Chapter three

  Day two

  Location- temporary camp- somewhere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada

  Blue.

  Green.

  Blue.

  Green.

  A trail of smoke and the sound of a lonely, shrieking engine.

  —then the snap of a parachute.

  Ashes wakes slowly. She feels like shit—not physically, but emotionally. The weight has finally settled. This isn't just some survival weekend or wild story in the making. She’s not going home anytime soon. No mama. No papa. No warm, safe place at the end of the trail.

  And damn… she’s going to miss movie night back at the college.

  She groans and checks her cuts. Most are healing—scabbed over or faded to bruises. Just a dull, deep ache left in her bones from the crash.

  She sits curled in the shelter for a long moment, wrapped in silence, staring at nothing.

  Ten minutes pass.

  Then, she shakes her head, scrubs at her face, and mutters, “Come on, Ashes. You’re stronger than this.”

  She pulls herself to her feet.

  First priority: the snares.

  She treks out through the morning haze, heart low but steady. And when she sees them—two fat rabbits caught cleanly—her mood lifts just a little. It’s not salvation, but it’s something. Food. Stability. A win.

  Two, maybe three days' worth of meals, if she stretches it.

  Enough to keep going.

  .Ashes sets to work quickly. The two rabbits won’t clean themselves, and meat left too long turns fast in weather like this.

  With practiced hands and a few muttered curses, she uses her trusty multitool to gut and skin them. The blade is small and dulling from use, but it gets the job done. She slices one of the rabbits into long, thin strips—jerky-style—then uses green branches to fashion a crude rack above the fire. The meat hangs high, out of the direct heat, to smoke slowly.

  It’s not going to taste good—pinewood smoke, no salt, no seasoning—but it’ll last. And in the wild, that’s what matters.

  The second rabbit she saves for something fresher.

  She finds a flat stretch of earth nearby and digs a shallow pit with a stick. Then, carefully, she transfers glowing coals from the main fire into the hole using two forked branches. She builds a small fire on top to heat the soil, then lays a wide, flat stone into the heart of the embers. Once it’s hot enough, she places the whole rabbit on the stone and covers it with another, forming a kind of primitive oven.

  Ashes builds the fire back up around it, leaving small air holes at either end to keep it burning.

  It’s a slow method, but it’ll roast evenly—and she won’t have to tend it constantly.

  The wind’s picking up now, cool and sharp, threading through the trees like a warning. The birds have gone silent.

  She glances up at the gray sky and narrows her eyes.

  A storm is coming.

  And fast.

  Ashes can feel it in the shift of the wind, in the pressure behind her eyes. The air is damp and heavy now, the kind that presses down on you before the sky opens up. She figures she’s got until early evening—maybe nightfall if she’s lucky.

  With the food handled and water nearby, there’s only one thing left to worry about: firewood. A lot of it.

  The last thing she wants is to be out in freezing rain trying to scavenge wet limbs with numb fingers. It’s miserable when she’s dry—once she’s soaked, it’s a death sentence.

  She throws on her pack and heads out with purpose, making wide loops through the forest, looking for dry, deadfall wood that isn’t too far gone. She grabs everything from thick, arm-sized branches to twiggy kindling and drags back load after load to stack beside her shelter. Her muscles burn with every trip, but she pushes through. The storm’s coming, and this is her window.

  Somewhere between loads, she stops to catch her breath, leaning on a branch like a cane.

  Her eyes drift to the trees—the towering, silent giants—and she mutters under her breath, “I need a deer.”

  It’s not just food. It’s the hide.

  Winter’s coming, and if she doesn’t have leather or fur, she’ll freeze. It’s that simple. The clothes she has won’t cut it for long—not out here. Not when fall rolls into snow.

  She makes a mental note: figure out how to kill a deer. Soon.

  Because survival isn’t just day by day anymore.

  It’s season by season.

  After five or six hours, Ashes is running on fumes.

  Her arms ache. Her back screams. Every trip into the woods had added to the growing pile beside her shelter—branch after branch, log after log. It’s enough wood to last at least two days, maybe more if she’s careful.

  Cramped as it’ll be, she hauls the best of it inside her shelter. Better to trip over firewood than risk it soaking in the coming storm.

  She collapses by the cooking pit and brushes away the layer of dirt and ash from her buried rabbit. The scent hits her like a punch—rich, savory, primal. Her mouth waters instantly.

  She uses sticks to slide the top stone away, then gently lifts the roasted rabbit onto a flat rock near the fire to cool. Glowing coals still pulse beneath it, so she scoops those up with a branch and adds them to the main fire, coaxing the warmth back to life.

  She doesn’t rush this time.

  Ashes eats slowly, savoring each bite—the crisped edges, the tender meat near the bone. It’s easily the best thing she’s eaten since the crash. Maybe the best thing she’s ever eaten, just by weight of effort and need.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  As she wipes the last of the grease from her fingers on her pants, her mind turns to the future.

  She’s going to need to move the snares soon. Overhunting one spot is a fast way to wipe out the local rabbits, and she’s not desperate enough yet to start gambling with sustainability.

  She leans back against the root wall, watching the smoke drift upward through the fire gap in her roof.

  Fishing. She’ll need to figure that out next. And start learning the edible plants in the area—something beyond the salmonberries. She’s doing okay for now, but if this stretches into weeks, months…

  Ashes exhales slowly.

  She might be here for the long haul. The idea of hiking 80 miles through some of the roughest wilderness in North America—it’s not impossible. But it’s not happening anytime soon.

  Not without food. Not without a plan. Not without gear she doesn’t have yet.

  So for now, she’ll eat. She’ll rest. And tomorrow… she’ll survive a little further.

  .Ashes glances up at the sky, reading the clouds like an old friend. The storm’s still coming—but it looks like she has until nightfall before it hits. Just enough time.

  She rummages through her supplies and pulls out her last unused length of 550 cord, coiled and clean. Then, from a small pouch in her pack, she takes one of the rabbit rib bones she saved.

  She crouches by a flat stone and snaps the rib down to a piece just a few inches long. With quiet focus, she begins grinding the ends against a rough rock, sharpening both sides to wicked points.

  A crude hook. Or maybe more of a gorge. Either way, it’s functional.

  As she works, her thoughts drift.

  She can’t believe her papa insisted she learn how to make a fishing hook out of “damn near anything,” as he’d say with a grin. It had seemed silly at the time—overkill, even. But now?

  She smiles faintly.

  She remembers the long bushcraft trips from her childhood—weeks in the backcountry with nothing but a knife, a tarp, and a bit of food. Her mama teaching knots, her papa whittling tools from scraps. Sleeping under the stars, melting snow for water, learning how to read wind and wood and sky.

  If not for those summers—and those bitter, beautiful winters—she knows she’d be in a much worse place right now.

  The bone hook is finished. Rough, uneven, but sharp and ready.

  Ashes ties the cord to the middle of the bone with a solid knot and tests the tension. It holds.

  She exhales slowly, tucks the line into a pouch, and gives the sky one last glance.

  There’s still time to try it out.

  .Ashes slings her pack over one shoulder, tucks the bone hook and line inside, and sets off at a brisk pace toward the stream. With the trail already scouted, it takes her less than ten minutes of fast walking to reach the mossy bank.

  The wind has picked up. The sky’s darkening at the edges.

  She knows what's coming—storms swell rivers. If she wants to fish here, it has to be now.

  She picks a sturdy tree near the edge and ties one end of the 550 cord to its base, knotting it tightly just above the flood line. No sense in losing everything to a fast-rising current.

  Then she gets to work.

  Turning over rocks isn’t glamorous, but it’s effective. The first few are duds, but then—a flash of movement. A fat worm. Then another. One nearly wriggles out of her grasp before she pins it between her fingers. By the time she’s done, she has three squirming candidates.

  She threads them onto the sharpened bone hook carefully, wincing slightly at the feel. A quick underhand toss sends the baited line arcing into the stream. It lands with a soft plop, ripples spreading wide across the dark water.

  She crouches near the tree, watching the cord go taut in the current.

  Now comes the decision.

  If she stays, she might snag something—be there in an instant to pull it in. But she’s racing the storm. One wrong bet and she’ll be drenched, cold, and in real danger before she even makes it back to camp.

  If she leaves, she’s got no way of knowing what might bite—or what might escape. It’ll be at least a full day before she can check the line again.

  She exhales, eyes flicking between the line and the clouds.

  It’s a gamble either way.

  Ashes decides to play it safe—just like Mama always said: don’t gamble when you’ve already got a full belly and food on the fire.

  She casts one last glance at the fishing line swaying in the current, then turns back toward camp. As she walks, she draws her multitool and uses the blade to mark a few more trees along the way—clean, shallow notches at eye level. It’s overkill right now, but if she ever needs to find this spot in a storm or low light, those subtle signs might make all the difference.

  She stops at the salmonberry bramble, now familiar and half-picked. Crouching beside it, she works quickly, scooping berries into her bag by the handful. It’s a little messy—juice staining the fabric and her fingers—but it works. By the time she’s finished, she figures she’s collected maybe a pound, pound and a half. Not bad.

  But the bush is stripped now. It'll be at least a few days before more ripen—if anything’s left once the birds catch on.

  When she finally pushes back into her camp, the peace shatters.

  A flash of motion—a scrabbling, furry blur—rips past her fire pit. She jumps, heart in her throat.

  A raccoon, startled by her return, bolts from the edge of the shelter and disappears into the undergrowth with a surprised chitter. It had been sniffing around the meat.

  Ashes exhales sharply, hand on her chest.

  “Little bastard…”

  She shakes her head and steps into the shelter, setting her berry-streaked bag to the side. Then she checks the rabbit strips—turning them, testing the texture with her fingertips. They’re drying well. Smoky. Toughening just right.

  Plip.

  A drop hits the bridge of her nose.

  She blinks and looks up.

  The first rain has come.

  Ashes ducks into the shelter just as the rain comes down in earnest—not a monsoon, but steady enough to soak her to the bone if she lingers.

  She huddles near the entrance, eyes on the ceiling, watching for leaks.

  For a moment, tension coils in her chest. But the parachute tarp holds. The water beads and rolls off the layered pine and moss—proof that her work paid off. She exhales slowly, letting herself relax.

  Outside, the rain dances across the forest floor, soft and rhythmic. She sticks her hand out past the shelter’s edge. It’s cool—but not freezing. Refreshing, almost.

  The fire, still crackling behind her, keeps the space surprisingly warm despite the damp air.

  Ashes bites her lip, thinking.

  It’s not ideal. But she could really use a wash. Sweat, grime, and smoke cling to her like a second skin, and her undergarments are… ripe. She knows full well the dangers of staying filthy in the wild—rashes, sores, infections. Not to mention morale. A little cold water now could save her a lot of pain later.

  She nods to herself and moves quickly.

  Clothes off, folded, and tucked safely inside the shelter. She winces at the smell rising from her gear—yeah, those’ll need rinsing soon too. Just not tonight.

  Naked and shivering already, she steps out into the downpour.

  The rain is a shock at first—icy against her skin—but she scrubs herself clean with cupped hands and rain-slicked palms, wiping away the sweat and dirt. Every shiver is worth it. She doesn’t linger, doesn’t waste time.

  A minute later, she dives back into the shelter, teeth chattering, skin pebbling with goosebumps. She huddles near the fire, drawing the tarp close around her like a blanket.

  Slowly, warmth returns. First in her fingers, then her chest, then the rest of her aching body.

  She leans back, eyes half-lidded, and lets the fire chase the chill away.

  A smile creeps to her lips.

  She remembers “girls' nights” with her mama out in the bush—just the two of them, scrubbing off in the rain and laughing like fools, steam rising off a shared pot of pine needle tea.

  It had felt like an adventure then. It still does.

  After a while, lost in memory, the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of the rain lull Ashes into a quiet calm. Her skin is dry now, her body no longer shivering, just pleasantly sore from the day’s work.

  She pulls her clothes back on—still a little rough from the wear, but dry—and settles down into the shelter. The fire glows low beside her, casting flickering shadows on the tarp walls.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  She curls up tight, pack under her head, the scent of smoke and pine wrapping around her like a blanket. The storm taps steadily on the roof above—soft, insistent, familiar.

  And before she realizes it, Ashes is asleep.