Work Text:
Blood splattered against the vibrant white of the freshly fallen snow, streaking it an ugly crimson and staining its furthest edges a watery pink. If it were up to Mike, this wouldn’t even be happening right now. Well, whatever this was, anyway. In all honesty, he had no idea what the fuck was going on, but all he knew was that someone – something – had Jess, and he had to get her before it was too late.
He didn’t even want to think about what could happen if he was too late.
The gun was useless, that much was apparent. If only he had fucking checked that cabin for some bullets, or something. But how was he supposed to know that all hell was going to break lose before he could even unzip his goddamn fly? He grit his teeth, steeling himself against the biting cold of the raging storm around him. His skin, flushed a bright pink, burned from the frozen flakes. Never before had he been so cold, in nothing but jeans and a tank-top to defend him from Canada’s icy winter. At least he was wearing boots.
Visibility was poor in conditions like these, but he was grateful that he could at least sort of see where he was going. Even if he had already fallen a few times dropping down into ravines and hopping across half-frozen creeks, following the trail of blood and quickly filling struggle marks in the snow was proving to be a challenge. The storm was beginning to cover the tracks already, and he could’ve sworn he had heard her voice only seconds go, calling out for him into the shrieking night air.
“Jessica!” he called back, hoping she’d hear him, hoping she knew he wasn’t leaving her. “Jess!”
He received no reply, save for the lonely wail of some far-off wolf, further up – or down? – the mountain.
---
Consciousness was hazy at best for Jess, especially when her head collided with a rocky outcropping as she was dragged through the snow and dead forest bracken. Upon waking, she remembered bits and pieces – screaming for Mike, hearing him call out to her. She remembered trying to turn and at least see, if not fight, her attacker. It was then that her head began to hurt, and the scratches on her ankles and the way she remembered the pressure of too-long fingers through the fabric of her pants.
For some time, she lay flat on her back, staring up at the swirling dust and stray snowflakes that danced far above her head. She focused less on her present surroundings, and more on getting her bearings. What else could she remember? Cold. She could remember cold, snow getting up her tank-top, rocks scratching at her arms and face as she was dragged through the woods like a corpse. She remembers the taste of blood in her mouth and the pounding in her temple as she was thrown about like a rag doll.
And then she was here.
Eventually, dozing in and out of a state of semi-consciousness lost its appeal. She stood, albeit shakily, clutching the wall for support as she forced herself to her feet. Well, at least she hadn’t broken any bones – nothing immediately snapped at her in pain. She had broken her wrist in the sixth grade during gymnastics practice, after all. She knew what a broken bone felt like. The same pain, thankfully, was absent.
But the cold was not. It bit at her, seeping in her skin and settling in her marrow like a long-lost friend in a cushy armchair across from you, smiling unsettlingly as they recalled memories you would rather forget. She shivered, pushing forward. At least her eyes had adjusted to the dark. Hardly an optimist, maybe it would be better right now to focus on what she had – after all, she had just survived her attacker.
The thought that brought to the forefront of her mind chilled her blood like snow never could, something dropping in her gut like a lead weight. Her attacker. Whoever, or whatever, it was – would it come back? Was it done with her? Where had it gone, and why was she in… in the mine again, of all places? She and Mike had come through here already, but…
Exhaling a smoky breath through chapped and bloody lips (it was only now that she realized blood was coating her face and the exposed areas of her chest and arms, uncovered by her flimsy tank-top), she stumbled forward on unsteady legs. There was a workbench, and even if it looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, it looked like a good place to balance her weight and figure out where to go while her eyes adjusted to the dark.
Thankfully, there were things there. An old map, some pens… and a coat, more importantly. It was obviously a men’s size, much too large for her, and it was raggedy and dirty and probably older than her 1998 Honda Accord she got after graduating, but she didn’t even care. In that moment, the tattered remains of the jacket were the finest gift anyone had ever gotten her, and she nearly sobbed as she shrugged into it, immediately comforted by the cover it offered her bare torso. Maybe she was imagining it, but she was already beginning to feel warmer.
While the map may have been useful to the miners twenty-something years ago, it was virtually useless now, she realized. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, it appeared to her that she had no idea where she was. All the map could tell her was that it was dangerous – everything was dangerous. Little notes were scribbled in half-cursive handwriting, words like overhangs and unstable and cave-ins. Words that were in no way as comforting as the worn, dingy jacket she had copped from some dead guys workbench.
Faced with two options, the ever classic left or right, Jess stalled. What was that Robert Frost had said? Something about a forked road, she remembered. It was a weird time to be recalling Sophomore English, but the diverging paths in the wood flashed in her mind like an old friend, something familiar from her old life. So she took the one less traveled and turned the way that seemed as… non-dingy as possible. It made sense, right? The path that seemed better lit and cleaner probably hadn’t caved in. A messier and darker path probably meant that something up ahead was caved in.
She hoped.
---
If there was one thing Mike was sure of, it was that he hated the mines. The first time he and Jess had stumbled through them, he hated them. Something about them gave him the creeps, and suddenly he realized why. He was literally living the classic horror movie trope. He should’ve fucking seen it coming from a mile away.
Cursing himself internally, he followed the last signs of struggle he could, ducking under some outcropping and peering down into the swirling snow-blackness below him. From what he could see beneath his booted feet, the ground was several feet away. But the mine was accessible from here, and though he couldn’t see Jess, the tracks stopped here.
Well. Not like he had come all this way for nothing. Taking another deep breath – the bitter cold of the air stinging in his lungs – he ducked his head and slid down, landing solidly on his feet with an oof. It hurt, he could feel it in his knees, could feel his hips and back protest from the impact, but that hardly mattered. He spared himself only a moment to shake it up, casting a sidelong glance up above his head, a last look at the outside world, before ducking further into the mines.
As expected, it was empty. But weird noises were common, from the whistling howl of the wind to the dripping of water to… whatever that scratching was. Was it scratching? He didn’t even know. Maybe the noise wasn’t real. He remembered senior year Psychology. When the human mind was afraid, but didn’t know what of… sometimes it made things up.
His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, tossing aside that gut-wrenching fear. His mouth was painstakingly dry, but he pried his lips open regardless, calling out a surprisingly loud; “Jessica!” into the black depths of the mine. His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls just as the swirling snowflakes did.
Pausing, he tilted his head a bit, eyes scanning over a slab of wood propped up by a few barrels. Huh. That workbench! He recognized it. He and Jess had seen it on their first trip down here – it even still had that old map on it. Useless, stupid old map. But the familiar sight offered him a feeble comfort.
“Mike?”
For a moment, Mike almost thought he was hearing things. Was that his name? Or the call of the wind? They said that if you listened hard enough, you could hear your name on the wind, through the barren branches of the trees. He gave it a moment’s rest before responding, just in case.
“Jessica?”
A response came almost immediately.
“Mike!”
The sound of running, of boots crunching rocks and snow and gravel under heel as someone from far up ahead ran. Almost on instinct, Mike followed the noise, calling out Jessica’s name to match her own cries of his, and it was only last minute that he skidded to a stop in time to catch her. She jumped at him surprisingly fast for someone who was just dragged through the snow and the forest, her skin wet and cold and oh, his Jessica—
“Mike!” she cried, her voice ragged with tears, her face decorated in streaks of blood and dirt, her eyes glossy as she wrapped her arms around his sides and clung to his shoulders with every ounce of strength she possessed. Her grip might’ve been weak, but Mike held her, shushing her and pressing his forehead against hers. The relief was unimaginable, a weight lifting from his shoulders and his gut, his chest free once more to take a solid breath. Jess was alive, she was alive, and she was a little fucked up, but they were together now.
“Hey, baby. Look at me, Jess. Look at me – are you okay?”
It was a stupid question, but the words came tumbling from his mouth before he could catch himself, and vaguely he wondered where she had acquired such a huge fucking jacket, because she hadn’t been wearing that before, but fuck it, who even cared.
If Jess heard him, she didn’t respond. Her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, she sobbed and hiccupped, trembling in his arms. From the cold or the adrenaline or the pain, he had no clue, but the amount of bruises and scrapes on her made his stomach tie itself in knots, because who would ever hurt Jess like this – what could she have done to piss someone off bad enough to warrant this?
“You came for me, Mike, you came for me…” she babbled, her words muffled by his skin, and if he hadn’t been right there he might not have even heard them, they were so small, whimpered between gasps for air and hiccupping sobs.
Their trek back to the Lodge would be trying, but at least they were together now, and so help him God no one, nothing, would separate them ever again. Not if he could help it.