Flint's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Flint stepped away from the tent and scanned the mountain range through squinted eyes. The peaks looked closer from here, but he knew better—three days of hard walking at least. He needed to understand the terrain before heading up there blind. His paw reached for the radio and switched frequencies, testing different channels for interference patterns. Static buzzed and crackled as he turned the dial. Each sound told him something about the rock formations ahead, how signals would bounce or die. He marked notes on Mesa's map with a stub of charcoal, drawing dotted lines where the clearest channels pointed. The work was slow and his neck ached from standing in the sun, but this was how real tracking started—learning to read what you couldn't see yet. Water would run out fast in the desert heat. Flint walked to the supply station and picked three clay jars from the shelves. The largest stood as tall as his knee, the two smaller ones fit under his arms. He carried them back to camp and arranged them beside the tent. The tall jar would hold the main supply, the others for daily use. He filled them from the town well, making four trips with his canvas bucket. The water sloshed and splashed his fur, cold against his skin. When the jars were full, he covered each with a cloth tied tight with twine. Three days of walking meant six days of water, maybe more if he rationed. He checked Mesa's journals again, reading her notes about hidden springs in the lower canyons. If those springs still ran, he'd have a chance. If they'd dried up, these jars would decide how far he could go. The town kept records of every explorer who'd gone into the forbidden peaks. Flint needed to see Mesa's official expedition papers—dates, planned routes, supply lists. He walked the main street until he found the wooden booth near the edge of town. Notices covered the walls, expedition permits pinned beside warnings about rockslides and dead-end trails. A missing person poster hung in the center, Mesa's face drawn in faded ink. Flint studied the booth but found no clerk, no logbook left out. He'd have to come back when someone was here to unlock the files. But seeing that poster made it real again. Mesa wasn't just a legend or a journal full of notes. She was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. He touched the poster once, then turned back toward his camp. Tomorrow he'd check the booth again. Tomorrow he'd get one step closer. Back at camp, Flint spread his gear across the sand and sorted through everything. His old backpack wouldn't hold enough for a mountain climb. He needed something bigger, something built for rough terrain. He found a pathfinder pack at the supply station, canvas reinforced with leather straps and extra pockets sewn into the sides. The weaving looked strong, the seams doubled over. He loaded it carefully—rope coiled tight, Mesa's journals wrapped in oilcloth, dried food in sealed pouches, the radio tucked in a padded sleeve. The pack sat heavy on his shoulders when he lifted it, but the weight felt right. He adjusted the straps until they stopped digging into his fur. Everything he needed to find Mesa now had a place. The water jars were full, the maps were marked, and his equipment was ready. The forbidden peaks waited in the distance. Tomorrow at dawn, he'd start walking.