"Rescue Hut #1, come in. Another missing skier. Over," a static-filled message came across the radio.
"Copy. Location? Over." I replied.
"Copy. Windhill West. Partner said they just disappeared. No trail to follow. Over."
"Copy. That's ridiculous. There's always a trail. Are they high? Drunk? Stupid? Over."
"Copy. Funny. Just grab a snowmobile and meet me, dude. Hurry. I'm freezing my ass off. Over."
"Copy."
Shit, the game isn't half over, and the rescue hut is nice and warm, I thought, pulling my cold-weather gear on. "Yo, Diane, some idiot got lost on Windhill West."
"What? Again? That's weird," she replied.
"Keep track of the score for me, will 'ya?"
"Ha! Not likely," she said, flipping me the bird as I trudged to the Arctic Cats.
Revving up number one, I swung a wide turn out of the snow-packed upper lot toward the target marker. This would have been an exhilarating ride if I didn't have to waste it looking for some novice skier. The snow-covered evergreen boughs shook their powder on me while the stinging cold slapped my face, making me feel more alive with each mile.
The marker for Windhill West appeared in the distance. As I neared it, Brady and the victim's partner were nowhere to be seen. I switched on the radio at my shoulder, "Copy. Rescue unit 1# on the scene. Brady, dude, where the fuck are you? Over."
Nothing but the moaning of the snow-covered evergreen boughs and the forest's hushed echoes answered me.
About the Creator
Tina D'Angelo
I am a 70-year-old grandmother, who began my writing career in 2022. Since then I have published 6 books, all available on Barnes and Noble or Amazon.
BARE HUNTER, SAVE ONE BULLET, G-IS FOR STRING, AND G-IS FOR STRING: OH, CANADA
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More stories from Tina D'Angelo and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Miracles
Many years ago, I lived with an abusive man, who outweighed me by 150 pounds. One frigid night in February, he had me by the neck and was slamming my head into the living room wall. I knew he was about to kill me. As I was losing consciousness, a dove landed on our balcony railing. My abuser stopped and marveled, thinking he could lure the bird inside. That dove gave me just enough time to escape the apartment.
By Tina D'Angelo2 years ago in Fiction
Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts6 days ago in Longevity
Comments (3)
Love the co-worker banter on the radios.
And Sasquatch is alive and well.
Gosh this was soooo spooky! Looks like it's the end for him!