Beware the Wild (9 page)

Lockers slam and someone bumps Heath in their hurry to leave. He keeps his voice hushed, but tinny notes of terror slip in. “I don't think this is a good idea.”

“I know it's not, but I don't see any other choice.”

“Staying safe,” he insists. “Staying
sane
. That's a good choice. I can't tell you how many times I've thought I heard Nathan's voice, or how many times I've woken from a dead sleep at the fence, ready to climb over. I'd probably be long gone, too, if Old Lady Clary hadn't wrapped this cord around my wrist and told me to be a good boy and stop talking about Nathan.”

He holds up his wrist where that ratty leather cord still hangs. This close, I see it's three strands braided together with a silver medallion woven into the center. It's depressingly unsurprising to learn that Old Lady Clary's been hushing more people about the swamp than me.

He continues, “Abigail didn't see Phin or Nathan. This is what the swamp does! It fogs your brain until you can't remember what's real anymore and then it sucks you inside.”

It's the word
fog
that does it. I suddenly remember Old Lady Clary telling me that the swamp had more than one kind of fog. She'd only had eyes for my bracelet.

“Heath! This is why we remember! It has to be!” I grab his wrist and show him mine. “Whatever these charms are, they're keeping our heads on straight.”

It makes too much sense not to be the truth. For whatever reason, Old Lady Clary made sure Heath had something that would keep his mind clear of the swamp's fog. Abigail didn't have one and that's why she claimed she hadn't seen anyone. Once it'd happened, she probably didn't remember it. I'm so certain about this I could explode, but there's one way to make sure.

“Have you ever, even for one minute, taken yours off?” I ask. “If you have and you still remember Nathan, then I'm wrong, but if you haven't, then it's enough of a correlation to be convincing.”

Heath leans against a locker and closes his eyes, becoming motionless. There's a roughness to him that I've never bothered to notice. The constant creases around his eyes, the defensive hunch of his shoulders. It's as if even thinking about the swamp takes him to the brink of exhaustion.

“No,” he says, opening his eyes. “I've never taken it off.”

I'm right. I know I'm right about this, and Heath knows it, too.

But I see the argument building in his eyes, the year-deep fear of the swamp that's kept him quiet and alone. I can't let that same fear keep me away any longer, but there's no reason Heath has to come along. A year of missing his best friend has been torture enough. At the very least, I can protect him from having to go inside the place of his nightmares.

“But,” he says like he's about to disappoint, “I didn't have it for days after the crash and I still remembered.”

“Oh.” My mind races for an answer, something—anything—that supports my crumbling theory about why we remember, but there's only Lenora May's strange warning.

“I'm not saying they're not related,” he offers with no real hope in his voice. “But just because we remember them, doesn't mean they're alive.”

“Well,
I'm
not going to give up that easily,” I snap, and as soon as I've said them, the words taste bitter. “Oh, no, Heath, that's not what I meant.”

He shakes his head as if to excuse the comment, but the distance he puts between us speaks more loudly. A shove would have done just as well to push him away.

“Yeah, I know. Don't worry about it,” he says, but his eyes shift from mine. “Listen, I owe you a Coke, but I'm supposed to go see Doc Payola in a few minutes.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” I bite down on another apology. It's better if he doesn't stick around. At least not today.

“It's a date.” He clears his throat and manages a rough smile. “A real one this time.”

The school's a tomb when we leave. We climb into the truck, and Heath revs the
engine to take me home. The passenger side's a little cleaner than it was yesterday. The dash is as cluttered, but he's gone to some effort to make sure the seat's clear and there's room for my bag on the floor. Tomorrow, if all goes well, I'll be back in this truck, going on a long-overdue date with Heath Durham. I'll paint my nails and wear the tall leather boots that are too hot for this sort of weather, but make my legs look too long to pass up. We'll have a Coke and maybe watch a movie and be nothing but normal for a few hours.

But first, I'm going after Phin.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
WAIT FOR NIGHT.

It's been a long time since I had a reason to escape through my bedroom window. Before Dad left, Phin and I had it down to a science. We could descend the wall in less than a minute and be hidden in the woods outside the swamp in two. If we hadn't been so afraid, it might've been fun. Traipsing through the pines until they gave way to oaks, then hunting our way through to the ghostly columns of the old Lillard House. We'd stay there until we thought it was safe to return. Sometimes that was all night.

With Darold's spare switchblade in my boot and a flashlight in hand, I lean my stomach against the window frame and lower myself down the wall. My feet reach the roof of the porch more easily than they did when I was six and seven. I move carefully over the slanted surface to find the notches Phin cut into one of the porch's posts—the notches Lenora May frantically chipped out with an ax one afternoon when Dad was
away—and climb to the ground.

Fireflies wink all around, mingling with the Wasting Shine and Mama's Christmas lights. Combined with this year's crop of gold doubloon and human skull Mardi Gras beads, it looks like a little pirate graveyard, a warning or a reminder that danger lies beyond this point.

I try to find a piece of whatever stupid courage Phin must have felt to propel him into the single greatest danger we've ever known. There was something so effortless, so thoughtless about the way he flung his legs over the rails and landed in a sprint. The key is not to think about it, but I can't clear my head. I keep hearing our angry words from that afternoon over and over.

It was such a stupid fight. One that started the minute Phin announced he was leaving for Tulane. It shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. He was as focused on that goal as he was on fixing up the Chevelle. His excitement was the only reason I'd ever thought seriously about college. Most of the good folk of Sticks consider it'd be faster to throw your money in a fire if you're that keen on wasting it, but then, most of the good folk of Sticks think the periodic table has something to do with birth control. More than once, Phin reminded me that it was possible to love a place and leave it, and he and I were destined for a life bigger than the whole of Sticks.

I believed him, but I didn't understand him. Not completely.

I could've completed his college applications for him and it still would've come as a surprise to hear he was leaving. But the real shock of the whole affair was realizing that meant I'd be left behind. That didn't happen in my brilliant brain until the acceptance letter arrived. And that was the first day I didn't finish my dinner.

We fought every time we spoke because I couldn't look at him without feeling resentful or abandoned. But Sunday was the first time he'd been driven to violence.

Then he was gone.

And it's my fault.

If I was afraid to live in a town without Phineas, I'm plain terrified of living in a world without him. With an unexpected combination of fear and guilt and recklessness, I set a foot on the bottom rung of the fence and rest my fingers on top. Shine licks at them. I jump back, clenching my hands to fists and glaring at the sinister coils.

The swamp continues to beckon.

I can do this.

“Phineas Harlan Saucier,” I say to whatever might be listening. “I'm coming for my brother.”

Placing my palms firmly on the top plank again, I climb the fence and land softly on
the other side. The Shine threading the muddy ground shatters beneath my feet and shifts in a frenzied way. Phin's bracelet warms against my skin.

With a deep breath, I follow the path Phin might have left. Shine brightens the otherwise dark swamp, but it glitters incoherently, confusing my steps so I have to move slow and careful. Plants brush against my knees, vines slither over my shoulders, and I lose my balance more than once.

“Phineas!” I call quietly. Then again, louder, “Phineas!”

My feet sink in warm, thick water. Sweat is cold on my forehead. I turn around and see that the path I took is gone—gone and I don't know how I'll find my way again. When I stop moving, those glittering vines reach for me. They curl around my ankles and tickle my arms. I shake them off and run, but the next time I pause, they creep toward me, reach for me, curl around my cold fingers, and tug.

“Phin! Phineas! Phin, please!” I cry, splashing through water that nearly reaches my knees. The only response is the harsh shriek of some swamp animal, the
thump, thump, thump
of something falling or crawling or running.

And getting closer.

I freeze. I stop everything except my heart, and make myself as small and as quiet as possible. If Phin were here, he'd know what to do.
Oh, God, if Phin were here, I wouldn't be mindless with fear
. Whatever else is in this swamp, it's surely worse than a girl armed with a flashlight and switchblade.

Something stings my leg and I shriek loud enough to be heard by anything within a hundred miles. I crouch down until my butt hits the water, but it's too late. The thumping gets louder and faster. I'm fixing to run when a voice calls, “Hello? Is someone there?”

For a moment, I'm sure it's Phin. My smile's as wide as the Mississippi, but then he calls again, and his voice is familiar but not my brother's. It's a second before I spot him through the cypress trees, tall and broad and definitely not Phin.

“If you know what's good for you, you'll stop right there,” I shout.

He takes a few more steps, coming around the trees with hands raised. He's not much older than me, dressed in jeans and a mud-splattered T-shirt, and I know exactly who he is.

“Nathan!” If I knew him better, I'd hug him, but I settle for climbing onto the same muddy path he's on. Simply standing in front of him is a victory.

“Thank Jesus, Sterling Saucier,” he says with a sigh. His voice is raspy and he walks like his shoulders weigh two tons each. “I've been lost for hours. Please, tell me you know the way out of here.”

Hours?
With that one word my hope fizzles, but I decide not to burden him with the
truth just yet. “Have you seen another boy around? Dark hair, blue eyes? My brother's lost, too.”

He shakes his head. Everything about him is tense and alert. Even his T-shirt seems to hover above his body, ready to flee. “The only other things I've seen are the sort of things you don't want to see,” he says with a nervous look around. “We ain't alone in here.”

It's the way he pulls at his arm that makes me shudder. Shine snakes through the mud to my feet and his, glowing in streams of brown and black and yellow. Around us, the swamp is a smothering chorus. How did I ever hope to find Phin in this wild place?

“C'mon. If we keep the moon behind us, we should be able to find my backyard.” I leave the invitation open and start to walk. When he joins me, I ask, “What's the last thing you remember, Nathan? Before you got lost?”

“Shh.” He stops and holds up a hand, tilting his head a little to listen with wide eyes. When he returns his gaze to me, it's already miles away. “Run,” he says.

Before I can ask why, something crashes through the swamp. Again, Nathan shouts for me to run and I do, hard on his heels. The noise gets closer. I try to run as fast as him, but every other step is a struggle. I stumble and slip and sink in deep mud. Soon, his figure is so far past me I only catch flashes of his white shirt.

“Wait! Help me, please!”

Every crash is closer than the one before. I risk a glance behind and see a patch of the dark night sky racing toward me. I see yellow eyes and a pale, gray face, and I hear my voice saying, “No, no, no!”

Nathan calls for me, once, twice.

Then a hand like tree bark grips my wrist, spinning me until I'm nose to nose with the pale-faced beast. His breath is a suffocating gust of rot and mud. His body curls over me like a punishing wave. I can see no way out. Nothing at all except the narrowed yellow of his eyes. Then, heat flushes my arm where he grips me. He recoils with a snarl and I'm on my feet again, flying through the swamp.

I don't look back. I don't see or hear Nathan and I don't dare call for him, so I run until I can't feel my legs and then I run some more.