Chapter 8 - The Forgotten Shelter
Margaret collapsed onto the wet sandbar, coughing up bitter, peaty water. She pulled Lily against her chest, wrapping both arms around the trembling girl to share whatever meager body heat she had left. Lily was turning a faint shade of blue around her lips, her tiny body shaking in violent, uncontrollable spasms.
"Lily, stay awake. Look at Grandma," Margaret urged, her own voice slurred with early hypothermia. She reached into Lily's pocket; the small, plastic-wrapped parcel was still there, sealed tight with black electrical tape. It had survived the plunge.
"Where's Mommy?" Lily sobbed, tears cutting through the river silt caked on her face. "Mommy went in the water."
"Mommy can swim, sweetheart. She's going to find help," Margaret lied, her heart twisting in agony. The current had been ferocious; if Chloe had hit the jagged limestone boulders downstream, she wouldn't have survived five minutes. Margaret wiped the wet hair from Lily's eyes. "We need to get warm. Right now."
Margaret knew these woods. Fifty years ago, her father had built a hunting blind and timber shack on the high ground overlooking the creek, hidden inside an overgrown hemlock grove. It had been abandoned for decades, but if the roof hadn't collapsed, it offered shelter from the wind and David's searchlights.
Using the twisted cypress roots as handholds, Margaret hauled herself upright. Every muscle in her elderly frame screamed in protest; three of her ribs felt bruised or cracked from the tumble down the ravine. Lifting Lily onto her hip, she pushed through the razor-sharp brambles, dragging her heavy, soaked boots step by step up the slope.
After twenty agonizing minutes of clawing through the pitch-black woods, the dark outline of a timber cabin appeared among the pines. The door was off its hinges, leaning against the rotted doorframe. Margaret shoved it aside and carried Lily into the musty, dry interior.
In the corner, under a layer of dust and dried pine needles, was an old tin chest. Margaret knelt, her shaking fingers unlatching the rusted clasp. Inside was a wool blanket wrapped in plastic, an emergency flare, and an ancient kerosene lantern.
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Margaret struck the lantern’s flint with trembling thumbs. A warm, yellow flame flared to life, casting flickering shadows against the timber walls. But as the light filled the small room, Lily let out a sharp gasp and pointed toward the rear corner.
There, resting on an old cot, was a fresh pair of men's boots and an open duffel bag packed with military rations and satellite phones. Someone had been living here.
