The earth felt bone dry beneath his hands. Denton drew his tactical blade, carving through the soil around the tree's twisted roots.
Crouched low, he lost track of time—minutes blending into hours as he carved hole after hole into the ground. Then his blade struck something solid.
Metal.
The sound sent electricity through his veins. His hands moved faster, scraping away dirt until a corroded metal container emerged.
The surface bore deep rust stains, its original design nearly erased by time. He wedged his knife into the seam and pried it open.
Years underground had destroyed most of the contents. Wood had rotted to mulch, plastic had turned brittle and cracked at his touch.
Denton sifted through the debris with careful fingers.
Then he found it.
A small metal cylinder, finger-length and pen-thick.
He brushed away the grime, then poured bottled water over it until the tarnish washed away, revealing its true nature—
A brass whistle.
His hands shook.
Yes. The whistle.
