The Lost Ark by J.R. Rain

down the canyon’s steep walls. The ice dam had been compromised. Despite ourselves we stopped and looked back.
    Water gushed through the ice with supernatural malignancy, the watery stampede spreading from bank to bank. Like a desert flashflood, it would obliterate anything in its path. I yanked on Faye’s hand, and we ran before the floodwaters.
    There, to our right, the mud bank dropped to about fifteen feet. A tangle of roots grew out from the bank to dip down into the river. I grabbed a slimy root and stepped up onto the mud. Faye did the same, until she lost her footing and fell backwards into the muck. I looked behind us. Water ripped through the canyon like hounds on the hunt.
    I jumped down and helped Faye back onto the mud wall, lifting first her hips, then her posterior until she had pulled herself to safety. Next, I jumped up onto the wall and grabbed a root and pulled. My boots dug into the mud bank. I could feel the water coming, sensed it breathing down my neck like something feral and hungry, feel the spray of water on my face and hands—
    I ducked my head and closed my eyes and held onto a thick elderberry root as a tremendous force slammed into me—
    Water filled my mouth and nostrils.
    Instinctively, I reached up with one hand, searching blindly for the next root. But something hit my shoulder—perhaps ice—and almost tore me loose. I held on by one hand. I couldn’t breathe.
    Maybe I should let go , I thought, and take my chances .
    But to let go was to drown or bash my skull against one of the many rocks strewn along the riverbed. My hand searched for the next root. Found it, pulled. My next grab was not a root, but cold flesh. It was Faye, and with her help, I lifted my head out of the currents and flopped over onto the mud bank, gasping. There, I turned my head and vomited the water that filled my lungs.
    “You’re right,” I gasped, rubbing my burning chest. “It burns like hell.”
    I closed my eyes, exhausted, and wanted to sleep forever.

    Chapter Twenty-one

    Hours later, with the morning sun strong on our backs, we sat together and watched the river. We were both in our long underwear, which wasn’t as exciting as it sounds. Our jackets lay open next to us, drying, as were our boots and socks. Faye’s head was resting against my shoulder and I was chewing on a blade of grass, idly wondering how many bugs, sheep and goats had chewed on this same blade of grass.
    “You okay?” I asked Faye for the tenth time.
    “Yes,” she answered. “For the hundredth time.”
    Apparently, Faye Roberts was prone to exaggeration. Three hundred yards upriver, snow and ice continued to sift down over the ledge in a fine spray of sugar. These were the stragglers, trailing behind the avalanche. Some of the ice floated past us like miniature icebergs.
    “Doesn’t look so scary when you see it one piece at a time,” I said.
    Faye was silent. “Why did the avalanche strike, Sam?”
    “Most avalanches strike either during or just after a storm, especially storms that dump a lot of snow. Add to the mix a slope with more than a twenty-five degree angle and high winds, and you have a very typical recipe for an avalanche. All of which were in place last night. We were in the wrong place at the right time.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    I shrugged. “Ice under the bridge.”
    She snuggled a little closer to me. “Where does this river lead?” she asked.
    “The Ahora Gorge,” I said.
    “How often have you traversed this river?” she asked.
    “Rarely,” I said.
    “Why?” she asked.
    “It’s called Bear River for a reason.”
    “What a mess,” she said, running a hand through her sun dried hair. “And it’s all my fault.” “So, Miss Roberts, what did we learn from this lesson?”
    She stood and held her hand over her heart as if she were giving the Pledge of Allegiance. “No one goes out on their own, not even the great Sam Ward.”
    “You college professors learn quick.”
    She ignored me,