Chapter 4: Signs in the soil
491 Words
Mira crouched over the footprint.
Wide sole. Deep tread. No scuff. Fresh.
She said nothing, but her fingers hovered just above the imprint, reading it like a message.
Daine (quietly):“Too deep for a ranger. Not your size. Not mine.”
Mira (sharp):“And not recent standard issue boots, either. No thermal lines.”
They stood still in the overgrown clearing, the forest suddenly too quiet. Even her eagle circled lower than usual.
Daine: “How far’s the outer perimeter?”
Mira: “Four clicks east. My last marker was untouched last week.”
Daine: “Someone’s scouting. Might be a poacher. Might be something worse.”
She didn’t like agreeing. But she nodded.
That afternoon, their rhythm changed. Daine packed a small recon bag without being told. Mira checked the radio, reporting to base in clipped phrases. No alert. Just a “Status check. Minor sign. Monitoring.”
But HQ's tone shifted.
Radio voice (static-laced):
“Copy. Maintain surveillance. Sending a secondary officer for backup if needed. Estimated arrival: ten days.”
Mira (flat):“Unnecessary.”
She cut the transmission and let the silence burn.
By dusk, they found more: a snare trap, cleverly disguised, and a disturbed patch of soil that Mira identified as a cache already emptied.
Whoever was out there wasn’t just passing through.
They were leaving messages. Or worse, testing boundaries.
That night, Daine lit a fire. She didn’t stop him.
They sat near it in silence again except this time, her rifle lay across her lap.
Daine (casually):
“You always sit up through the night?”
Mira:“Only when I know I’m not alone.”
A long pause.
Daine: “You think they’re watching us?”
Mira (gaze locked on the woods): “No. I think they’re waiting for us to make a mistake.”
And then a sound.
Low. Mechanical. Distant.
A faint click like a camera shutter. Followed by a barely audible rustle.
Too calculated to be wildlife.
They both stood at once, Mira’s hand already on her radio, Daine stepping toward the edge of camp with his knife drawn.
But nothing emerged.
No footsteps. No voice. Just the hum of nighttime life, returning like a curtain drawn too quickly.
Mira (gritted): “They’re baiting us.”
Daine (grim): “Or mapping us.”
They didn’t sleep that night.
By dawn, Mira opened her emergency kit for the first time in months. Daine saw her take out a folded map, marked with old incident points red dots, long forgotten. The eastern trail, once a forgotten patrol route, suddenly glowed with fresh significance.
She finally spoke.
Mira:
“Six years ago, before I took this post, there were reports of border trespass. No identity. No arrests. Just traces. Vanished. Everyone said it was smugglers. But I don’t think so.”
Daine:
“And now?”
She looked up at him.
Mira:
“Now I think they’ve come back.”
- Writer
