Sacrifice

The apple trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches bare and brittle against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Eliza Thorne wiped the sweat from her brow with a grimy hand, leaving a streak of dirt across her forehead. She squinted up at the cloudless sky, willing it to offer even a hint of rain. But the heavens remained stubbornly clear, mocking her silent plea. With a sigh, Eliza turned back to the irrigation system she’d been tinkering with for the past hour. The ancient pipes groaned and sputtered, struggling to coax what little water remained in the well to the parched roots of her family’s orchard. She gave the wrench one final twist, praying it would hold. ...

The gentle clinking of ice in crystal tumblers punctuated the hushed voices drifting from Eleanor Rosewood’s sunroom. To any passerby, it appeared to be nothing more than another lazy Sunday afternoon gathering of well-coiffed housewives discussing the latest bestseller. But beneath the veneer of suburban propriety, a quiet rebellion was brewing. “Ladies, if we could turn our attention to chapter seven,” Eleanor—Ellie to her friends—said with a conspiratorial smile. “I believe Mrs. Holloway has some particularly insightful comments to share.” ...

Eliza Reeves gripped the climbing wall, her muscles straining as she reached for the next hold. Sweat trickled down her temple, but her focus never wavered. The bustling sounds of the gym faded away, replaced by the howling wind and biting cold of her imagination. In her mind’s eye, she wasn’t scaling an indoor wall in her hometown of Boulder, Colorado. She was thousands of feet up, tackling the merciless face of Annapurna I. ...

Zara’s boots crunched on broken glass as she made her way through the abandoned building. Shafts of pale moonlight pierced the gloom through gaps in the boarded-up windows. She swept her flashlight beam across peeling wallpaper and moldering furniture, alert for any movement in the shadows. A faint whisper reached her ears. She froze, straining to listen. There it was again - a sibilant hiss, barely audible. Zara’s hand tightened on the sonic disruptor at her hip. After years maintaining the city’s sound barriers, she knew all too well the dangers that lurked in the silence. ...

The wind howled through the jagged peaks, carrying whispers of ancient secrets. Mira Callen pulled her parka tighter, squinting against the swirling snow as she trudged up the steep mountain trail. Her boots crunched through a thin layer of ice with each labored step. “How much farther?” she called out to the broad-shouldered figure ahead. Eli Roth glanced back, his weathered face impassive beneath a fur-lined hood. “Another hour, maybe two. Depends how fast you city folks can move.” ...