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Choose Your Own Adventure (Or, Yetis, Cameras and Bloghops Brought to You By 13 Crusaders)

Go, click on the banner to the left! The members of Group 9 of Rachael Harrie's Second Platform-Building Crusade all banded together, just like the Justice League or the Avengers, and came up with a little adventure for you.

You remember those books. Second-person, frustrating, the type where you ended up getting vaporised by a googly-eyed alien in the backseat of a movie theatre.

But alas, your adventure does not start here. Go on back to Kerri Cuevas' blog to start your voyage into the unknown. Don't worry, you'll work your way up to me if you choose wisely. But if you've already done that, look below.




Mothers lift cars off of their pinned-down children, minute schoolgirls beat the stuffing out of their assailants, and you? You leg it.

The furry faces blur into their frosty surrounds as you swivel. The camera lands on your toe and rockets forward, skidding across the ice faster than your feet can carry you off the mark. Your life’s work? Ha. You can forget it.

Roars and wails bristle your hairs, your shoe soles skidding and slipping. You feel the skin scrape from your fingertips, from your palms, as you catapult yourself onto your feet, forward into the passages.

You hear padding, thumping, breathing. You don’t dare look over your shoulder. You don’t dare face that dazzling light. Or the creature on your heels. You push your legs to move faster, better. Dad said to pump your arms, to lift your knees for those track meets. You pump, you lift, you feel like you’re flying to that entrance.

But Jesus Christ, that thing’s breath is like acid on your neck.

You stumble on a dislodged piece of stone, arms flailing, as you pass through the entrance to the cave. A grunt behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut. Imagine its claws, its jaws of razor-teeth. Your ankles hurt. You’re going to throw up.

Something nicks you on the neck.

You trip. And then you’re rolling.

***

You pry open your eyelids, blink groggily. You see a tattered canvas of black. Tilting your head, you note it’s the roof of the back of a truck. A pick-up? You cough, your body aches, it’s numb and you’re wrapped up in itchy blankets.

You roll onto your side. Outside, snow descends in a heavy sleet. A young woman is asleep beside you, upright, leaning on a telescope. She snores a little, boot-clad feet scrunching the pages of some sort of textbook. Shivering, your teeth clacking together, you drag yourself upright.

In the cab of the truck, a man and woman converse in Russian. They haven’t noticed you’re awake yet. You swallow, your throat dry and stinging. Your head is bleary, your mind wanting sleep. You ache everywhere. Your face is flaking, you might have frostbite. You remind yourself not to touch it.

A feeling of safety overcomes you, and yet, you feel panicked. You look over your shoulder, out the back of the truck. You should be running. Why should you be running?

And then you remember.

Could it really have happened? Maybe you fell, maybe you hit your head? It’s not possible. You couldn’t have seen…No. You try to stand. Freeze. Christ, ouch. Your neck. God, your neck. You raise a hand. It’s bandaged, the tape pulled taut. Your fingers fumble. It hurts. Something cut you, scratched you.

It happened.

It happened and all you can think is: why didn’t you take the damned photo?



So, do you (Click on your choice):



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