Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

“Fine,” I say to the gate, “have it your way.” I walk to the back of the cruiser and pop the trunk. As I’m there, something small and white flashes by in the corner of my eye, toward the main road. I glance in time to see an albino squirrel dart across the lane and disappear down the steep mountainside across the state route. I marvel at this for a second. How many squirrels in a million are albino?

As I’m staring at the spot where the animal disappeared, a new detail emerges. A long groove in the dirt at the roadside. I squint, and realize it’s actually two long grooves, about three feet apart. ATV tracks, I’ve absolutely no doubt.

“Gotcha, you bastard,” I breathe.

Leaving the bolt cutters where they are, I slam the trunk closed and walk into the woods. The tracks run more or less parallel to Meridian Lane, weaving around trees where necessary. I follow them back to the state route. Kneeling, I examine the treadmarks in the muddy area just before the tarmac. The grooves are deep, and the walls crumble to the touch. Fresh, then. So Captain Tweaker left Meridian Lane somewhere just before the gate, wove a path through the trees, and emerged here.

Only, once back on the state route he didn’t go left or right. Instead, he drove straight across and over the drop-off on the other side where that squirrel just vanished.

Feeling childish, I check both directions for traffic. The bend in the road here provides little visibility, and because of the twisty nature of the little-used road, people often take it at high speed. But all’s quiet just now. Only my footfalls and the chirping of birds are sprinkled over the constant sigh of wind through the branches high above.

On the far side of the road I move to the little berm that marks the drop-off, and lean out over the side, wincing slightly at what will greet me. But unlike the point at mile marker thirteen, where Rhod’s Harley became wedged in the tree, the mountainside here turns out to be less of a cliff and more of a slope. A forty-five-degree incline, if that.

It’s more than the angle that surprises me, though. At this particular point, where the ATV tracks leave the road, there’s a gap in the trees perhaps six feet wide. Ferns grow in the span between, many of which I note have broken fronds. The ground is littered with these, and they’re all trampled. Not just by the ATV, I realize, but also by several tire tracks in varying sizes and freshness. Dirt bikes, maybe? Or…

“I missed the turn,” I say, repeating Rhod’s words from when I’d found him sitting in the road, three miles up from here.

I walk back to my cruiser to kill the engine and lock the doors, leaving the lights blinking away for now. From below the front-passenger seat I grab a bottle of water and a pack of almonds I keep stashed there for times when stopping for a bite to eat isn’t in the cards.

Then I set off on foot, following the tire tracks down the mountain toward the river. For the most part the trail is a straight shot, and the farther I get from the road I notice less and less effort has been made to conceal it.

Nearer the river, as the ground levels out a bit, large boulders and dead trees have accumulated, and the path begins to wind around them as a result. In places it becomes harder to follow, but on foot and going slow, I’ve got plenty of time to study the landscape and find its signature markings.

At the river the path turns, heading northeast now. Upstream. The riverbed is almost dry this time of year. Just a trickle of water barely six inches deep that splashes and froths around a wide bed of rocks, from tiny polished pebbles all the way up to boulders larger than my car. Most of them are bleached white from a summer’s worth of sunlight.

As such it’s not hard to see the spot where the ATV crossed to the other side. There are two rows of rocks nearly black from water splashing off the vehicle’s tires. Which means Captain Tweaker tore through here only minutes ago.

I make my way across, almost slipping twice on a mossy patch in the middle. The far bank is more of the same. Dead logs, ferns, and boulders that give way to dirt and trees the higher I climb. It’s steeper on this side, causing the trail to follow the contours of the landscape. The woods are denser, too, with a different mixture of trees, given the south-facing slope and its abundance of sunlight.

It’s close to noon now and I’m sweating under my uniform, breathing hard. I guess I can skip leg day this week, I think ruefully, as my thighs begin to burn from the exertion.

I hike. And hike. And hike. Half a mile since crossing the river, I’d guess, before I stop to catch my breath and take a few healthful swigs of the water while I sit on a fallen log.

My phone still shows no signal. That worries me. Especially in light of what Kyle had said about Kenny and his friends. I stand and move to the edge of the trail, peering across the valley and up the slope toward Lake Forgotten. I think I see the spot where the atrocious fake tree should be, the StellarComm cell phone tower. A Conaty Company. But there’s nothing there. Just the real, actual trees. Maybe I’ve got the location wrong, but I don’t think so. It should be there.

“That’s not good,” I mutter, trying to picture myself arresting Kenny. I hope it doesn’t come to that.

One thing at a time, though.

I get back on the trail, jogging now.

It goes on and on, snaking ever upward. Then, abruptly, the trail levels out onto a plateau and just ends. I’m