Spike Ridge

Spotted a dense wooden spike-tower resting in the mortar: an open, weathered pinecone. Threat check. Clack! My knuckle struck the timber scales—dry, rigid snap. Zero give. Click. Low rasp. Both curved hands clamped onto the lowest flaring tier. I drove rigid plastic heels into the jagged crevices, hip joints clicking with each hoist. Grunt! Sharp breath. The stiff barbs bit back, pressing against plastic soles. Hand over hand, I hauled my torso straight up the overlapping armor plates until both feet straddled the topmost apex. Stood rigid in the afternoon glare. High spiked redoubt conquered.