Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
She moved along the back of the crude structure. If it didn’t have electricity, it didn’t have heat except for a fireplace or wood stove. She kept moving until she saw it. A pile of split wood, some stacked, some just scattered along the ground. And an axe sticking out of the tree stump used as the base to split that wood.
She could use the axe for her plan, plus the wood. Plus, the dried brush and overgrown weeds around the cabin.
This could work. She only needed to stay focused and not think about what was happening to Rook in that cabin.
She could save him, if she did this right.
He better fucking appreciate her efforts.
She shook herself mentally. Concentrate.
She yanked the axe from the stump and began to unpeel the duct tape, which was flammable, wrapped around the handle. Once she had enough, she crumpled it loosely into a ball.
What else?
She collected some dried dead leaves and some very thin twigs. Then it hit her.
She had a tube of Chapstick in the pocket of her denim jacket.
She remembered the survival hack that Chapstick was flammable. She pulled the tube out, placed it on the stump and used the back of the axe blade to crack it open.
She quickly smeared the waxy material onto the duct tape and more on the kindling. Her heart was now pounding in her throat and her ears. She needed to stay as calm and focused as possible. She needed to also remain aware of her surroundings.
She didn’t need to be ambushed by any Shirleys or her efforts would be for nothing.
Once she had a small pile of flammable shit to start the initial fire, she dug into the inside pocket of her jacket.
Since her discharge from the Marines, she’d always carried a Leatherman Multitool with her. On-duty in her patrol bag and off-duty on her person. She even kept a spare one in her glovebox. Just in case...
Thank fuck she did.
Being up in northern Pennsylvania she always carried the multitool specifically made for camping. Too many desolate and wooded areas existed, like the one she was currently standing in.
Being a Marine, and now a cop, she had always wanted to be prepared for any emergency. Her father had drilled that into her since she was very young. Her father had also been the one to suggest carrying a multitool and bought her first one as a birthday present when she was twelve, a present she didn’t appreciate at the time.
Thank you, Dad.
She would thank him in person the next time she visited. She might not be able to tell him why, but she’d do it anyway.
She flipped the multitool open to find the one she needed. The ferrocerium rod. She never in her wildest dreams thought she’d ever use that particular tool. Never.
Best. Investment. Ever.
She held the blade of the axe near her pile, and used the striking rod on the sharp edge.
She cringed and glanced up to check her surroundings. The noise the rod made against metal in the dead of night was deafening. But she had no other choice, unless she charged inside the cabin, swinging the axe like a crazy woman.
That would be option B if option A failed.
She’d rather sneak in and sneak out without those women being the wiser. If her plan held, her distraction would give them a head start down the mountain before they even realized Rook was gone.
She kept striking the rod against the blade’s edge, willing it to light the small pile. A few sparks flew, giving her hope, but they died out as soon as they landed.
She didn’t give up, quickly striking the blade over and over, causing multiple sprays of sparks. Some of them landing on her and some landing on her little pile of lip balm-covered dry leaves and balled-up duct tape.
“C’mon,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers trembling. She glanced up every few seconds, worried they’d discover her.
Her breath arrested as a spark finally ignited her little pile causing the tiniest flame. Dropping to her knees, she cupped the makeshift kindling within her hands and blew on it gently. Too hard and it would put out the weak flame. Too soft and it would simply burn out.
As soon as the flame began to grow, along with her hope, she placed it back on the ground and, still blowing softly, began to build the fire by adding a few more dry leaves and nearby twigs.
Once she was sure the fire was established, she grabbed a burning twig and, keeping low and close to the side of the cabin, began to light the batches of dry, dead weeds surrounding the cabin.
Thank fuck they didn’t give a shit about mowing or weed whacking. The dry overgrowth was perfect to start a roaring fire. Once it caught.