Into the Wild

Into the Wild
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The snow fell in heavy, muffling waves, coating the forest in a fresh layer of silence. Alex crouched by the cabin's window, the rifle resting lightly in his hands as he scanned the clearing. The faint crunch he'd heard moments ago was gone, swallowed by the storm.

His eyes traced the tree line, watching for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the steady fall of snow and the creaking groan of frozen branches bending under its weight.

Alex's pulse was steady, but his senses were on high alert. He didn't believe in coincidences. Whoever had been out there wasn't just passing through.

The cabin was a mess of scattered clues, each more unsettling than the last. The maps on the table were marked with circles and arrows, but none of it made immediate sense. A few had burned edges like someone had tried to destroy them in a hurry. Notes were scrawled in the margins "Shift north," "Avoid ridge," "Three days left?" none of it offering clarity.
But it was the writing on the wall that stayed with him: "The hunter doesn't always stay the hunter."

Alex straightened and moved back into the center of the room, his boots crunching over the layer of snow that had blown in through the broken windows. He picked up a sheet of paper lying on the floor. Most of it was gibberish coordinates and scribbled diagrams but one phrase was circled in thick black ink:
"STAY AHEAD. STAY AHEAD."

The trail picked up again just beyond the cabin, faint but deliberate. A line of bootprints curved toward the trees, disappearing into the dense undergrowth. Alex followed cautiously, every step measured, his rifle slung across his chest.

The storm eased as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest. The temperature dropped sharply, and Alex adjusted the scarf around his face, his breath frosting in the frigid air.

The bootprints led him to the edge of a frozen stream. He crouched, studying the pattern. The tracks continued across the ice, but there was something odd about the spacing too precise, too perfect.

He reached out, brushing a gloved hand over the surface. His fingers caught on a thin, almost invisible wire.

A trap.

Alex followed the wire's path to a nearby tree, where it connected to a crude mechanism with sharpened stakes rigged to spring if the wire was tripped. He let out a soft breath, more frustration than relief. This wasn't just evasion; it was a warning.

"Smart," he muttered under his breath.

He disarmed the trap with practiced ease, his movements quick and precise. But as he stood, he noticed something else: the bootprints stopped just beyond the stream. They didn't veer off, didn't fade they just ended.

Alex frowned, scanning the area. A faint indent in the snow caught his eye, leading to a cluster of low-hanging branches. He followed it, pushing through the trees until he saw it: a piece of fabric, torn and caught on a jagged branch. It flapped weakly in the wind, a bright slash of color against the white.

Too easy.

Alex didn't trust it. Grayson was ex-military, a ghost by trade. This kind of carelessness didn't add up.

He looked up at the surrounding trees, their skeletal branches weaving into an impenetrable canopy. The shadows seemed to move in the fading light, shifting in ways they shouldn't. His gut told him to turn back, but the hunter in him pushed forward.

The snow crunched beneath his boots as he pressed deeper into the forest. The cold was sharper here, biting through his layers and settling into his bones. Every step felt heavier, every sound louder in the oppressive silence.

He wasn't following Grayson's trail anymore. He was walking into a trap.

By the time night fell, Alex knew he couldn't keep moving. The forest was too dense, the terrain too unpredictable in the dark. He found a sheltered spot beneath a rocky overhang and set up a small camp. The fire was minimal, just enough to stave off frostbite, its flickering light barely illuminating the surrounding trees.

Alex sat with his back against the rock, his rifle resting across his knees. His eyes scanned the darkness beyond the firelight, watching for movement. The shadows played tricks on him, the faint rustle of branches sounding like footsteps. He didn't relax. He didn't sleep.
Hours passed, the fire crackling softly as the storm raged overhead. Then, just as he began to think the night might pass uneventfully, he heard it: a faint crunch of snow.

Alex's body tensed. The sound came again, closer this time, deliberate and unhurried. His grip tightened on the rifle as he scanned the perimeter, his breath slow and controlled.
"Grayson," he called out, his voice cutting through the silence. "You've got my attention."
No response. Just the whisper of the wind and the steady crunch of footsteps circling his camp.

Alex stood, his boots crunching in the snow as he moved to the edge of the firelight. The shadows stretched long and jagged, warping the trees into unrecognizable shapes. He raised the rifle, aiming toward the sound.

"Show yourself," he said, his voice low and steady.

The footsteps stopped. For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a voice low and calm, barely louder than the wind.

"You're not the first, Dane. But you might be the last."

Alex's stomach dropped. He turned sharply, scanning the darkness for movement, but the forest remained still.

The fire flickered, casting eerie shadows across the snow. The voice didn't come again, but the weight of it lingered, heavy and suffocating. Alex stayed awake until dawn, his rifle never leaving his hands.

When the first light broke through the trees, Alex found footprints circling his camp dozens of them, deliberate and precise, their pattern taunting.
In the center of the camp, etched into the snow, were three words:

"Stay ahead, Dane."