Where the fuck is he?
We’ll find out the hard way if we don’t start moving.
And it’s pretty clear now: there are no survivors.
Every woman who was on that first raft—plus Macy—are either dead or gone. Floating lifelessly on the surface, or at the bottom of the river, beneath the crushing undertow at the mouth of Anvil Falls.
Just like Kellen Stroop’s victims.
“Beth has a life jacket on, Deborah,” Pam says, gently holding Deborah’s arms to keep her from pulling her sister aboard our raft. “We can find her again. We can come back for Beth and the others. But right now, if we want to live, we can’t bring her with us. We have to get down this river and get help, fast. We need to get out of here.”
With a low cry, Deborah shakes Pam away, still holding onto her sister’s life vest. “I’m so sorry, Beth.” She turns to us. “I told her to get on that first raft before me, because I wanted her to be safe.”
A lump rises in my throat, but I force the words past it. “It’s not your fault, Deborah. I’m so sorry. But Pam is right. We can’t stay here any longer. We have to start moving.”
Deborah stays frozen where she is, murmuring something in her sister’s ear.
I can’t bear to watch.
Allie, Pam, and I stare helplessly at each other, the whites of our eyes bright against the deep-canyon darkness.
“What in the world are we going to do now?” Pam asks.
I shake my head and grip my paddle tighter. Someone has to take charge and get us moving. The only real option is to start moving downriver and leave the victims behind. There isn’t even a spot where wecouldpull the bodies to shore to be recovered later. There is no shoreline, and from what Macy said, there won’t be for another forty miles. There will be no rescuers at all unless we make itseventymiles downriver to the takeout, through nonstop Class-Three and -Four whitewater, in the middle of the night, without a guide.
And that isn’t even the worst-case scenario here.
Worst-case scenario, we never make it to the takeout. Worst-case scenario, Bryan catches up to us. Or there’s more razor wire stretched along this canyon, taut and waiting.
Another realization hits me. There could be another group coming down Anvil Falls in the next few days—thrilled to have the permit to run this isolated stretch at all—completely unaware of the death trap ahead of them.
How did Bryan even think of this? Is this how the original Camas Creek victims died?
Kellen Stroop is long gone—and yet here we are in what feels like a sick re-enactment.
I want to know what Allie has to say, but there’s no time to ask. We have to get out of here.
My teeth begin to chatter so hard, I’m afraid my molars will chip. The cold feels like it’s seeped down to my bones, but it’s more than that. We’re going to die out here, just like the women floating in the water. “Deborah, I’m so sorry but we have to leave her,now,” I demand. “We have to—”
“Oh no, oh no, no, no,” Pam cries in a panic, gesturing behind us. “I see him. There he is! He’s right there.”
All of us, even Deborah, turn to look.
And there it is, a neon green gear boat speeding over the final wave of Anvil.
At first, the raft looks unmanned, still loaded with supplies. But then, beneath the roar of the falls, I hear it—faint at first, then clearer. Whistling, unmistakable and getting louder. That same nameless, meandering song he whistled at the put-in.
“Oh my god, we gotta hurry,” Allie whispers, but for another second, all of us stay frozen.
As soon as the boat noses over that final wave and onto the calmer water, a dark figure rises up from the back of the boat and stands, an oar in each hand.
Bryan.
He’s less than a hundred yards away, where the raging falls give way to the straightaway of calmer water where we’ve been searching for survivors. He angles the oars and points his raft toward us. Even at this distance, I can see the dark stains on his bright swim shirt. Gracie’s blood. Josh’s blood.
He keeps whistling, notes drifting over the water as he moves toward us, smooth and unhurried.
If we don’t start rowing right now, he’ll be on us in less than a minute.