Page 56 of Collateral Damage
Something's wrong.
He would've called out by now. Would've come back to tell me there was a problem.
Unless he can't.
Silas
I crouch in the shed, my breath hitching in the frigid air as I run through the diagnostics. Fuel line clear. Battery charge holding. Spark plug clean as a whistle. I yank the pull cord—the motion sharp and desperate—but the engine doesn’t even sputter. Not a cough, not a sigh. It’s just cold, dead metal.
I force my hands to stay still. I walk through the sequence again, slower this time. Methodical. The way I’d train a recruit to strip a weapon in the dark. Filter, choke, oil level. I pull the cord again, putting my weight into it, and the engine gives a single, pathetic gasp before silence crashes back into the room.
Old equipment in sub-zero temps. That’s the logical answer. That’s the only answer that makes sense. But the thought is already a hook in my brain, twisting.
Eleven minutes. I’ve been out here eleven minutes, and Ava is inside, alone.
I stand, the shed feeling tighter, the shadows in the corners stretching out. I scan the perimeter, my pulse hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. The snow is pristine. Unbroken. Just my own tracks, a jagged line leading to the door.
I pivot to check the rear fuel line, and my eyes catch a dip in the snow near the corner of the structure. It’s an indentation, barely visible, half-erased by the shifting drifts. My mind races through the possibilities: wind-load, a slide off the roof, a settling drift.
Or a print. A partial, melting boot print.
I drop to one knee, my heart thumping so hard it rattles my teeth. I lean in, trying to find a tread pattern, a heel strike, anything. There’s nothing but disturbed slush. The wind has chewed the edges, softening them, turning the mark into a meaningless smear.
I stand, my neck prickling. I do a full three-sixty, eyes raking the tree line. The pines are motionless, dark sentinels shrouded in white. Nothing moves. There are no secondary tracks leading out of the clearing. Just the expanse of the winter wilderness, mocking my suspicion.
I turn back to the shed wall. The maintenance latch on the side panel sits at an odd angle. It’s not snapped or forced, just… sitting slightly loose. I test it with my gloved finger; it gives way with a metallic click that sounds like a gunshot in the stillness.
Thermal expansion. Metal warping in the cold. I can’t confirm either. And that uncertainty is poison.
My vision blurs at the edges, the fatigue making the trees seem to lean in, closer than they were a second ago. I’m seeing patterns in the noise. I’m starting to see ghosts.
I need strength I don’t currently have.
Lord, grant me clarity, I pray. Tell me if I’m losing my mind or if he’s already here.
The only answer is the wind whistling through the gaps in the shed walls, low and mocking, while I stand there, waiting for the silence to stop lying to me.
Ava
The silence in the cabin has a physical weight to it, a heavy pressure against my eardrums that makes it impossible to sit still.
So I don’t.
I shove the satellite phone into my pocket—a heavy, plastic anchor—and pull on my coat. My hands are shaking too much for the buttons. I leave the gun on the table, grab my gloves, and crack the door.
"Silas?"
The wind rips the name from my mouth. No answer. Only the white static of the storm.
I step out, the cold biting through my layers like a physical snap. His tracks are already half-filled, ghost-shadows leading toward the shed. I follow them, my breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts that vanish before I can see them.
The shed looms out of the gray, dark and dead. The door is hanging open.
I move closer, every instinct screaming at me to run back to the cabin.
"Silas?" My voice cracks, thin and pathetic.
I nudge the door wider with my boot, heart hammering against my ribs. The interior is a hollow shell of rusted tools and cold iron. The generator sits in the corner, silent. He isn't here.
