Chapter 8 - The Ranger's Haven
Mark pressed his ear to Leo’s tiny chest. The heartbeat was there, but it was dangerously slow, like the ticking of a grandfather clock winding down. Exposure was killing his son. If they didn't get warm within the hour, Leo wouldn't survive the night.
"Get up, Clara. We have to keep walking," Mark groaned, forcing his bruised, broken body to stand. He hoisted Leo against his neck, pulling Clara close to his side.
They stumbled through the dense underbrush of Blackwood Forest, the thorny briars tearing at their wet clothes and bare skin. The tree canopy offered little protection from the driving rain, but the dense woods muffled the wind slightly. Mark knew these woods from hunting trips years ago. If his memory served him, an old state forestry service cabin sat near the northern ridge, maintained as an emergency shelter for seasonal hikers.
Twenty grueling minutes later, through the thinning mist, the outline of a low stone-and-timber cabin appeared among the pines. The windows were dark, but a padlocked storage shed stood beside it.
Mark didn't bother with the door lock; he kicked the cabin’s wooden door with everything he had left. On the third strike, the deadbolt splintered through the dry rotting jamb, and the door swung open.
Inside, the cabin was dry and smelled of pine needles and old wool. Mark laid Leo on an old bunk mattress and immediately stripped off the toddler’s soaking wet clothes. He grabbed an old wool emergency blanket from a wooden chest and wrapped Leo tightly, then stripped Clara of her soaked shirt and bundled her into another dry wool throw.
"Rub him, Clara. Keep him warm. I'm going to start a fire," Mark said, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his fractured ribs protested every movement.
In the corner of the room stood a cast-iron wood stove. Beside it was a small stack of seasoned pine logs and a rusty metal tin containing matches and dry fire starter cubes. Mark’s hands were shaking so violently from shock that he dropped the first two matches. On the third try, the sulphur sparked, catching the dry tinder.
A warm, golden flame flickered to life. Mark blew gently on it, feeding small pine shavings until the fire caught hold of the logs, casting heat into the freezing room.
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He slumped against the hearth, finally allowing himself to exhale. But as the warmth began to fill the cabin, the faint crackle of an old two-way forestry radio on the ranger’s desk suddenly hissed to life.
A voice came through the static, cold and unmistakable: "This is Amanda Vance. I'm reporting a double homicide and child abduction. My husband Mark Vance has suffered a violent psychotic break..."
