The Bodies Left Behind

It was about fifteen feet below him on a jutting rock.
    Oh, did he want that gun!
    The men had passed by him, on the other side of the rock, and vanished into the tangle of the woods. When he could no longer hear them, Graham had risen and, crouching, made his way to the edge of the gorge.
    Could he make the climb down and retrieve the weapon?
    Well, goddamn it, he was sure going to try. He was burning with fury. He’d never wanted anything more in his life than to get his hands on that gun.
    He squinted and, studying the rock face, found what seemed to be enough hand- and footholds to climb down to a ledge and from there grab the shotgun.
    Hurry. Get going.
    Breathing hard, he turned his back to the gorge and eased over the side. He began feeling his way down.Five feet, eight. Then ten. He moved as fast as he dared. If he fell he’d bounce off the outcropping and tumble down the steep incline of the gorge walls—vertical in places—into the rocky water far below; streaks of white foam trailing downstream were evidence that boulders were plentiful.
    Twelve feet.
    He glanced down.
    Yes, there was the shotgun. It was balanced unsteadily right on the edge of the outcropping. He felt a panicked urgency to grab the gun fast before a gust of wind tipped it over the side. He continued down, getting as close as he could. Finally he was level with the weapon, though it was still four or five feet to his right. Graham had thought there was some way to ease sideways toward it but what seemed like the shadows of footholds were just dark rock.
    Inhaling hard, pressing his face against a cold, smooth muddy rock. Go for it, he told himself angrily. You’ve come this far.
    Gripping a thin sapling growing from a crack in the cliff, he reached for the gun. He came within eight inches of the barrel—the black disk of the muzzle was pointed directly at him.
    Below the water raged.
    Graham sighed in frustration. Just a few inches more. Now!
    He slid his hand farther along the sapling and swung out with his right again, more forcefully this time. Two inches from the gun.
    Extending his grip once more, he tried a third time.
    Yes! He got his fingers around the barrel.
    Now, just—
    The sapling snapped under his weight and he slipped sideways a foot or so, held in place only by a strand of slick wood and bark. Crying out, Graham tried to keep a grip on the shotgun. But it slipped from his sweat-slick fingers and tumbled over the side, striking another outcropping ten feet below and cartwheeling into the river, eighty feet below.
    “No!” He watched miserably as the weapon vanished into the black water.
    But he had no time to mourn its fate. The sapling gave way completely, and Graham grabbed the outcropping, though he was able to keep his grip for merely ten seconds before his fingers slipped and he began to fall, almost in the same trajectory as the shotgun he’d so dearly desired.

    THEY’D NEVER MAKE it to the highway in time, Brynn realized.
    She gasped in dismay. Just as the shotgun fired they’d leapt off the rocky shelf and into the field. But she’d misjudged the distance to the trees. The strip of forest next to the interstate was an easy three hundred yards away. The ground was flat, filled with reed canary grass, heather and a few saplings and scorched trunks.She recalled that this had been the site of a forest fire a year ago.
    It would take them ten minutes to cross and the men would be here in far less time than that; they were probably already on the ledge.
    Brynn looked at Amy, her terrified face ruddy with tears and streaked with dirt.
    What can we possibly do?
    It was Michelle, leaning against the spear, gasping, who supplied the answer. “No more running. It’s time to fight.”
    Brynn held her eye. “We’re way outgunned here.”
    “I don’t care.”
    “It’s a long shot, you know.”
    “My life’s been nothing but sure things. Treadmills and lunch at the Ritz and nail salons. I’m sick of it.”
    They shared a smile. Then Brynn looked around and saw that they could turn to the right and climb up a steep incline to the top of the cliff, which was above the ledge the men were on now. “Up there. Come on.”
    Brynn led the way, then Amy, then Michelle. They looked down to see the men moving cautiously along the trail, a third of the way into it. Hart was in the lead.
    They assessed their pathetic weapons: the spear and the knife. But Brynn wanted to keep those for the last minute. She pointed to