Easier.
Three of his pursuers were idiots, with close to zero training. Only one was a real operator—probably Army recon. He was the man Thomas had to work to avoid.
But he wasn’t just evading them in order to hide. He was actively leading them away from the entrance to the pod, so that they wouldn’t find the bulkhead door.
Because if they found the bomb shelter, he and Tash would instantly be in siege mode. They’d be extremely vulnerable, with no eyes and ears to the outside world, and a limited, dwindling food supply.
And that was the best case scenario—assuming that the hostiles wouldn’t be able to figure out a way to cut off their power, which would make them lose their light and heat. A power cut would lose them their water supply, too, since the pump that drew the water from its well was electric.
Although true worst case was that the hostiles would somehow screw with the shelter’s ventilation system, cutting off their air. That would mean game over.
Siege mode was to be avoided at all costs.
All costs.
So even though Thomas’s initial plan, formed when he’d realized he’d walked straight into an ambush, was only partially developed, it had a very solid Step One: Lead these amateur motherfuckers far, far from Tasha and the pod.
He should’ve been more careful.
Although, to be fair, today’s SNAFU had started while he’d been moving through the woods steadily, employing his usual high level of care and stealth as he returned from checking the contact point. In fact, he’d been disturbingly close to the camouflaged-by-brush-and-debris bulkhead entrance to the underground shelter when his SEAL-senses had started tingling. He was being watched and followed.
At first he spotted glimpses of just two of them—clumsy Stooges One and Two. But as he started moving faster—right past the bulkhead—the second pair, Army and Stooge Three, had revealed themselves, because stealth was harder to achieve at higher speeds.
Thomas had led the four-man team due south, careful to stay visible, his mind racing as he got to work on steps two-plus of his plan. The four men were following him. They weren’t trying to kill or capture him for an obvious reason, which was that they hoped he’d lead them to Tasha.
When he was a safe enough distance from the bomb shelter entrance, Thomas finally let himself vanish. Then he circled back around, tracking his trackers for a bit to make sure he was right, and that there really were only four men in this little hunting patrol.
Only after confirming that did he backtrack even more, all the way to the shelter, where he’d opened the hatch and deposited both the rifle and one of the small bags of ammo he’d been carrying in his raincoat pockets. While he had no intention of getting apprehended by Army and his stooges, he knew for damn sure that if something did go wrong, he wanted Tasha to have access to that weapon. Besides, he could move faster without it. Plus, without it, he could carry more shit.
He was, very soon, going to be carrying way more shit.
Because by this point, he’d figured out the rest of his plan.
Since Army and Stooges One through Three seemed to want to find Tasha, Thomas would oblige and lead them to Tasha. Or at least to where she and Thomas had been “recently taking shelter.” Or so they would believe, because Thomas was going to fool them into thinking that.
After dropping off the rifle, he moved swiftly back through the forest, to where he’d last seen his four new friends. He quickly caught up to them—they’d paused for a group conference, temporarily uncertain, because they’d stopped catching glimpses of him, and his physical trail had gone cold. So he silently moved far enough ahead of them and showed them a flash of his red-plaid ass as he crested a hill, and just like that, they were back to their scuttling-follow mode.
He raced ahead, but left them an obvious path to follow—not as quite as in-their-faces as Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs because that would’ve raised a red flag for Army, but obvious enough. And then he vanished again, racing as fast as he could toward the hide where Tasha had stayed when he’d first approached the ski lodge.
He stripped off the raincoat he was wearing beneath his blanket-poncho, using it to create a carry-sack into which he dumped as much of the ashes and charred wood as he could scoop up from the pit fire he’d lit just a few days ago. He tossed in some of the smaller charred stones that he’d heated to help keep Tasha warm, and wrapped it all up so it wouldn’t spill out as he carried it. The branches that he’d gathered to provide coverage and a rather ineffective roof would help, too, so he grabbed as much as he could carry of that and headed out.
He moved as quickly as he dared, circling back north again, hoping both that no other hostiles were out patrolling, and that Army didn’t have access to cell or SAT service and therefore hadn’t been able to call for backup.
He headed slightly west and there it was. The cave-like entrance to the glacial dump of huge rock slabs that he’d happened upon. It was where he was intending to take Tasha before she’d dropped the words bomb shelter into their conversation about the burned-out ski lodge.
Since he’d already had a cursory look around the first time he’d been here, he knew to dump the ashes from his raincoat near the entrance—as if he’d built a fire there for warmth. It looked stupid, exactly like it had been dumped there, so he got down on his knees and rearranged the pieces of charred wood to make it look more like a fire that had burned and then been stirred to make sure it was fully out.
He’d never been particularly good at art projects, but somehow he managed to make it look real enough.
Thomas then dragged the branches further into the cave, past a jumble of smaller rubble and rocks. There was a little protected nook back there. He dumped them into a pile that could be interpreted as maybe we slept on this or maybe we used these branches to cover us, for warmth.
Next up was the contents of his raincoat pocket: The plastic baggie with a handful of peanuts that he’d brought along to keep his stomach from getting too empty. It rumbled now as he tossed it down next to the branches. A sacrifice for the good of the people.
Last was his blanket poncho. He pulled the damn thing over his head and dropped it there, too. There were other blankets in the pod—he could always make another poncho. But the raincoats were in rare supply, so he didn’t want to leave that behind.
And there it was. Fully staged. He’d done everything but write on the rock wall, Thomas and Tasha were here.
He just hoped Army—and Army’s CO, whoever that was—believed it.
He picked up the raincoat and shook it out, put it back on. Sweat and ashes, nice combo.
Last steps of his plan: Go back to where Army and the Stooges were tracking him, flash his plaid ass to them again, lead them here, then become invisible for good.
Well, only to them.
He would be very visible to Tasha when he went back into the pod, where after he showered they’d Talk with a capital T.
Oddly, he felt ready.
To Tasha’s relief, Thomas wasn’t lying dead just outside the entrance to the pod.
She really hadn’t expected to find him there, since there’d been no blood anywhere on the landing or the door’s frame, but she was still thankful as she climbed out, leaving the hatch open behind her, in case she needed to get back inside, fast.