When I open them again, it’s late morning. I must have slept for about three or four hours. Chilled, I force myself to eat some jerky and crackers. I have absolutely no appetite, but starvation isn’t going to earn me bonus points in the “staying alive” category, so I choke it down anyway.

When I get too cold, I get up and start walking. North? South? Which way am I going? I look at the sun, but that doesn’t help much. I can barely see the sky through the trees. On top of that, an icy wind starts cutting down the side of the mountain, just about freezing me to death.

And all I can think about is Peter and Jack. Are they still alive? How many people are like them? How many kids have been orphaned and hunted down for committing the simple crime of existing?  And what about Bree? I look down at my left hand. Under the glove, I wasn’t able to get all the blood off my hand. It makes me sick to look at it.

So I don’t.

Instead I just continue to wander the forest, going nowhere. Completely lost. No matter which way I go, I can’t seem to find the main highway again. Every stick and patch of weeds looks exactly the same. I actually get dizzy from walking in so many circles.

Okay, so what is somebody supposed to do if they get lost?

1.      Hug a tree.

2.      Blow a whistle, if you have it.

3.      Stay in the same place until somebody finds you.

4.      Try to avoid angry bears and wasp nests.

The only problem is, nobody is going to be looking for me except for some rabid Omega soldiers, and I don’t want them to find me.

I’m so screwed.

When my dad and I drove up to the cabin every summer, we followed the main highway, veering off onto a lesser known mountain road until we blew it off altogether, hitting a dirt trail that climbed up the side of the mountain. It was virtually invisible to the outside world, but I knew the route by heart.

Now? Not so much. If only I had a compass with me. I’ve always been good with hiking and basic survival techniques, thanks to my dad, but I never really took the time to figure out which direction our cabin was.

Calm down, I tell myself. Just find the road and you’ll be okay.

Pumping fake confidence into my nervous system does me some good. At least it keeps me moving, anyway. I walk in a straight line for two hours, heading uphill. The side of the mountain is so steep that I have to dig my feet into the mountain at a parallel angle, literally climbing up on hands and knees. By the time I reach the top my muscles feel like they’re on fire.

Making matters even more fantastic, I’m left to look at yet another huge hill, more woods, more rocks, more fern. But no highway. I take a breather and skirt the bottom of the next incline, following a battered animal trail probably used by deer. I end up looking at a small boulder that looks suspiciously like one I just passed a couple of hours ago.

I bend to inspect the dirt, looking at the indents in the soft mud around the rock. There are footprints. Boot prints if we’re going to be technical about it. I study them closely, wondering for a split second if those are my footprints. Because if they are, I’m even more lost than I thought.

I compare the bottom of my shoe to the print in the mud, but it’s so faint that I can’t really tell. I hold my boot right over the print to compare sizes, hovering in place like a scared butterfly.

The shoe is a lot bigger than mine.

I pull my leg backward, spooked. The footprint is considerably fresh. It hasn’t even dried around the edges yet.

I look around the woods, every shadow seeming bigger and darker than it did five second ago. Am I being followed? Did some Omega creep track me through the night? Impossible. I would have heard them.

Wouldn’t I?

I cinch up my backpack and decide to solve this navigational issue once and for all. If someone is following me, I don’t want to find out who it is. I don’t have any weapons besides the knife Jeff gave me to defend myself.

What I know:

I’m lost. But I also know that the highway was running south to north when I was forced to make an unexpected pit stop by Bree and her brothers. If I travel that same direction again, I’ll eventually run into the highway, right? I can’t be more than ten miles away from the place I left Jack and Peter. The road has to be nearby.

I walk in a quick circle, looking over the trees. I find a cedar tree with some low-hanging branches and pull myself up. I keep climbing, scraping my palms against the sharp bark. I eventually drop my backpack to the ground because it’s a little too hard to maneuver the tree with a pack hanging off my shoulders.

I climb higher and higher, until my vertigo kicks in and glues my arms to the tree trunk. I’m up reallyhigh. So high that I can actually feel the tree moving with every gust of wind.

I hang onto the tree like a scared chipmunk, moving my gaze across the horizon. I can see over the bulk of the canopy of trees. The sky is darkened with clouds around the edges, and I’m pretty sure the high winds will move them over here faster than I want.

I can’t see the highway, of course, but I can see the sun. It’s about noon, which makes it easy for me to really tell which way East is. Once I figure that out, I’m able to find West, South and North. Awesome.

I start shimmying down, slipping a few times and catching myself on another branch. When I get to the bottom, I jump from the low branch and land on the ground in a crouch to keep from spraining my ankle.

“Now we’re in business,” I say out loud, grabbing my pack.

Crunch.

I roll my eyes, seriously tired of being ambushed. Suspicious sounds are starting to get annoying. I look around, seeing nobody, and start walking north. All I have to do is keep this course and I’ll eventually run into the highway — some highway — again. From there I can find the cabin.

Snap.

Okay. That was definitely something with a little weight behind it. More than a squirrel, anyway. I whirl around, taking a step backwards like I just got smacked in the chest. Someone’s out there.

Down the hill, a dark figure is creeping up the trail behind me. I stand there, motionless, just staring at the person. Whoever it is, he’s wearing black.

He could be anybody…mercenary orAT soldier.

I don’t stop to wave hello or throw a rock at his head. I just run — only this time I make sure I run North. Which, of course, means, I’ve got to climb the next hill I’ve been avoiding. It cuts up at an insane angle, making it almost a sheer cliff.

I get to work, digging my feet into the dirt and using trees, roots, rocks and the occasional sprout to pull myself up. And then I do something I regret: I look behind me. The black shirted maybe-AT-trooper is gaining. He’s not keeping his presence a secret, and it makes me wonder if he’s alone. Are there more of them back there? Did they figure out that it was me who fired those rounds at the guys trying to kill Peter and Jack?

Don’t think, climb!

 I climb so fast that every muscle in my body simply refuses to move anymore. I guess running all night in sheer terror exhausts your physical strength, because this would usually be no problem.

I slip on a bed of pine needles and slide on my hip down the hill about twenty feet. I push myself back up, panic starting to claw its way into my head.

“Cassidy!”

I turn around, shocked to hear somebody speak my name.

Peter?

Jack?

I slip again and slide back down like an idiot, catching my breath. The guy has a black bandana tied around his hooded head, decked out in black combat pants and boots. He’s got a heavy coat on, a rifle slung over his back.

“Chris?” I stutter.

He pulls his hood off, revealing a face I recognize — but it’s smeared with black paint and dirt. It is Chris, right?