Darcy Coates

Strange sounds come through the roar of the gale. They blur in and out until it’s impossible to know whether they are manmade, animal, or the whistle of wind passing through narrow gaps in the rocks. Sometimes, they sound like screams. Lasting longer human’s lungs could manage, they shriek and shriek and shriek.

Brian’s place by the fire is empty. He must have needed the bathroom. There’s a stack of papers, facedown, where he sat.

The others are all still and quiet, either asleep or close to. I bend down. The papers don’t match anything else in the cabin; they’re crisp and white. Recent.

I turn one over and see Kiernan’s signature.

A small object clings to one of the last trees in the cluster. In the poor light and snow-dense air it takes me a moment to recognise it. It’s the lantern we left there the previous night.

Its light has gone out. But not because its batteries failed.

Someone has smashed it.