CHAPTER 38
Steadman and his posse tramped along beside the lake, skirting around it to the steep, forested ridge beyond. No one spoke, and a palpable dejection hung in the air, thickening it as much as the particles of ash.
Steadman blinked, wishing he had a pair of goggles. Grit stung his eyes, and they teared up to rid themselves of the abrasive material. The filter mask Frank had given him tasted stale and trapped hot breath against his face, magnifying the sound of it into something frightening.
His vision swam as he focused on the tree-lined slope, trying to determine the best way up. The foliage looked to Steadman like something primeval. Shaggy-barked trees, cedar maybe, twined with tall firs and the wispy trunks of birch, all of it festooned with ropy vines and carpets of moss.
