Chapter 5 - Seven Miles from Mercy
The Breaking PointAt the seven-mile mark, Tyler Wade’s body officially gave up.
He didn't fall because he tripped. He fell because his nervous system simply stopped transmitting signals to his legs. One moment he was moving forward; the next, his face was buried in three feet of fresh powder, his arms stretched out before him like a cross.
Luke fell beside him, his small hands releasing their grip on Tyler’s pocket. The little boy didn't cry anymore. He just lay on his side, his breath coming in tiny, white plumes that vanished instantly in the wind.
"Tyler," Luke whispered. "The lights. I see the lights."
Tyler forced his head up. His vision was almost completely gone, replaced by a thick, milky haze that felt like it was inside his skull. But there, through the swirling white vortex, he saw them too.
Two round, brilliant blue eyes were staring at him through the storm.
A wolf, his frozen brain suggested. The mountain is sending the wolves.
But as the blue lights grew closer, they didn't move like an animal. They moved with a steady, mechanical rhythm. Then came the sound—the deep, earth-shaking roar of a large diesel engine.
Tyler tried to stand. He wanted to reach for Seth, to pull him closer, to protect him from whatever monster was breaking through the snow. But his arms felt like they were made of lead, pinned to the frozen earth by the weight of the storm.
The massive black grill of Jaxon Reed’s F-350 broke through the final drift, its four high-intensity fog lights illuminating the scene like a theatrical stage.
The truck slammed into park. The doors flew open.
Jaxon Reed was the first through the snow. He didn't see Tyler at first. He only saw the oversized corduroy jacket wrapped around the small, shivering form of his son, Luke.
"Luke!" Jaxon screamed, throwing his massive body into the snow drift, his large hands scooping the little boy into his chest. He pulled the coat back, his tears freezing instantly on his cheeks as he looked at his son’s blue face. "Luke... oh God, Luke, look at me."
"Daddy," Luke whispered, his small fingers reaching up to touch Jaxon’s neoprene mask. "Tyler... Tyler carried us. He wouldn't let us sleep."
Jaxon froze. He looked down at the snow.
There, half buried beneath his boots, was the thin, motionless form of fifteen-year-old Tyler Wade. The boy’s right arm was still wrapped three times in the frozen seat belt nylon, the other end connected to the empty car seat strap on Tyler’s back where Seth was still tied.
"Jax!" Grave shouted, dropping beside Tyler’s upper body. His thick hands quickly sliced through the nylon straps, lifting five-year-old Seth from Tyler’s spine. "The other one’s alive! He’s breathing, Jax! But his pulse is down to thirty!"
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Jaxon looked down at the boy who had saved his family. He reached down, his massive, leather-gloved hands lifting Tyler’s light frame from the drift as if he were made of balsa wood. As Tyler’s head fell back, the corduroy jacket slipped from his shoulders, revealing the thin, ragged grey t-shirt underneath.
The shirt was torn at the collar. And there, revealed under the brilliant, blue-white glare of the truck’s fog lights, was the true horror of Tyler Wade’s life.
