Chapter 2

Patrick:

I woke up with Sam’s head still pressed against my arm and the bitter tang of cooled embers teasing my nose. The shelter was almost pitch-black. A faint, gray ribbon of light seeped through cracks in the hide wall—just enough to sketch out the curve of the roof and cast the bigger, darker shapes of the hunters sleeping outside. The fire had all but died, only the center pulsed dimly with red now and then, then faded out. Everything was still. Spears leaned against thorny frames. By the entrance, one hunter sat so still I couldn’t tell if he was dozing or just staring off, head sunk low.

Sam’s eyes fluttered open right as I shifted my weight. His voice was rasping and small, that rough, thin squeak he got after a night spent scared but holding it in.

“Dad ... where’s Mom?”

Those words sliced right through me. Lying to him was the only preparation I’d done all night, and every option I’d rehearsed felt wrong. I kept my voice even, gentle, that steady tone I saved for the machine’s worst readings.

“I’m going to find her. I’m sure she’s safe. Probably close. I just have to pick up her trail.”

Sam gripped the hide blanket with shaking fingers. “Don’t go. Please. Just stay.”

I eased myself upright, feeling the cold dirt through my knee. I wrapped him tight and pressed him to my chest. His ribs were solid and thin. His hair smelled like smoke, wet leaves. I pressed my lips to the top of his head, so he wouldn’t see me.

“I have to,” I murmured. “You stay here. Hidden. Don’t step out, no matter what. Not until I’m back. Got it?”

He just made a harsh, muffled sound into my shoulder, arms squeezed tight, shaking all over. I hated the whole thing.

“I’ll be back,” I told him, voice splintering. “With her. I promise.”

I held on a few seconds longer than I could afford, then untangled myself. His eyes were wide, glassy, wet. I brushed his cheek with my thumb, gave him a nod, and stood up.

Outside, the camp crouched in that last, heavy stillness before dawn. The two hunters on final watch sat against the thorns, spears across their knees, both slumping. The fire was just a smudge of orange now, barely bright enough to reach the nearest lean-to. Way out in the trees a bird called, once, then went quiet. The air felt thick, heavy with wet leaves and cooling smoke.

I checked for my knife, still snug on my hip—useless but better than nothing. I stepped with care, tiptoeing past bodies curled on the ground, not daring to wake anyone. Part of me ached to crawl back under the hides—stay there, keep my boy close, wait for sunlight. But the memory of the clearing haunted me: those two dark shapes, the pale body that was probably Clara, heavy and awful behind my eyes. Every second I waited, the odds of finding her shrank. But if I left Sam here, with these strangers, that risk knifed at me just as bad.

I went for the trees.

The thorn wall had a spot the hunters used. Didn’t make a sound slipping through. Behind me, darkness. In front, forest: rows of trunks lost in shadow, silent and massive as ancient pillars. Dawn hadn’t made a real dent yet. I pulled one long breath of that damp air, fixed Sam’s worried face in my mind, and stepped into the green.

Light crept through the trees in watery streaks, painting the mist silver over the ground. I moved slow, knife ready, trying to reconstruct the path I’d been dragged down last night. The forest felt almost sentient, less dangerous, more watchful with the sun not fully up. Giant trees everywhere, their bark rough and black with moisture. Ferns high as my chest brushed my arms and soaked my shirt. Once, somewhere, a heavy wing flapped overhead.

I lost the trail right away.

It was all the same: dark earth, tangled roots, the suffocating press of green. I circled a downed log twice before realizing it was the same one. Tried following what looked like the apes’ passage and found nothing but thorn wall. Frustration fizzed in my chest, but I forced it down. Marked every tree I passed with the knife—just to keep from going in circles.

The day brightened, little by little. The mist started to break up. Birds called from everywhere—layered, tangled sound, none of them familiar. My clothes clung cold and heavy, sweat beading as I pushed on. I thought of Sam, what I’d told him, and that flash of a pale body lying limp at the edge of a trunk. It lingered; I couldn’t shake it.

Then the log appeared.

A huge, rotting tree, exactly where it had been yesterday. Same shelf of mushrooms and wet moss. Just seeing it almost staggered me. I moved quick, pushed past, and stepped into open space.

The clearing was wrecked—wet prints in the earth, huge and fresh, proof the apes hadn’t left long ago. Ferns smashed and torn oozed sap. The smell in the air was thick and musky. My stomach clenched.

Cloth in the mud.

Dark blue technical fabric—Clara’s shirt, no mistake—trampled down. Torn pants, half-shredded. A boot, laces snapped wide. The other missing. Next to the waistband, the small pouch she used for her wedding ring. All that was left.

I froze.

There was no denying it anymore. The dark hair. The hips. The way the body went limp. I’d seen them take her. I’d watched, perched in the trees while the apes held her down, helpless, and a spear at my throat kept me from doing a thing.

My breath tore out in a ragged sound. White-hot anger scorched through my chest, spilling out into the empty clearing, the trees, myself. But it dissolved under an ache—a grief I couldn’t unclench. Then came the fear. Maybe I was already too late.

I dropped to the ground, hands clutching her clothes, then letting them fall. For a while, nothing. Every nerve screamed that noise would bring the apes back. But then the grief broke through, raw and sharp, forcing a broken, animal cry out of me—a shout, a sob—that shook the birds from the trees.

“Clara!”

Her name rang out and hung in the leaves. I stood, spinning, searching every spot of shadow. I stumbled in bigger, wild circles, calling her name, voice cracking, numb to the knife in my hand. Ferns slapped my legs, roots caught my feet. I fought through them, desperate for tracks, for any proof she’d walked away.

Then, from the green, cracked and threadbare, nearly lost under the noise—I heard her.

“Patrick!”

She was already moving toward me. I spun, boots skidding in the wet. Another call, closer.

I ran.

Branches scraped my arms. A root tried to yank me down. I crashed through a veil of moss and burst into a narrow space between two massive trunks—there she was.

Clara wasn’t standing, exactly. She clung to the nearest tree, holding herself up, legs like sticks blowing in wind. Dirt, crushed leaves, stains all down her body. Dried filth on her skin and inside of her arms. White, half-gel streaks marked her thighs, her stomach, the sides of her breasts. Her dark hair was a snarl. One bare foot, one in a muddy boot. She looked shrunken, carved down by the night. But she was upright. She was alive.

We both froze.

Then I crossed the space and she pulled herself away from the tree, stumbling. We crashed together, knocking the breath from each other’s lungs. I wrapped her up, buried my face in her neck, held on hard. She was trembling all over, the heat of her burning through me, heart pounding wild against my chest. Smelled like sweat, raw earth, and something darker I wouldn’t name. I squeezed her tighter, blocking out every thought except this: she was here. Not gone, not lost.

Relief almost buckled my knees. Everything ugly—anger, shame, the memory of those two black shapes over her—collapsed. For a second, all that mattered was her body, her warmth, the fact she was here. I breathed her in, held on, swore not to let go.

Finally I stepped back, running my hands along her body, gentle but quick—arms, ribs, legs, checking for injury. She sucked in a breath when I touched her thigh, but nothing was broken. She was battered, but could walk. That was enough.

Clara tried to speak against my shoulder. Fragments tumbled out—the weight, the clearing, what they’d done.

“Are they close?” I cut in, low, urgent. “Did they come after you?”

She shook her head, barely. “Gone. Something bigger came. Scared them.” She swallowed. “I ran.”

I covered her mouth, quick and quiet. Her breath warmed my palm.

“I know,” I said, voice torn. “We’ll talk later. When we’re somewhere safer.”

She stiffened, then went quiet. I kept my hand there a few seconds, then let go. The forest pressed in from all sides—louder now. I yanked my damp shirt off. Cold air washed my skin, but she needed it more. I held it out.

“Arms up.”

She listened, silent. I pulled the shirt over her head, careful of tangles, helped her work her arms through. It hung big and shapeless. I smoothed it as best I could.

Before leaving, I darted back and grabbed her other boot, the pouch, any scraps of fabric I could reclaim. Then I took her hand.

“There’s a camp near here,” I said quietly. “Hunters. Other humans. They’re not friends, but they haven’t hurt us. Sam’s there. It’s better than here. We have to go, now.”

Clara just nodded, hollow-eyed. I stayed at her side, her steps uneven—bare foot, loose boot, a limp but moving. I followed my knife marks through the forest, one eye checking every shadow for movement. The knife stayed ready. Behind us, the clearing and its tracks sank into the green. Ahead was the long walk back—to the hunters’ little fire, and to Sam, who was still waiting for us.

...

We got to the hunters’ camp just as dawn sharpened the world. The thorn wall changed from a blurry shadow to a tangle of hard, hooked branches. I kept Clara close, steadying her when she stumbled over a root. The knife blazes we’d followed led us perfectly—the small gap in the thorns was right where I remembered.

The second we stepped in, everything snapped alive.

Three hunters shot up from beside the fire, spears drawn. Two more came out of the lean-tos, clubs ready. Their painted leader—the same one who’d jammed a spear to my throat before—advanced with a sharp, harsh shout. No hesitation. No recognition.

Rough hands grabbed my arms from both sides, squeezing tight. Someone yanked Clara forward by her wrist. She tripped. I tried to pull her back and caught a spear-shaft to my ribs for it. I heard short, stressed clicks and heavy breathing as they hustled us past the fire and shelters, not slowing for a second. Sam was gone from where I’d last seen him, but I spotted two women herding him down the same track, his little hand clamped between theirs. He saw us and tried to break away—no chance. I twisted, reaching for him, but a heavy palm shoved my head forward.

We left the camp behind, forced deeper into the woods on a path that was new to me. Brush pressed in close. Living thorns, all thick and green, looped into dense walls. The corridor closed us in, only wide enough for single file. The hunters moved like they’d done the walk endlessly. I counted steps, tried to fix the turns in my mind, but the barriers all melted together after a few bends.

We ended at a stone opening, low and wide.

It was an ancient cave mouth, its entrance reinforced with the same sharp thorns and twisted branches. The hunters pushed us inside. The cold, damp air landed fast—closer, heavier than outside. The smell came next: smoke, wet earth, old animal hide, and minerals that never saw proper daylight.

Small fires burned in the main tunnel, the orange glow sending jumpy shadows up damp stone streaked with soot. Hides hung here and there, stiff or see-through, hairless or still rough. The floor was packed earth, some kind of fine grit grinding underfoot. Even deeper, more thorn walls—grown or woven—all formed cages and dark corridors splitting left and right. Some doorways were shut with thick lattices, tied tight with vines; others stood open, silent hunters on watch.

I felt Clara press in beside me, her free hand locking on my arm. I looked down; dirt smeared her face pale, wide eyes stuck on a cage where firelight flickered across tangled thorns. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The tension in her shoulders, the shaky breath—she was scared stiff.

They hurried us past those first side rooms, down deeper into the cave where even the fires couldn’t push the darkness back, and stone closed overhead.

We came out into a wide chamber. The roof disappeared into shadow. At the far end, a seat rose up—woven, living thorns turned into a rough throne, reinforced with bleached-looking bone and tied with dark vines. A big man sat there, even bulkier than the rest. Thick muscles layered on arms and shoulders, pale scars split his chest and face. His hair was tied back with a strip of hide. He barely moved as he watched us.

Two women flanked him, both lean, painted in ochre and ash, focused hard on us. They didn’t say anything. I took it all in fast—the throne’s height, the silence, every spear pointed inward. This guy was the boss. The women might be wives, or guards, or—who knows? I couldn’t tell.

The hunter who’d first caught me started a series of clipped sounds. The man on the throne answered with one short grunt. Then calm again.

I raised my hands, palms out, stepping closer. I pointed to Clara, then myself, then mimed holding a child beside me, hoping they’d get it.

“Sam. Boy. Son. Outside. Camp.”

Nothing. No flicker. I tried again—kept it simple:

“Patrick.” Hand on chest. “Clara.” I pointed back where we came, acted out walking, gestured a kid’s height at my side.

Still blank. The women didn’t move. Hunters shifted—spears scraped stone. Clara tried next: open hands, soft “please,” same child-height. The leader watched her the way you watch weather you don’t understand. When she finished, he waved us off with a flick of his fingers. Nobody relaxed.

Failure hit hard in my gut—all our signals, words, gestures—nothing broke his wall. Only fire’s crackle and the drip of water in stone.

A call from behind. The two women guiding Sam showed up, still holding him. His face was dirty, tear-streaked, but the second he saw Clara he ran, nearly fell over her. She hit her knees and folded him up, rocking him tight. I crossed the space in two steps, locked them both against my chest. We stayed that way, three together—Sam shaking, Clara’s breath shuddering, all of us braced against each other.

Relief landed so hard my knees went soft. For the first time since the crash I finally felt all the missing pieces at once: Sam here, Clara here, both real, both breathing. But right after, the cold thought—out in the forest, under those roots, the damaged core was still ticking down, containment breaking, power draining. If we reached it, if we could make it jump just once more, we might get out. The hope was thin, but it stuck. As soon as these people left even the smallest gap, I’d have to find the knife blazes and the machine.