The ravine itself was shaped like a giant funnel. The southern section was wide, with plenty of cover. The northern end narrowed into a boggy lowland.
Any basic survival instinct would drive prey away from the hunters and deeper north. That meant that was exactly where they would be waiting.
That was the trap. He stopped for a second and looked around. Trees. Shadows. Wet ground.
To disappear completely, he would have to stop being a man for a while. The human eye in the woods reacts to three things: a familiar outline, a color that stands out, and sudden movement.
Nature does not make straight lines or clean symmetry. Broad shoulders, a round head, and an upright stance all announce a person against the chaos of a forest. Max moved to a small creek with a muddy bank.
He dropped to one knee. Scooped up a handful of dark, foul-smelling mud. Then he started rubbing it over every exposed patch of skin.
Face. Neck. Hands. The mud changed his color and helped blend him into the background. It also dulled the human scent of sweat, fear, and foreign food.
Then he stripped off the wool shirt. He tore the hem into ragged strips so the edge would not look too straight. He pulled long fern stems and bunches of hanging lichen.
Using thin roots like cord, he wove the plants into the shirt and pants. His hands worked with surgical precision, all muscle memory. He was not just adding leaves. He was breaking up his silhouette.
He made his shoulders look uneven. Helped his head disappear into his back. The result was a crude but workable camouflage smock made from the forest itself.
Rough, yes. But in full darkness, more than enough. Now he just needed the right spot. He had no intention of going north into the bog.
He decided to hide where they would look last: near the mouth of the ravine, only a few hundred yards from the settlement. Experienced hunters would sweep that area fast.
They would assume he had panicked and run deep. Then they would move on. It was a classic pursuer’s mistake—underestimating how bold the hunted can be. He found the perfect place quickly.
A giant old spruce had been uprooted years earlier. Its root mass formed a huge vertical wall covered in moss. Beneath it was a shallow cavity full of rotting leaves and water.
Max slid into the cavity. He lay on his back, half-submerged in the freezing muck. Stretched his legs out. Crossed them. Folded his hands over his chest.
His mud-covered face almost touched the roots above him. He pulled rotting leaves and strips of bark over himself, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes and nose.
The cold bit into him at once. Through wet wool, through skin, down to bone. His muscles tightened, ready to shiver.
Max closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Full control of pulse and body temperature.
He ordered his body to shut down circulation to the extremities. Energy-saving mode. His toes went numb first. Then his fingers.
He let it happen. For a while he stopped being Max Odell, officer and soldier. He became rotten wood. Cold stone. One more piece of the forest floor.
The sun went down and the woods sank into blackness. About forty minutes later he heard them.
The hunters moved with frightening quiet. Most people would have heard nothing but wind in the treetops. Max caught the micro-sounds. A dry needle crushed underfoot. Cloth brushing bark. Controlled breathing.
There were four of them. A spread line, sweeping the southern ravine. Step. Pause. Scan.
Then another step. One of them—judging by the heavier footfall, Vlasta—passed within fifteen feet of the root wall. Through the slit in the leaves Max could see her dark shape against the lighter sky.
Vlasta stopped. Turned her head toward him. Max’s heart was beating once every two seconds.
Slow. Dull. Vlasta drew in the damp air through her nose and listened. The woods held still.
Not a muscle in Max’s face moved. He looked in her direction without focusing on her directly. No reflection from the whites of the eyes.
He looked through her, not at her. Vlasta grunted, adjusted her spear, and moved on north.
Ten minutes later Radmila came through.
She moved differently—not like a hunter searching, but like an owner inspecting her property. Her pace was steady and unhurried.
She stopped directly in front of the root wall, maybe ten feet from his face. Radmila crouched and ran a hand over the wet ground. She was looking for tracks and finding none.
Max had entered through the creek. No prints in the moss. “He went to the bog,” Zora whispered from the dark a little farther back.
She was sure there were no tracks here. “Outsiders always run,” Radmila said in an icy voice. “They’re predictable.”
“They think if they run far enough, the forest won’t catch them. We go to the bog. We close the trap.” She rose smoothly.
At that moment a small stone slipped from under her boot. It rolled down and dropped into the puddle where Max lay. Dirty water splashed into his open eye.
He did not blink. The reflex was crushed by sheer will. The eye stung, but the lid stayed still…
