Stranded (22 page)

“Oh my God!” I said. Watching Isaac bounce and fall down the cliff like a rag doll made me feel both sick and amazed.

“Isaac!” Chloe screamed.

No answer.

Oscar was the closest. “Isaac?” He slid and scurried down the rest of the rocks, as fast as he could go safely with one bad arm, and then, after what seemed like an hour, reached the place where Isaac had gone. He looked back up at us, then ducked his head and climbed through.

“C'mon.” I grabbed Chloe's arm. “Don't worry. Oscar will get him.” I stepped so that I was in front, like a buffer. “I'll go slow. Just take your time, okay? If you lose your balance, sit down.”

“I already am.” Chloe squatted, ready to crawl down the rest of the way if she needed to.

I did the same. “Better safe than sorry.”

*  *  *

By the time we reached the hole in the bushes, we were covered in dirt and dripping with sweat.

“Oscar?”

“Over here!”

“You okay?”

No answer. Then, “Yeah.”

“Where's Isaac?”

“Over here,” he repeated, somewhat softer. “Be careful coming through.”

“Okay.” I entered into the hole—the bushes weren't as thick as they looked, and soon enough I was down on the bottom, back in the shade of trees, though it didn't seem noticeably cooler. No breeze in here. The trees were stubby and bare, sickly looking. No birds chirping in the branches. No sound at all.

This is a bad place.

“Where are you?” Coming in from the bright sunlight made me momentarily blind.

“Over here. Be careful.”

“Why?” My eyes adjusted to the dimness, and I stepped forward. A sharp crack under my boot stopped me; I looked down. Sticks. Piles and piles of dead branches, crisscrossed and covering each other, formed a very sharp carpet. It looked like a booby trap out of a bad movie, and I glanced up, half expecting a net to drop on me.

“We're over here, Emma.” Oscar was off to my right, kneeling in front of Isaac.

Chloe climbed through the hole, and I held my hand up. She stopped, looked down, and nodded. We picked our way slowly over the stacks of branches. What had happened here?

“Are you okay?” I asked when we finally reached them.

“I am.” Oscar stood up and moved aside, and that's when I saw that Isaac wasn't. In his tumble through the bushes with my knife, he had managed to stab himself. It was low on the left side. Two inches more and it would have missed him completely. Two inches the other way and he would have been skewered straight in his stomach.

“Oh Jesus,” Chloe gasped. She covered her mouth and looked away.

Isaac smiled at us weakly. “I prefer Hey Zeus.”

I took his joke to be a good sign. The blade was buried up to the handle, but there wasn't much blood around it. I hoped that was another good sign. How long had it been? Three inches? Four? It made me dizzy, imagining it. “Should we take it out?”

“No,” Oscar said. “I don't know. I don't even want to try.”

I recoiled. “But we can't leave it in!”

“If we pull it out . . .” Oscar shook his head, then closed his eyes and exhaled deeply through his nose. “No, it's too risky. I don't know if our first aid kits have anything to stop the bleeding.”

“What about infection?” Chloe removed her hand from her mouth. “Isn't that what happens if you leave it in?”

Oscar didn't answer her, but Isaac did.

“Eventually.” His eyes were like blue marbles in his face but still had that sharp, bright, bird look. “I don't know.”

I crouched down. “Does it hurt?”

“No, Dodd, it tickles.” He spit at me, and I noticed his spit was clean. That was good, wasn't it? No internal bleeding. “It tickles so bad I can't stand it.”

“Does it hurt to breathe, I mean.”

He rolled his eyes back, thinking about it, then took a short breath. “Not more than usual.”

“Do you think you can walk?” Oscar wanted to know. He had taken out the first aid kit and checked what was left. Gauze pads. Tweezers. Cold pack. Splints. Band-Aids. A few packets of rubbing-alcohol pads and tubes of antibacterial cream. He took one of each.

“This ain't some boo-boo, O'Brien,” Isaac said when Oscar approached him. It was the first time I had heard him say Oscar's last name. Perhaps he now had graduated up a level in Isaac's eyes. Or maybe Isaac was just terrified.

“Tell me something I don't know.” Oscar eyed the handle.

“I need my knife back.”

“But Emma,” Oscar began.

“I know, I know,” I said, and held up my hands. “I know we shouldn't. But we may need the knife. We
will
need it.”

Silence.

Isaac leaned his head back against the tree. “Take it out.”

“But we don't know—”

“I do, O'Brien. You need to take it out.”

Oscar looked at him, uneasy, and I had the sudden idea he might want to stick the blade in farther. “I have one roll of gauze left,” he said with some acid.

What I figured he was thinking:
And I really don't want to waste it on you.
I know I didn't.

Chloe pulled out a relatively clean tank top. “Here,” she said. “This has some spandex in it. You can use it as a wrap over the bandage.”

“If there's a lot of blood . . .” Oscar stared at the tank top, not finishing his thought.

“Wait a minute,” I said, and put down my pack. “That made me remember something.”

“What did? Blood?”

“Yeah.” I dug down until I found my toiletry case, pulled it free, and unzipped it. “I think I put some of them in here.”

“Some what?”

“Tampons.” I pulled one out and held it up, still clean and sanitary in its plastic wrap. “This will work to stop up the bleeding.” I pressed it into Oscar's free hand. “After all, that's what they're for.”

“I have a couple,” Chloe said, then looked at me curiously. “Where did you hear of that?”

“World War Two.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the medics on the battlefield used them for bullet wounds.”

“Wow,” Chloe said, impressed. “Who knew?”

I shrugged, secretly pleased with myself. “My dad is a big war-history buff, and I've read a few of his books.”

“That's amazing.” Oscar nodded and took the tampon, turning the plastic cylinder over in his hand. “But I really don't want to do this,” he said quietly.

“I know. But we have to.”

“If he loses too much blood . . .” Oscar's hand shook, his voice quieting to a whisper.

“I'm right here, you know,” Isaac said. “I'm not deaf.” Even with a stab wound, he maintained his attitude. “I'll try not to bleed on your boots.”

“See?” I said. “Even Isaac agrees with me.”

“I wouldn't go that far, Dodd,” he barked, then winced, his face twisting back into a painful grimace. “But yeah, the knife's no good stuck in my guts.”

“Okay.” Oscar exhaled. “Okay, then. We'll do it.” He picked up a stick and held it in front of Isaac's face. “Here, you better bite down on this.” He pulled out a pack of rubbing-alcohol pads. “This is going to sting, Bergstrom.” Oscar didn't sound too upset about that fact.

I crouched down in front of Isaac and eyed the handle. “I'll pull it out straight as I can,” I told him. “Chloe, get the tampon ready.”

“First bras, now tampons.” Isaac bit down on the branch, then spit angrily between his teeth, grunting something unintelligible. Another creative obscenity, no doubt.

“Aren't you glad to have these bitches in combat now?” I whispered.

Isaac stared back at me, finally speechless.

“We'll do it on the count of three,” Oscar said. “Okay, ready?”

“Wrurrdee.”

“One . . .”

I pulled it out on two.

*  *  *

We didn't get far. A few miles. Maybe five. Probably less. We took turns carrying Isaac's things, but we left the tackle box. The fishing rod was destroyed, snapped in three places during Isaac's tumble down the cliff, and there was no way to fix it. Oscar kept the line, as well as some of the lures, a few hooks, and spinners with barbed ends. He tucked them neatly into the first aid kit. I wondered if he was planning to do surgery with them. I wondered if that was even possible.

We also didn't find any water.

“Isaac's canteen is empty,” Chloe whispered to us. “So is mine. He keeps wanting water.”

“I have about a quarter left,” I said.

“I have half,” Oscar told us.

I was surprised. Then again, I hardly saw him drink anything; he spent most of the time helping Isaac walk, but when I looked at his face, the deep rings under his eyes jumped out at me. His lips were cracked and fissured like a dried-out riverbed. “You need to drink,” I told him. “Or you're going to get sick.”

“I know,” he said. “I just want to ration it a little longer.”

“I'm going out to find water.” I took my last slug, emptying my canteen.

“No, Emma, not by yourself.”

“I can go faster on my own,” I said. “Isaac can't, and you need to stay with them. We have no food left, and I might be able to find something.”

“The sun is going to set in a few hours.” Oscar's protest was a weak one. He knew as well as I did that if we didn't find water in a day or so, we'd be in even more trouble.

“That's why I'm going now,” I said. “So I can be back before sunset. I'll take the whistle, my knife, and the three empty canteens. I did it before and I can do it again.” I didn't know if I was trying to convince them or myself.

“Okay,” he said. “But I'm coming with you. And it's not up for debate.”

I stared at him; he wasn't going to budge on this, I could tell. “Okay.” I sighed. “But what about Chloe and Isaac?”

“Don't worry about me,” Chloe said. “I can make the shelter. Oscar's right—none of us should go off on our own.”

When we headed out a few minutes later, I felt strangely energized, mainly relieved to be out of that disturbing place—this looked more like an area someone would put a campsite. And for all I knew campers could be right over the next hill.

We walked uphill, then down, before I found a small switchback trail woven between the pines. The sun moved
steadily west; I knew if we were traveling east, I needed to keep the light shining behind us. I picked up a small, smooth pebble and popped it into my mouth, hoping to get some saliva flowing, and when a plane appeared overhead, so sudden and close, I almost swallowed it. Whirring propellers materialized instantly, and I wondered why I hadn't heard it coming. It streaked over the treetops, sending them waving like a wake of water. Planes only flew that low when they were looking for something. Or someone.

“Stop!” I screamed at the metal belly, but already it was shrinking away toward the western horizon. I dropped my pack and ran after it. “You're going the wrong way!” My scream was sucked up in the wind, but I kept running, remembering I had a whistle.

“Emma! Wait!” Oscar chased after me, but I didn't turn around. I just kept running, the whistle shoved between my teeth, shrieking with every step. Did it see me? No, not through these trees. But maybe it could hear the whistle. I ran like an idiot, hurdling logs, jumping and dodging, pushing through thickets, some of them probably poison oak. I didn't care. I had to make it see me. I kept running and blowing the whistle until I had to breathe, and it was a good five minutes before I realized what I'd done.

My pack. The canteens. All my supplies. Oscar. I left him. The whistle dropped out of my mouth.

No.

I shouldn't have run. I turned slowly around. I couldn't have gone
that
far.

Far enough
.

I'll just go back the way I came.

Panic rose like bile in my throat. My legs trembled, but I walked, stumbling as I looked down at the ground. I looked for footprints, broken twigs, squashed leaves. It all looked the same.

The plane was heading to the lake, the lake we'd just left a few days ago.

The plane must have seen us. They must have been coming for us.

But now I would never know. I took two more steps, sank down in the dirt, and buried my face in my hands.

When I finally looked up again daylight was nearly gone, and I knew I needed to move. I needed to just go. But where? The plane wouldn't be back, at least not until morning, and I doubted it would be able to land anywhere nearby. But maybe they found our campsite, our shelter. Maybe they realized we were still alive. Maybe they were looking right now. I certainly couldn't stay here, crouched in the woods like a frightened rabbit.

I forced myself up; the whistle dangled around my neck, and I tugged the line, debating whether to blow it. What if they heard me? Start yelling? Would they even hear it? How far off was I, anyway? A mile?

“Emma!”

I spun around just as Oscar jogged into view. He was sweating heavily, somehow carrying both packs even with a broken wrist. “Emma! Thank God!”

“Oscar!” My voice broke in relief. “You're here!”

“Of course I am.” He bent over, gathering a breath. “Holy crap, you run like your hair's on fire.” He started laughing.

But I felt like crying. “I'm sorry!” I staggered forward and hugged him, burying my face into his neck. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, concerned. “It's okay. You're okay. I'm okay.” But he hugged me back just as hard. “We'll be all right.”

“No,” I whimpered, now dangerously close to losing it. “The plane was on its way to that lake. I know it. If we hadn't left . . .”

The howl came as suddenly as the plane; my neck rippled with goose bumps. Then another, louder. Closer. “Oh no.” I spun in circles, frantically scanning the brush. Was it in front? Behind? It seemed to be coming from all sides.
Where? Where? Where?
I had no idea. Was Isaac right? Were they tracking us?
No! Wolves don't do that? Do they?