Coby Cotton

Woods of Wasting

April 15, 2032

1509 Hours

The Ruin River Survival Camp is dead.

That's the only word I can think of to describe it. The forest floor is under six inches of filthy water, and broken pieces of wood and fragments of rope are scattered throughout the newly formed pond. One of the only dwellings still intact is ours, for the sole reason that it's twenty feet off the ground. Even so, it still breaks my heart that Cory and I aren't safe inside.

I wade through the dark, murky water, pant legs rolled up and shoes hung around my neck by the laces. Cody and Tyler are behind me, the latter limping heavily.

"So this is where you live?" Tyler asks, staring up at the platform. "It's cooler than I thought it'd be."

"What were you expecting?"

"The tarp. And only the tarp."

I can't help but laugh. "I get that we're not that great at survival, but that's kind of a low bar."

"Got any more supplies up there?" Cody asks.

"Yeah—hang on."

I break away from Tyler and Cody and climb the rope ladder, amazed that the flash flood hasn't torn it down. Pulling myself up onto the platform, I try not to look at Cory's empty hammock and scoop some of our emergency tree bark and dried leaves into a pouch, trying to remember what each medicinal plant does. I don't know which ones are for medicine and which ones are for eating—guess I'll just have to wing it. These plants wouldn't be here if they weren't edible, right?

I grab my neck gaiter—it'll help me sleep better—and my poncho, as well as extra ammo for my pistol and our first aid kit, and stuff it all into a backpack. I decide to take Cory's gaiter and poncho, too, just in case we find him and he needs them. Finally, I change into my tracksuit, adding safety goggles and my pith helmet—you can never be too prepared!—and slip on my waterproof boots, putting my current shoes in the bag.

Standing up, I shove a change of clothes for Cory into the bag as well—just in case—and survey our home one last time. I hope we'll be back. I have to believe we'll find each other and come home.

I climb back down the ladder, splashing into the water, and slosh over to Tyler, pulling his arm over my shoulders. "Alright, Ty, let's head out. Is your leg gonna hold up?"

Tyler scoffs. "Is that even a question?"

"Is it?"

"I'm fine, Cotton, get that through your head."

"I could carry you, Ty," Cody chimes in. "If you wear the backpack and I give you a piggyback ride—"

"If you ever made me do that," Tyler says, perfectly serious, "I'd have to kill you, Codes."

Cody holds up his hands. "Just sayin'!"

We set off into the flooded woods, splashing through progressively deeper water. Tyler's weight is heavy on my shoulder, and after several minutes, I start to get tired again, but I'm not going to tell him that. I mean, his alternative is piggybacking, and I'm not going to make him do it.

"Look for anything out of the ordinary," Cody advises us as we round a bend in the river. "Normally we'd be looking for stuff like snapped twigs and trampled grass, but floods kind of make that difficult. So we've gotta expand a bit—we're looking for pieces of fabric, baseball caps, even blood. If you see zombies, shoot 'em."

"How far do you think it could've carried him?" I ask, wincing as Tyler pulls on my shoulder. "I mean, flash floods are fast, but how fast? Could Cor have gone, like, a whole mile? Or are we talking more like a few hundred feet?"

Tyler shrugs. "It's hard to say. Either one's plausible. I just hope the kid didn't get a concussion, too, or he's gonna be wandering around the woods with no sense of direction."

"He didn't have one in the first place," I tell him. "He'll definitely get lost, no concussion required."

"It'll actually be easier if he's gone out of the path of the flood," Cody says. "I'll be able to track him better. But let's just keep following the river and we'll see where it takes us."

We round a few more bends and explore a trail leading away from the river, turning up nothing. The sky is starting to get dark, and I'm beginning to worry. I don't want Cory to be out here alone for even one more night.

Then, suddenly, Cody flings out an arm, halting Tyler and I in our tracks. "Whoa, stop!"

I stumble, nearly dropping Tyler, as we look down into a gash in the earth. The ravine is at least fifteen feet deep and almost as wide, with the floodwater trickling down into it. This looks like the end of the line—the flood didn't pass this point.

"If he got out anywhere, he got out here," Tyler says. "Fan out, boys!"

He breaks away from me and limps the few feet to the edge of the ravine, starting to climb down. I follow more cautiously, testing my weight on each hold before lowering myself down. Cody can probably almost jump from the top to the bottom, but he doesn't risk it, instead half-climbing, half-falling down the steep rocky wall.

I wade through the flooded ravine, combing my gaze over the rocks. For the first several minutes, I see nothing, but then I catch sight of a small rockfall on the side of the ravine that we climbed down. When I get closer, I realize with horror that several of the rocks are streaked a dark reddish-brown, and my brain immediately zooms into overdrive mode, imagining all the worst-case scenarios that could have befallen Cory.

"Guys!" I yell, my voice trembling. "Get over here!"

Tyler and Cody are at my side in a matter of seconds. Both of them examine the rocks, their brows furrowed in concentration.

"The blood's a couple days old," Tyler says. "My guess is the kid was here right after the flood. The way it's streaked like that makes me think he fell in."

Seeing the terrified expression on my face, Cody moves to stand a few feet away, looking up at the wall of the ravine. "Hey! Check these out!"

He points at a spot partway up the wall, where mud has been smeared on the rocks. About seven feet above them, maybe a little more, are many short, smooth stripes carved into the mud. The stripes are separated into groups of five, as if someone clawed at the wall.

"So Cory fell in," Cody deduces, "but he tried to climb out. That means he either wasn't hurt, or if he was, it wasn't bad enough to stop him from trying."

"But did he climb out?' Tyler asks. "If he did, it wasn't on this side. There aren't any marks right by the top."

All three of us turn and study the other side of the ravine, looking for any sign that Cory somehow managed to climb up the wall. Personally, I don't think it's very likely, but then I see the depressions in the muddy wall—two long, wide lines, about shoulder width apart.

"Could be his feet," Tyler says under his breath, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. "But why are there only two marks? If the kid climbed out, there'd have to be more of them. He can't have only touched the wall once. Plus there aren't any hand marks."

"He could've done it if he had a rope," I point out. "But I don't know how he'd get one."

I look down at the ground, searching for any other marks that might tell more of the story. My heart leaps in my chest when I see several prints, all familiar—Cory's size nine Columbia hiking boot. "Cody, can you look at these?"

Cody drops into a crouch, glancing down at the tracks and then back up at me. "Are these his shoes?" I nod, and Cody returns his gaze to the prints. "Probably a few days old—I'm actually surprised they're still here. Anyway, all the left prints are deeper than the right ones—that means he was limping. Probably hurt his leg or something and that's why he couldn't climb out. But I don't get why the tracks on the wall are like that."

"I mean, the kid ain't here," Tyler puts in. "Unless he wanted to walk through the new river—" he points down the ravine into the darkness— "he wouldn't have gone either up or down this ditch. It makes sense that he climbed out here. But I don't know how he did it."

"Cody," I ask urgently, "can you boost me up? I wanna see the top."

Cody nods. "Sure thing!"

This time, I manage to keep from squeaking as he grabs me—man, his hands can fit almost all the way around my waist—and hoists me up. I dig my fingers into the dirt, struggling to get a grip, and plant a foot on Cody's shoulder, boosting myself over the top. I scramble up, my front streaked with mud, and search the damp ground for tracks. Sure enough, there's Cory's footprint—but just one, and it's surrounded by other prints, ones I've never seen before. Both are bigger than Cory's and definitely men's boots, but that's all I can make out.

"Can y'all take a look at these?" I ask, kneeling down and peering over the side of the ravine. "They don't make sense."

"Get me up there, big guy," Tyler says to Cody. "Then you can, I don't know, figure out how to jump up by yourself, because we ain't helping you."

"Why do I get stuck with guys so much smaller than me?" Cody complains as he lifts Tyler up. "First you, then Coby—ow!"

I grab Tyler's hand, pulling him up as he removes his boot from Cody's forehead and looks down, grinning unabashedly. "Sorry, Codes. Okay, Cotton, let's take a look at these tracks."

Cody takes a flying leap and manages to scramble up after us, clawing his way to the top. He stretches out on the ground, his face so close to the footprints that I don't know how he can see them.

"Why is there only one footprint?" I ask, leaning over the tracks. "It doesn't make sense. Cor couldn't have been running, so it's not a stride thing."

"There's a toe print right next to it," Tyler observes, and I squint, realizing that there is indeed the edge of a print next to the lone one. "So the kid was standing on his left foot for a while and barely touched the ground with the other one."

"Then Cory made it out," I say, relief sweeping through me. "But where'd he go? Why was he just standing here?"

Tyler limps around the clearing, studying the extra prints, and announces, "Trail picks back up here, but it's still just the left shoe. These other two tracks are on either side—someone was helping the kid walk. His right foot never even touches the ground."

"Whoever they were, they must've thrown down a rope," Cody says. "That's why there aren't any finger marks on the wall. So these guys gave Cory a rope and pulled him up, then dragged him off to…I don't know. What if they kidnapped him?"

"I don't think they'd be helping him walk if they were kidnapping him," I reason. "Wouldn't they have just, like, picked Cory up and ran away with him?"

"Gotta follow the tracks," Tyler decides, and I go over to him to support as he says, "Try not to mess the old prints up. They might be useful later."

We set off down the path—yes, it's a path, and not just a deer trail. Someone uses this route regularly, which I take as a good sign. I never knew there were other camps so close to ours.

The tracks fade out in some places, but Cody always manages to find them again. We go about a quarter mile until we come across a large tent, with a still-warm fire pit outside and a few lanterns hanging in the trees. Someone was here, and recently, though the camp is completely silent.

"What happened?" Tyler breathes as we step into the clearing, and I realize what he means—the grass is torn up into a mess of mud and green fragments, and dirt streaks the sides of the tent.

"Looks like our camp," Cody says. "You don't think…"

"Zombies," Tyler says. "Definitely. Let's keep looking for tracks—they might've run into the woods."

It's almost fully dark now as we circle around to the back of the tent, finding more footprints sunk into the dirt. These ones aren't as orderly—they're scattered all over the place, as if Cory and his companions left in a hurry. Most are clustered around a dead tree near the tent—they probably tried to climb it. No one's up there now, though, so they must've come back down.

"Got it!" Cody shouts from the edge of the clearing. "Here's the prints! Good thing it stopped raining, or they'd be totally gone, but you can see them."

I help Tyler limp over to where Cody is standing, and the latter shines his flashlight onto the ground so we can see. Cory's footprints are faint but there, still only the left foot. Now, however, there are also two circles on either side of the print, about three feet ahead. The same distance beyond that is another footprint, and to the sides of Cory's tracks are the other sets of prints.

"Cory's on crutches?" I exclaim, perplexed. "How is he on crutches? Where would he even get those?"

"No idea," Tyler shrugs. "But hey, we know they all got away from the zombies. And before you say anything, Cotton, it's too dark to follow them. We'll lose the trail."

"But Cory can't—" I start, but Tyler cuts me off.

"Cory's clearly handled himself okay out here. And he's with people who can help him—he'll be fine for one more night."

"But—"

"Coby." Tyler's voice is firm, but his eyes are kind. "He's going to be fine, and we all need to rest. You especially, and I can't go any farther on this leg. I'm sure no one's gonna mind us using the camp while they're gone."

I sigh, the tension going out of my body. "Okay." Now that I think about it, I'm exhausted, and my headache is coming back. It might be best to take some Advil, lay down, and wait for morning.

That's exactly what we do. Upon finding the tent locked—really, who puts a lock on their tent?—Tyler hacks the back entrance apart with a knife, which I feel bad about, but which is necessary if we don't want to be attacked by the zombies that are probably still in the area.

Inside the tent are two camp beds and a sleeping bag on the floor. Cody insists on taking the sleeping bag "because you two are indisposed." After taking another dose of Advil, I stretch out on one of the camp beds, burying my face in the pillow.

Keep Cory safe, I pray as I drift off. Watch him. Let him make it through this.

Please let us both go home.