The Old Gods of the Mountain by E . M . Caris
The bone glistens in the moonlight as John struggles to stay conscious . His backpack impales him , spreading his thin frame like a star on the cave floor , and he hopes his spine is intact . Then the pain arrives . He can certainly still feel below his waist . When he glances down , he sees the bone jutting from his left shin , and a scream echoes through the cavern . Eyes flutter . Limbs slack . The agony sucks him under , but John musters the strength for one last thought : I will not die here .
John ’ s eyes open . The moon hangs like a pupil in the hole he fell through .
“ At least something sees me ,” he mutters , sitting up and shaking off his pack , groaning as the pain almost gobbles him up again . His fingers tremble as he massages his pulsating - temples . When the black spots disappear from his vision , he glances again at the hole on the cavern ' s ceiling . He shakes his head , realizing it must ’ ve been about a 30-foot fall . John sits in the moonlight , feeling like the world ' s loneliest clown .
" For my next act ," he says , humming circus music , " I ' ll make sure I ' m not dying of a head wound .”
No other bumps or bruises , just his crooked nose , gaunt face , wounded leg , and a tangled mess of black hair matted with dirt and sweat . He slicks the hair from his forehead and sighs , relieved his backpack prevented his brains from spilling across the cave floor but terrified of what to do about his leg .
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