Stevie Zar was dead.

What the hell had happened? A cave-in? Impossible. If that had been the case, he would have heard something and—

Another figure was drawn in the dark mouth of the tunnel.

For a second, he thought it was Jorge Claremont, but the shape revealed someone taller than any of his classmates; a thin man with a strange gait, someone who seemed to move without moving his feet.

Stevie had been murdered, perhaps the others had been as well, and it was someone from outside the group who was approaching now; someone who could not be other than the murderer.

Kevin had intended to stay to see it, but a fear bomb exploded inside him, like a thousand spikes piercing his skin from within; and in the blink of an eye, he found himself running with all his might toward the minivan behind the tent.

His shoulder hit one of the tent poles. He slapped the car open, jumped behind the wheel, and tried to get it to start. Nothing. He turned the key, pushed the ignition button, and nothing. The engine was dead, as had happened with the power generator.

The rifle! They had brought a rifle in case there was any trouble with a wild animal. He groped blindly behind the driver’s seat, where they had left it. It was dark, and the lights weren’t working. He lifted the blankets they had brought in case the temperature dropped and knocked over the boxes with the tools; until he touched a metal rod and removed it from the pile of things. It was the wrench he had taken, not the rifle.

Crack! Something sounded outside. Behind the windshield, the tent moved. Was it because he had hit it, or was it the approaching assassin?

He forgot the rifle. He got out of the minivan with his heart in his mouth and ran to the only place where he could hide: the forest.

Kevin entered the wilderness, yelling for help, shielding himself from the branches with his arms. He sprang over the tree roots that popped out of the ground and the big stones camouflaged with moss and shrubs, until he tripped over one and fell rolling down the grass, tearing up his pants and scratching his knee. There was no pain, though; he was too scared to feel it. He got up immediately and kept running.

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Crack! Tch, tch, tch! Crack! Branches, plants, long, sharp leaves; everything stood in his way.

He looked behind to see if someone was after him. No one was there.

He stopped, shaken; his stomach sinking, with a feeling so scratchy in his throat it hurt just to swallow. He peered into the darkness, between the trees and the brushwood; nothing but night and many leaves there. His eyes were dry, they burned, and his forehead, injured by some sharp branch, was sweaty and very cold. In his ears, the only sounds were his puffs of air and the pounding of his heart.

This couldn’t be happening. Stevie couldn’t be dead, it had to be a prank. Yes, an elaborate prank. It was quite dark in the cave, and the silhouette behind Stevie might have been Chris tiptoeing; Chris liked to play those kinds of pranks. Maybe they wanted to make him pay for bringing them there. Because if there really had been a murderer, where had he come from? The cave had no other exit than its entrance, and he had not seen anyone go in there while he studied the…

The grate! His only reason for joy in the last few hours and he had dropped it somewhere.

He turned, intending to go back and tell the guys that the game was over.

However, just like before, something, that sixth sense that had told him not to enter the cave, now told him that it was not a game.

He had to contact the authorities. He took his phone out of his pocket again and pressed it. The screen was still dead. The long-distance radio was in the camp, perhaps if... No. It was dangerous to go back. Besides, who was to assure him that the radio hadn’t suffered the same damage as the other electronic equipment? He had to get out of the woods. The Southern Canyon was an almost unexplored area and months could go by without someone setting foot there; he had no other choice but to find his way to the road, and cross his fingers that luck was on his side so he would run into a vehicle soon.

Yes, that’s what he was supposed to do.

But no. Kevin was still breathing hard, still shaking. He was in the middle of the forest, disoriented. His classmates were dead, and the murderer was after him. He was alone, and the authorities would come at some point, but not to defend him, but to take his body.

And, slowly, a sound reached him, something that sounded like a bunch of crickets stirring the plants with their movements, but more eerie. It was the same creak he had heard before coming out of the cave, the same one he had confused with the footsteps of his classmates, the same one that had brought to his mind the image of the trapped child’s skeleton. A sound that gradually became... a laugh, the laugh of a child, the laugh of many children. Perhaps despair had finally driven him mad.

And among so many laughs, something moved in the bushes. He turned and the figure of the murderer rose among the trees like an evil shadow.

Kevin Anderson’s scream was consumed by night and a wave of humid heat.

The wild nest, sheltered by the cliffs, returned to normal, silent, and free of intruders.