoulder, tucks the bone hook and line inside, and sets off at a brisk pace toward the stream. With the trail already scouted, it takes her less than ten minutes of fast walking to reach the mossy bank. The wind has picked up. The sky¡¯s darkening at the edges. She knows what''s coming¡ªstorms swell rivers. If she wants to fish here, it has to be now. She picks a sturdy tree near the edge and ties one end of the 550 cord to its base, knotting it tightly just above the flood line. No sense in losing everything to a fast-rising current. Then she gets to work. Turning over rocks isn¡¯t glamorous, but it¡¯s effective. The first few are duds, but then¡ªa flash of movement. A fat worm. Then another. One nearly wriggles out of her grasp before she pins it between her fingers. By the time she¡¯s done, she has three squirming candidates. She threads them onto the sharpened bone hook carefully, wincing slightly at the feel. A quick underhand toss sends the baited line arcing into the stream. It lands with a soft plop, ripples spreading wide across the dark water. She crouches near the tree, watching the cord go taut in the current. Now comes the decision. If she stays, she might snag something¡ªbe there in an instant to pull it in. But she¡¯s racing the storm. One wrong bet and she¡¯ll be drenched, cold, and in real danger before she even makes it back to camp. If she leaves, she¡¯s got no way of knowing what might bite¡ªor what might escape. It¡¯ll be at least a full day before she can check the line again. She exhales, eyes flicking between the line and the clouds. It¡¯s a gamble either way. Ashes decides to play it safe¡ªjust like Mama always said: don¡¯t gamble when you¡¯ve already got a full belly and food on the fire. She casts one last glance at the fishing line swaying in the current, then turns back toward camp. As she walks, she draws her multitool and uses the blade to mark a few more trees along the way¡ªclean, shallow notches at eye level. It¡¯s overkill right now, but if she ever needs to find this spot in a storm or low light, those subtle signs might make all the difference. She stops at the salmonberry bramble, now familiar and half-picked. Crouching beside it, she works quickly, scooping berries into her bag by the handful. It¡¯s a little messy¡ªjuice staining the fabric and her fingers¡ªbut it works. By the time she¡¯s finished, she figures she¡¯s collected maybe a pound, pound and a half. Not bad. But the bush is stripped now. It''ll be at least a few days before more ripen¡ªif anything¡¯s left once the birds catch on. When she finally pushes back into her camp, the peace shatters. A flash of motion¡ªa scrabbling, furry blur¡ªrips past her fire pit. She jumps, heart in her throat. A raccoon, startled by her return, bolts from the edge of the shelter and disappears into the undergrowth with a surprised chitter. It had been sniffing around the meat. Ashes exhales sharply, hand on her chest. ¡°Little bastard¡­¡± She shakes her head and steps into the shelter, setting her berry-streaked bag to the side. Then she checks the rabbit strips¡ªturning them, testing the texture with her fingertips. They¡¯re drying well. Smoky. Toughening just right. Plip. A drop hits the bridge of her nose. She blinks and looks up. The first rain has come. Ashes ducks into the shelter just as the rain comes down in earnest¡ªnot a monsoon, but steady enough to soak her to the bone if she lingers. She huddles near the entrance, eyes on the ceiling, watching for leaks. For a moment, tension coils in her chest. But the parachute tarp holds. The water beads and rolls off the layered pine and moss¡ªproof that her work paid off. She exhales slowly, letting herself relax. Outside, the rain dances across the forest floor, soft and rhythmic. She sticks her hand out past the shelter¡¯s edge. It¡¯s cool¡ªbut not freezing. Refreshing, almost. The fire, still crackling behind her, keeps the space surprisingly warm despite the damp air. Ashes bites her lip, thinking. It¡¯s not ideal. But she could really use a wash. Sweat, grime, and smoke cling to her like a second skin, and her undergarments are¡­ ripe. She knows full well the dangers of staying filthy in the wild¡ªrashes, sores, infections. Not to mention morale. A little cold water now could save her a lot of pain later. She nods to herself and moves quickly. Clothes off, folded, and tucked safely inside the shelter. She winces at the smell rising from her gear¡ªyeah, those¡¯ll need rinsing soon too. Just not tonight. Naked and shivering already, she steps out into the downpour. The rain is a shock at first¡ªicy against her skin¡ªbut she scrubs herself clean with cupped hands and rain-slicked palms, wiping away the sweat and dirt. Every shiver is worth it. She doesn¡¯t linger, doesn¡¯t waste time. A minute later, she dives back into the shelter, teeth chattering, skin pebbling with goosebumps. She huddles near the fire, drawing the tarp close around her like a blanket. Slowly, warmth returns. First in her fingers, then her chest, then the rest of her aching body. She leans back, eyes half-lidded, and lets the fire chase the chill away. A smile creeps to her lips. She remembers ¡°girls'' nights¡± with her mama out in the bush¡ªjust the two of them, scrubbing off in the rain and laughing like fools, steam rising off a shared pot of pine needle tea. It had felt like an adventure then. It still does. After a while, lost in memory, the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of the rain lull Ashes into a quiet calm. Her skin is dry now, her body no longer shivering, just pleasantly sore from the day¡¯s work. She pulls her clothes back on¡ªstill a little rough from the wear, but dry¡ªand settles down into the shelter. The fire glows low beside her, casting flickering shadows on the tarp walls. It¡¯s going to be a long night. She curls up tight, pack under her head, the scent of smoke and pine wrapping around her like a blanket. The storm taps steadily on the roof above¡ªsoft, insistent, familiar. And before she realizes it, Ashes is asleep. Chapter four- Day three Chapter Four Day Three Location ¨C Temporary camp ¨C Somewhere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Wind rushing¡ªtrees tearing¡ª ¡ª¡ªThe snap of a parachute. Bang! Ashes jolts awake, heart hammering, breath caught in her throat. She blinks into darkness, the echo of the dream still hanging in the air like smoke. Bang! She exhales¡ªjust thunder. Rain drums hard on the shelter overhead, steady and relentless. She listens for a moment, grounding herself, then lets her head fall back against her pack with a soft thump. Well. At least she¡¯d stocked up on firewood. With a groan, she shifts forward and coaxes the fire back to life, feeding it dry twigs and kindling until the orange glow returns. Warmth begins to seep back into the air. Ashes reaches into her gear and pulls out the flat stone she collected yesterday, then settles near the firelight and draws her multitool. Time to sharpen it up. She works carefully, methodically drawing the blade down the flat stone over and over, checking the edge every few strokes. It¡¯s not perfect¡ªnowhere near a proper whetstone¡ªbut it¡¯ll do. With the multitool freshly honed, Ashes pulls a solid branch from her firewood pile and turns it over in her hands. It¡¯s dense, straight-grained, and just thick enough to work with. She starts shaving it down, cutting thin strips away, slowly shaping it. What takes form isn¡¯t an arrow¡ªnot really¡ªbut it has the same sharp taper. A crude spearhead. Not strong enough for a full thrust, but good enough to stab in a pinch. Maybe it could take a deer. Maybe something worse. She refines the edges with the file, working them into a cleaner wedge. When it feels right, she blows the dust away and holds it up to the firelight, inspecting the grain and point. Then, carefully, she rotates the tip in the flames¡ªjust above the coals¡ªhardening the wood with slow, steady turns. Not charring it, but drying it out, tightening the fibers. When it¡¯s done, she sets the spearhead aside. A proper shaft will have to wait until she finds a longer branch worth shaping. The hours drift by. She picks at small tasks¡ªtightening lashings, cleaning tools, fixing the sag in the shelter edge. Simple things. Survival things. Her thoughts wander, and a memory surfaces¡ªfifteen years old, deep in the bush with Mama and Papa. No spoons. No forks. Just one rule: if you want to eat, carve your own. She¡¯d grumbled then. But now, the memory feels warm. She¡¯s so thankful for the upbringing she had. Not just because it gave her the best childhood anyone could ask for¡ªbut because it¡¯s giving her the tools to survive now. All those summers in the bush. All those little lessons that felt silly at the time. Every one of them matters out here. Finally, after what feels like four hours, the rain lets up¡ªjust as sudden as it started. Ashes waits twenty more minutes, just in case it¡¯s only a pause and not the end. When the sky holds steady, she slips out of the shelter. Everything is soaked. The air smells green and alive. She sets off toward the stream, feet squelching softly in the mossy earth, the forest dripping around her. The line and bone hook have been on her mind since the storm rolled in¡ªand now she needs to see if it held. When she reaches the stream, her heart sinks. The water¡¯s swollen, roaring louder than before. It¡¯s muddy, fast, churning with debris. Whatever calm eddies had existed before are long gone. Ashes grimaces, already expecting the worst. She finds the tree where she tied the 550 cord and hauls the line out of the water. Nothing. Just a frayed, empty string. She sighs, shoulders sagging with the loss¡ªnot just the hook, but the work. The hope. Then her head tilts slightly. A new noise tickles at the edge of her awareness¡ªquiet, distant, but wrong. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Not wind. Not water. Something else. An engine. Faint. Distant. Ashes freezes, heart slamming into her ribs as adrenaline surges like fire through her veins. She bolts. Red hair streams behind her as she tears through the forest, leaping roots and dodging branches. She stumbles, hard¡ªslamming into the ground with her hands and chest. ¡°Gah¡ª!¡± She grits her teeth and scrambles up again, ignoring the sting of fresh scrapes, blood blooming across her palms. The sound is louder now. The engine. Still coming. Hope rises like a scream in her chest. She sprints the rest of the way, lungs burning, barely noticing the terrain she¡¯s crashing through. She bursts into camp in under two minutes, gasping for breath, eyes wide with panic and purpose. The bag. The flare. The mirror. She dives into the shelter, dragging the pack toward her and ripping it open. Her fingers close on the smoke flare and the signal mirror. She casts about wildly, searching for a break in the trees¡ªanything. She hadn''t found a proper clearing before, but now... There. A small opening in the canopy. Not perfect, but better than nothing. She races to it, boots skidding in the wet soil, and looks up. There it is. A tiny speck of silver, far toward the northwest¡ªalmost directly above where the crash must be. Too far. Her stomach drops. If she fires the flare now, it¡¯ll vanish into the wrong part of the sky. Wasted. She grips the signal mirror instead, angling it with trembling hands, catching slivers of sunlight, flashing again and again in the direction of the plane. ¡°Please,¡± she whispers. ¡°Please see me.¡± The small aircraft loiters for what feels like a lifetime¡ªfifteen minutes, maybe more¡ªcircling, scanning, never drifting her way. And then, it turns. Climbing. Pulling away. ¡°No¡ª!¡± Ashes screams, raw and furious, her voice tearing into the sky as the engine fades into the distance. She drops the mirror, falls to her knees. And sobs. After a while, she gathers the mirror from the grass and shakily stands, brushing her palms against her pants. ¡°Come on,¡± she whispers, voice thick. ¡°You know there¡¯ll be other planes, girl.¡± But it¡¯s hard¡ªso damn hard¡ªto think logically right now. To watch her first real sign of rescue vanish into the sky like a mirage. She squares her shoulders and pats her cheeks with both hands. ¡°I need to get closer to the wreck,¡± she mutters. ¡°When the rescue crews show up, I need them to see the flare.¡± She trudges slowly back toward camp, dragging her feet through the damp undergrowth. When she arrives, she grabs her pack and slumps onto the fallen log beside her fire pit. Only then does she really look at her hands. Her right¡¯s mostly okay¡ªjust scraped up, sore from the fall. But her left¡­ A deep gash runs along the side, bleeding freely now that the adrenaline is fading. The pain, barely noticed before, hits her like a hot spike. Acknowledging it makes it ten times worse. She grits her teeth and pulls out her water bag, carefully rinsing away the dirt and blood. Then she unzips the tiny first aid kit and pulls out the small roll of gauze¡ªbarely enough for one good wrap. The cut¡¯s far too big for a bandage to do anything useful. She binds the wound as best she can, tight but not too tight, the white cloth quickly blotting red. Then, cursing under her breath, she takes one of the precious antibiotic tablets and swallows it dry. ¡°Stupid,¡± she mutters. ¡°You know better than to run blind.¡± But it¡¯s done. She makes a slow lap through the woods, checking each of her snares. Nothing. No fur, no disturbed brush¡ªjust silence. One by one, she pulls up the cords, coiling them neatly and tucking them into her pack. No point leaving them out if she¡¯s moving on soon. Afterward, she treks back toward the stream. The memory of dropping the line during her panicked run nags at her, but when she reaches the bank, relief floods her. The cord is still there. Soaked and half-buried in mud, but intact. She exhales and retrieves it, fingers working carefully to untangle the knots. Out here, every scrap of cordage is gold. Irreplaceable. By the time she returns to camp, the adrenaline is gone¡ªand hunger roars back in its place. Her stomach twists painfully, reminding her how little she¡¯s eaten. Two rabbits and a handful of berries in three days. Not starvation¡ªyet¡ªbut close. She hasn¡¯t lost weight, not really. But her body feels lighter. Hollow. Like it''s quietly cannibalizing itself, hour by hour. Back at camp, Ashes stokes the fire with shaking hands, feeding it small branches until the flames catch. The warmth is instant, but it doesn¡¯t touch the ache in her gut. She doesn¡¯t have the energy to cook anything elaborate¡ªnot that she has anything left worth cooking. Just a small strip of smoked rabbit from the rack and a few mashed salmonberries pressed into a scrap of bark. She eats slowly, savoring every bite, trying not to think about how little there is. The fire crackles softly as the shadows stretch long across the forest floor. Her shelter feels smaller tonight¡ªtighter. Like the trees are closing in just a little more. She leans back against the root wall, chewing the last bit of meat, eyes flicking toward the canopy where the plane had vanished hours earlier. The clearing still catches the last light, but there''s no silver glint. No engine. Just sky. Ashes wraps her arms around her knees and lets her eyes close for a moment. The fatigue is deep now¡ªnot just physical, but in her bones. In her thoughts. It would be so easy to just lie down, give in, and stop fighting the creeping weight of it all. But she won¡¯t. She can¡¯t. Tomorrow, she¡¯ll break camp. She¡¯ll move closer to the wreck site. Closer to where someone might still be searching. Closer to rescue. She opens her eyes, the firelight reflected in her pupils like tiny sparks. Tonight, she rests. Tomorrow, she moves. Chapter five- Day four Chapter Five Day 4 Location ¨C Temporary camp ¨C Somewhere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada Rushing wind. A barely grasped strap. Trails of fire and smoke. A silver glint in the sky. ¡ªAnd the SNAP of a parachute. Ashes wakes early¡ªabout an hour before dawn. The forest is still dark, hushed under a sky just starting to pale. She wants the full day ahead of her. No guessing games with nightfall. She thinks the wreck is about nine or ten miles northwest. But it¡¯s a guess. Could be less. Could be twice that. She builds the fire up one last time and eats the final strip of smoked rabbit. It¡¯s dry and chewy, but it¡¯ll get her moving. No sense packing it. If it spoils, it could do more harm than good. With her modest breakfast finished, she sets to work dismantling the shelter. Every knot matters now¡ªevery length of 550 cord, every fold of the parachute tarp. She can¡¯t afford to leave anything behind. It takes nearly two hours. By the time the first light begins slipping through the trees, Ashes is packed and ready. The chute is bundled tightly and lashed to her pack. Her flask and water bag are full, looped securely to her gear. Everything she owns is on her back. The fire pit smolders quietly behind her, half-buried in soil like a grave. Ashes turns her back on the camp. And starts walking. She follows the stream, using it both as a source of water and a natural landmark. The memory of her first climb still plays sharp in her mind¡ªhow she¡¯d seen the lake and the crash site both from the treetop. It isn¡¯t a straight path, but if she sticks close to the water, she won¡¯t get turned around. If she doesn¡¯t make as much distance as she hopes today, she figures she can camp near the lake. Might be better to do that anyway, she thinks with a shiver. If the worst comes to pass, and no rescue comes¡­ A camp on the shoreline will be easier to spot from the air. More open. More visible. She files the thought away and focuses on moving forward. The day wears on, soft forest light flickering through the canopy above. Her boots squelch in damp soil, and the air smells of moss and rain-washed bark. She keeps scanning as she walks¡ªwatching for game trails, useful wood, anything edible. Around noon, her eyes catch something bright at the edge of the stream¡ªa dense patch of wild mint, its jagged green leaves clustered in fragrant bunches. She grins despite herself. ¡°Hey there,¡± she murmurs. She kneels, pinching a few stems between her fingers and breathing in the sharp, cool scent. It reminds her of evenings with her mama, brewing herbal tea over a crackling fire. She collects a few handfuls, stuffing them into a side pocket of her pack, then plucks a single leaf and rubs it across her teeth and tongue. The flavor stings her gums¡ªclean, bitter, bracing. It¡¯s not much. But it¡¯s something. As she walks, eyes sweeping the ground for anything useful, a strange shape catches her eye near a fallen pine¡ªribbed and honeycombed, like a dried sponge rising from the moss. Ashes crouches. A mushroom. Not just any kind¡ªa morel. She checks the base, the shape, the texture. Hollow stem. Wrinkled cap. Her papa¡¯s voice echoes in her head: ¡°If it looks like a brain and smells like the forest, it¡¯s gold.¡± A smile creeps across her face. Dinner just got better. With only an estimated two¡ªmaybe two and a half¡ªhours of daylight left, Ashes reaches the lake. It takes her breath for a moment. A vast expanse of water stretches out before her, framed on all sides by towering evergreens that rise like sentinels from the shoreline. The forest gives way to a slope of mossy stone and scattered driftwood, then drops into the cold, dark surface of the lake. It¡¯s massive. She¡¯s reached one end of the long side¡ªprobably the northeast tip, if her memory serves. The far shore is nowhere in sight. Just a hazy blue line where water meets sky. The lake must be several miles long, and she estimates at least two or three miles wide from where she stands. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Quiet rolls off it like fog. No boats. No birds. Just the whisper of wind through pine needles and the soft lapping of waves against rock. Ashes adjusts the weight of her pack and takes a slow breath. This could be it. If rescue doesn¡¯t come¡ªif no one ever finds the wreck¡ªthis lake might become her world. She quickly finds a sandy patch tucked between clusters of stone, just above the waterline. It''s a little exposed, but she doesn¡¯t have the luxury of being picky. The light¡¯s fading fast. Ashes unpacks her chute and grabs a few long sticks from the treeline nearby. She rigs up a quick-and-dirty shelter¡ªchute draped over a rough ridge pole, corners staked with rocks, edges tucked with driftwood. It won¡¯t hold against a storm, but it¡¯ll keep her dry from dew and lake fog in the morning. Fifteen minutes later, it''s done. Simple. Ugly. But functional. With daylight burning low, she heads back into the woods to reset her snares, placing them well away from the camp. If something comes sniffing around, she doesn¡¯t want it near her sleeping form. On the way back, just beyond a bend in the trees, she pauses. A marshy patch near the lake glows gold in the late light¡ªtall stalks swaying gently in the breeze. Cattails. She grins. Jackpot. She wades in carefully, boots squishing into soft muck. The plants are thick here, their brown seed heads like candles rising from green blades. She selects a few younger ones¡ªtugging gently until the roots give with a wet pop. The white inner cores of the stalks are edible¡ªtender and cucumber-like when raw, starchy when cooked. She peels one down and takes a bite, chewing slowly. It¡¯s watery, fibrous, but surprisingly sweet. She harvests a few more, bundling them with a spare loop of cord, then digs a little for rhizomes¡ªthick, ropey rootstalks that she can roast later for calories. She also grabs a handful of the fluffy seed heads, tucking them into a pouch for later. They¡¯ll make perfect firestarter. By the time she makes it back to camp, the light is almost gone. She debates it for a while, standing at the edge of her camp with the lake at her back and the sky starting to fade into deep blue. A fire would be a luxury. A risk. A comfort. But also¡­ warmth. Light. Something to hold onto tonight. She decides it¡¯s worth it. With her multitool in hand, she ventures into the treeline. The forest here is dense but quieter than she expected¡ªno bird calls, just the rustle of wind in the branches and the faint lap of water behind her. The air is damp and cold enough that her breath shows in thin puffs. She starts with the easy stuff¡ªdry twigs, pine needles, deadfall close to the surface. The first bundle is fast, but it won¡¯t last long. She needs thicker branches¡ªsomething to burn slow and steady. She heads deeper into the woods, scanning for anything that¡¯s dry but not too far gone. Rotten wood won¡¯t help her. It¡¯ll just smoke and spit and die out. She tests each branch with a crack between her hands. If it snaps clean, it goes in the pile. If it crumbles or bends, she tosses it aside. She finds a wind-felled limb caught between two trees, its bark half-peeled and slick with moss. With effort, she snaps off a few sturdy chunks, hauls them back to camp, then heads out again. By her fourth trip, her arms ache, and the cold is starting to settle into her fingers. But the firewood pile is growing¡ªenough for a short fire tonight, maybe a second to warm her in the morning. By the time she drags the last bundle into camp, the forest is ink-black. The moon has risen¡ªhuge, pale, and bright enough to cast silver shadows across the rocks and sand. It lights her path well enough that she can navigate with some caution. She sets the wood down with a heavy exhale and stretches her sore shoulders. She selects one of the drier sticks and begins shaving it down with slow, practiced strokes. The curls of wood fall into her palm like paper, light and crisp. Once she has a good handful, she mixes them with the soft, golden fluff from one of the cattail heads she gathered earlier. It¡¯s a delicate combination¡ªnatural tinder that she knows will catch if the spark is clean. She sets the bundle on a wide piece of bark and positions the rest of her firewood within arm¡¯s reach. Around the tinder, she builds a small structure¡ªtwigs first, then thicker sticks, each layer carefully balanced to breathe. Finally, a few of the heavier pieces she worked so hard to gather are stacked nearby, ready to feed the flames once they take hold. The whole setup is picture-perfect. Ashes pulls out the multitool and slides the ferro rod free from its housing. The knife flicks open with a soft snick. She holds the rod just above the cattail fluff, angles the blade, and strikes. Once. A spray of sparks. Twice. A single spark lands true. The fluff darkens¡ªthen flares. Ashes moves fast, tucking the tools away, cupping her hands around the tiny ember. She leans in close and breathes gently, coaxing the flicker into flame. The shavings catch. Then the twigs. And the fire is born. The fire crackles softly now, casting long shadows across the sand and rocks. Ashes watches the flames dance for a moment, soaking in the warmth on her face, then reaches for the bundle of cattails she¡¯d gathered earlier. She peels back the outer layers from a few of the tender inner stalks, revealing the pale, almost-white core beneath. It smells faintly sweet and fresh, like cucumber mixed with spring water. She finds a flat stone in the fire ring, brushes it off, and sets it near the coals to heat. Then, using her multitool blade, she slices one of the cattail roots lengthwise and lays the pieces on the warm stone, turning them slowly, letting the fire do the work. They blister slightly, the edges browning, softening. She adds a few of the upper stalks next, setting them across a pair of sticks to roast above the flame like primitive skewers. It¡¯s not much¡ªbut it smells good. When they¡¯re ready, she picks up a piece with her fingers and takes a bite. The taste is earthy and mild, the texture somewhere between roasted parsnip and potato. It fills her belly just enough to quiet the gnawing ache. She eats slowly, savoring each bite, her eyes on the fire, her body sinking into the moment. Her thoughts drift, but only a little¡ªshe¡¯s too tired to think deeply tonight. When the last stalk is gone and her hands are sticky with sap, she wipes them on her pants and leans back with a sigh. The lake laps gently at the shore behind her. The wind is soft now. The stars above have broken through the last of the cloud cover, pinpricks of light scattered across the black. Ashes crawls beneath the tarp, pulling her pack close as a pillow. The fire still glows nearby, a low bed of coals humming with heat. She lies there, staring out at the water, letting the fatigue settle over her like a blanket. She falls asleep. Chapter six- Day five Chapter Six Day Five Location ¨C Temporary shelter on the shore of the unnamed lake The crack of bone. An explosion. Fire. Despair. ¨C The SNAP of a parachute. Ashes wakes slowly. Her body feels heavy, sore from the miles she pushed through yesterday. It wasn¡¯t the longest hike she¡¯s ever done, but it was brutal in a different way¡ªno food to fuel her, no trail to follow. Every step had been forced, carved through brush and slope, muscle and willpower. She feels it in her legs now¡ªtight, aching¡ªbut there''s more ahead today. After taking care of her morning business, she moves stiffly to check the snares she reset before dusk. One of them has caught something. A squirrel. It¡¯s small, but cleanly trapped¡ªan easy kill, and a decent boost to her energy. She unties it and loops it onto her belt with a grunt. Not much, not nearly enough, but it¡¯s something. She checks the rest. Nothing. Back at camp, she makes quick work of cleaning the squirrel. The motions come easily now, her hands practiced, efficient. She sets the pelt aside with the rabbit skins, They¡¯ll be useful later, when the cold creeps in. She rebuilds her fire with the care of habit, coaxing flames from the coals with a breath and a few pieces of split wood. The meat cooks fast on a flat stone¡ªcrisped on the outside, juicy inside. As she eats, her mind drifts. She remembers her first hunting trip with Papa. ¡°Okay, Ash¡ªyou see that ptarmigan over there?¡± His voice had been soft, nearly a whisper. Calm, but proud. ¡°Line up the sights and squeeze slow, just like we practiced.¡± Seven-year-old Ashes had gripped the little .22 rifle tight, elbows wobbling, trying to stay still. She¡¯d taken the shot¡ªand hit. The bird dropped instantly. Papa had ruffled her fiery red hair, smiling wide. ¡°Good shot, Ash.¡± She smiles now, warmed not just by the fire, but by the memory. After the surprisingly tasty¡ªbut meager¡ªbreakfast, Ashes packs her bag. She takes down the shelter piece by piece, folding the chute tarp carefully, every knot and loop undone with practiced fingers. She checks the compass before slipping it back into her pack. The needle wavers slightly, then settles on north. Her stomach twists¡ªnot from hunger this time, but from the memory it drags up. The plane that didn¡¯t see her. Didn¡¯t even come close. She grimaces and tightens the pack straps. No time to dwell. She sets off. North. It¡¯s going to be a long, uncertain day. She doesn''t know exactly where the wreck is¡ªonly that it lies somewhere beyond the lake, nestled in the dense wilderness ahead. Five days in, there¡¯s no hope of spotting smoke. Whatever once burned is cold now. And she¡¯s not climbing another tree just to guess. Her boots press steadily through the underbrush, each step breaking trail through damp ferns and tangled roots. She keeps a slow, deliberate pace¡ªconserving energy, making sure she lasts the whole day. Her eyes scan constantly. She watches for signs of animals, for paths, for anything edible. Her hand brushes leaves as she moves, checking for familiar textures, glancing at bark and blooms. Eventually, she spots something¡ªlow, bushy, and dotted with tiny blue fruit. Blueberries. She drops to her knees beside the patch and begins to eat, savoring the burst of tart juice on her tongue. It¡¯s more than a treat¡ªit¡¯s fuel. She fills her stomach slowly, then gathers a few extra handfuls and tucks them into a rabbit hide in her pack for later. Her fingers are stained purple by the time she moves on, but her step is a little lighter. Not full. But no longer empty. She had just crested a small hill when something caught her eye¡ªa sudden flash of sunlight glinting off something shiny between the trees. Her breath hitched. She hurried forward, adrenaline pushing her legs faster. Already? She hadn¡¯t expected to find it so soon¡ªnot even three hours from the lake. She ducks around a tree and freezes. The forest here is disturbed. Broken limbs, deep gouges in the moss, a torn path through the canopy overhead. Something massive came through here. Ashes follows the trail, heart pounding. A hundred meters later¡ªshe sees it. The end of a massive, silver aircraft wing. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Embedded into the earth at an angle. Standing nearly upright like some kind of divine javelin. God¡¯s lawn dart. She stops. Just stares. A glassy look settles over her face. Everything in freefall. The plane spinning. That poor girl¡¯s neck snapping. FIRE. WIND¡ª Ashes slaps herself. The sting clears her head, but tears are already falling. She wipes her face with the back of her hand. ¡°Come on, girl,¡± she whispers, voice shaking. ¡°It¡¯s just a wing¡­¡± A pause. ¡°¡­The wing that sheared off.¡± She pulls up her big-girl pants and flips open her multitool, jaw clenched. She doesn¡¯t know what she can or can¡¯t salvage from the thing¡ªbut standing around won¡¯t help. Circling the embedded wing, she walks along the edge of the tip where it¡¯s punched deep into the ground. The once-sleek metal is buckled and warped, crumpled near the point of impact. Panels are twisted like tin foil, but some look intact enough to peel away. She finds a solid stick¡ªroughly the size of her forearm¡ªand jams it into the edge of a cracked seam between two panels. Leaning into it, she uses her weight to pry it wider. The stick groans, then¡ªpop-pop-pop¡ªa line of rivets bursts free with a sharp metallic snap. She instinctively flinches to the side. The panel drops with a dull metallic thunk, bouncing once on the mossy ground. Ashes crouches and picks it up. It¡¯s about a foot wide and two feet long¡ªa thick rectangle of aluminum, bent from both the crash and her rough treatment. One side gleams faintly, even under the dirt and grime¡ªa dull silver polish like a tarnished mirror. The other side is matte, riddled with rivet holes and stained with oil. She nods, sets it aside carefully, and leans in close to the new opening. A gaping, black hole stares back at her. The air inside smells like fuel, cold metal, and something faintly chemical. Very carefully, she reaches inside¡ªmoving slow, keeping her arm to one side of the hole. The last thing she needs is to catch her wrist on a jagged edge and bleed out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing. Not that she expected much. She vaguely recalls that airplane wings often serve as fuel tanks¡ªthere wouldn¡¯t be much inside except baffles and maybe a few lines or sensors. She briefly considers setting up camp here, maybe salvaging more metal or hardware in the morning. But the thought fades fast. She wants to find the main wreck. That¡¯s where the real supplies would be¡ªif anything''s left. She lashes the aluminum panel to the side of her pack. It''s lighter than it looks, though awkward, the corners bouncing against her hip as she starts off again. Hours pass. Her legs ache, feet screaming with every uneven step. The undergrowth tugs at her pants, ferns slapping against her arms as she pushes forward. Her body protests with every mile, but she presses on¡ªgritting her teeth, letting the rhythm of walking pull her forward. Now and then, she stumbles across small patches of berries¡ªblueberries and cloudberries mostly. She eats as she goes, fingers still stained purple from earlier. A break in the trees reveals the sun¡ªlow enough now that the shadows are starting to stretch. Time to start looking for a place to sleep. She slows her pace, scanning for a stream, a spring, or even a patch of soft ground with a little natural cover. Thirty minutes pass. Then she smells it. Burnt plastic. Hot metal. She freezes. Every muscle in her body goes still. The scent hangs in the air, faint but unmistakable. The wreck. It¡¯s close. By the time she finds it, the sun is sinking fast, the forest dimming into a murky twilight. Ashes stands still, staring at the wreckage with a numb expression. The aircraft rests at the end of a long, shallow trench carved into the earth¡ªlike a scar torn open by speed and desperation. The pilot must¡¯ve somehow managed to bring the crippled bird down on its belly, even with half a wing gone. The left wing lies twisted and mangled about a hundred feet behind the fuselage, torn clean off during the landing. The ground around it is scorched and blackened, branches charred¡ª That¡¯s what that fireball was, she realizes, throat tight. Half the right wing is missing entirely, ripped away at the engine. It¡¯s miles that way, she thinks dully, picturing the wing tip stuck in the ground she found that morning. The main body of the plane sits low in the dirt, crushed and sagging, the rear twisted slightly off-axis. Smoke no longer rises, but the scent of burned plastic, oil, and metal still lingers like a memory. She doesn''t move. Just watches the wreck fade slowly into shadow as the light drains from the sky. She doesn''t move. Just watches the wreck fade slowly into shadow as the light drains from the sky. The smell of burnt plastic and scorched metal hangs in the air like a ghost. Her knees go soft. The scent yanks her backward, deeper than memory¡ªinto terror.
FLASHBACK The right engine explodes. The boom shakes the entire plane, followed by a screech of tortured metal and the sudden roar of air as the fuselage shudders. Alarms blare. Lights flash. Smoke pours into the cabin. One pilot is shouting into the radio¡ªthe other isn''t moving. ¡°Mayday, mayday, mayday¡ªthis is Cargo Charlie November Two Three Four¡ªright engine explosion¡ªengine fire not out¡ªsingle-engine and losing altitude¡ªfive souls on board¡ªdangerous goods in cargo¡ª¡± The voice repeats, rising in pitch, starting to fray. Ashes clutches the armrest. Then it happens. A deafening tear¡ªmetal shearing¡ªand the entire right wing vanishes from her view. The plane tips. Not a slow descent¡ªa roll. A violent, spiraling tumble. People scream. A neck snaps. The world goes sideways. Bodies slam into the ceiling. Ashes reaches¡ªfingers scrape a strap¡ª The emergency door bursts open¡ª She¡¯s sucked into the sky.
NOW She slaps herself¡ªhard. The sharp crack echoes through the trees, and her cheek flares with pain. Tears are already streaming down her face, her breath ragged and uneven, chest tight with panic. ¡°It¡¯s over,¡± she whispers. ¡°It¡¯s over¡­ it¡¯s over¡­¡± She says it again and again like a mantra, a life raft in the dark. Somewhere in the blur, her knees give out. She hits the ground hard, but doesn¡¯t feel it. Time becomes slippery, strange. When did I get down here? She doesn¡¯t know. But eventually¡ªwhether it¡¯s the cold seeping in or the last embers of survival instinct sparking¡ªshe forces herself to her feet. Shaking, she brushes dirt from her pants and pulls her multitool from her belt. There¡¯s no light left to search the wreck, and no good would come from stumbling through twisted metal in the dark. She moves away from the trench, just far enough to be out of the shadow of the broken fuselage, and starts rigging a rough shelter. It¡¯s messy. Fast. Not meant to last. But it¡¯ll get her through the night. She keeps her back to the wreck the whole time.