Nowhere Wild (12 page)

Izzy pulled the dirty blue sleeping bag around herself as tightly as she could. Water splashed from the boy's paddle and from the lake as they bounced through a series of waves. Her teeth chattered. She rubbed her hands on her arms to try to warm up. Her stomach roiled, then burst forward from her mouth, spraying a mix of lake water and remnants of breakfast onto the fabric.

A wave cascaded over the bow. The boy apologized and tried to cover her up a bit better. Streams of water curled through folds in the bag, like a serpent trying to steal what little warmth she had remaining. The feeling in her fingers slowly disappeared, only to be replaced a few minutes later with a burning sensation like a thousand needles being shoved into her fingertips, over and over again.

She needed more clothes. She needed her things. Her sling. She needed her sling. So she could hunt. If she could hunt, she could make more slippers. And be warm again.

Still, Rick was back there. She could never go back to him . . . to
that
. She coughed. Another lungful of water dribbled out of her mouth. She could never go back to that . . . alive.

Dead
. She should have been dead. It had been so easy to stay under once the water had pulled her in. The hole in her heart had dragged her down with so little effort. Yet here she was, in the
canoe, crossing the lake with this boy. He had saved her. Where was he taking her?

The muscles in her chest began to quiver. The teeth chattering stopped. The pain in her fingers abated. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Dead
. She would soon be dead.

“Angie,” she mumbled. “Angie. I'm cold.”

The noise of the surrounding lake faded to absolute quiet.

Cold.

Her thoughts echoed in a vast chasm. The pain subsided.

So cold.

Arctic air roared past Jake's face. The spray stung his exposed hands. He kept his head on a swivel, gauging each wave in an unending series, positioning the canoe, and praying that this one wouldn't be the one to capsize them. He pushed south, fighting the roiling surface for the better part of an hour and a half. He couldn't stop. In the center of the lake, the land disappeared in every direction. He checked his compass every five minutes, until a glimpse of a treetop to the southwest told him to steer that way.

Massive waves, lifted by the rising lake bed, crashed against the rocks of the southern shore. Jake fought the surging waters until he found a gap in the rocks. His hands ached from his heavy grip on the paddle. His arms shook from the exertion.

He checked the girl. She had barely moved the entire trip, aside from throwing up soon after they set out on the lake. If they went over in the surf, she'd be helpless against the undertow.

Jake steadied the canoe and waited for a wave to pass. He needed to time it so that the next wave would pick them up and drop them onto the gravel shore. A second wrong in the timing, and the wave would fill the canoe with water instead, and roll them under. He pulled hard as the wave passed by. On the fourth stroke, the next wave caught them from behind. Jake braced the paddle against the stern and used it as a rudder, surfing the wave into the beach. The
bow touched down a second before the stern. The canoe canted sideways. Jake leaped over the unconscious girl. His weary legs buckled as they hit the land. He caught himself and wrenched the canoe onto the shore. The remnants of the wave that had beached them soaked him from the hips down. He pulled until the stern cleared the outermost reach of the water. The wave retreated to the deeps.

The lake would not take them today.

His chest shuddered with exhaustion, but there was no time to waste.

Shelter. Fire. Water. Food
. His father's mantra rang clear through his head. He left the girl in the canoe, grabbed the tent, and hastily set it up in a gap between the trees just a few meters in from the shore. His fingers fumbled with the poles and nearly broke one. He slowed his pace. The tent was his—
their
—lifeline. He couldn't lose it.

The girl didn't move as he carried her into the tent. Her skin was cool to the touch—she was still alive, but barely. Water dripped from his only sleeping bag. He wrung it out as best he could, but covering her in that would be like wrapping her in a wet towel. Instead, he dug his old clothes out of his pack and tucked them in around her. They were rank and soiled, but the best he could do.

His stiff hands worked to light a fire. Maintaining a grip on the flint and striker required a level of focus he no longer had. Somehow the fire lit on the fourth spark. A hastily stacked wall of rocks blocked the wind and reflected some of the heat into the tent. He gathered more wood while waiting for water to boil.

Only when he had enough wood for the next two hours did he let his body relax. He forced his eyes away from the slowly heating pot and gazed back the way they had come. Somewhere close, he knew, was the entrance to the river that would take him to Laroque—and her too if she lasted the night. To get her through
the night, he'd have to warm her back up and get her some food. It had been over twelve hours since he ate the last of the food his traps had produced the night before: twelve solid hours of walking, running, and paddling. His body needed an all-you-can-eat buffet and a three-day sleep, not another all-nighter followed by an upriver run. That, however, was not in the cards. He grabbed a couple of cattail shoots and munched on them instead.

The girl was still asleep when Jake crawled back into the tent. He pushed one of his canteens, filled with hot water, into the shirt wrapped around her side and began rubbing her arms, trying, with little success, to get some heat back into her nearly frozen body. When that didn't produce immediate results, he left, returning a minute later with two rocks that had been warming by the fire, and tucked them in next to her back.

A few minutes after that, he entered the tent with a steaming cup of tea. It took a few tries to wake her.

“Hey, come on. We need to get you warmed up.”

She moved, but only slightly.

“No.” Her objection was barely audible.

“I need you to wake up now. Please. Have some tea.” He rubbed her forehead, pushing her matted blond hair back from her face. He held the cup to her mouth. She opened her eyes as the liquid touched her lips. She took one sip, and then another.

He held the cup for her while she drank. Her hands shook as they moved. An hour before, he had not thought she would make it. Now at least he held out a glimmer of hope. Jake swapped the rocks next to her with two fresh from the fire, slipped inside one of his old socks. The girl wrapped herself around them, still shivering.

Jake refilled the cup and forced the additional fluid into her as well. Only when she had downed her second cup and begun to show color in her cheeks did he treat himself to some of the hot liquid. He
wanted food, but to get that, he would have to leave her alone, and he wasn't going to do that until he knew she was going to make it.

“My name's Jake. What's yours?” he asked. He rubbed her legs with his dishcloth, hoping the little bit of friction would generate more heat. She pulled her legs back into the fetal position. She did not reply.

“I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just trying to warm you up. We need to get your core temperature up so I can go and get us some food. We need to work together at this or it won't happen.” Her eyes opened briefly and she studied him.

“Izzy. My name's Izzy,” she said after a pause.

Her eyes dipped closed. She curled tighter into a ball. Jake gave up on rubbing her legs. He peeled off his jacket and covered her with it. “I'll be back in a bit, okay, Izzy?”

She didn't budge as he exited the tent.

Shelter. The tent would be crowded with the two of them, but it would do until they got to Laroque.
Check.

Fire. He put another log on it to keep it burning.
Check
. He draped the sleeping bag over a nearby tree to dry. With a little good luck, and no rain, it might not be dripping wet in a couple of days. Jake scanned the sky. Thick low-hanging clouds approached, carried by the gusting wind. Jake shook his head, then continued with his checklist.

Water. Jake refilled the pot and hung it back over the fire. He finished off what was left in his cup. He'd need to drink a lot more to replenish what he had lost in sweat during the crossing, but with the pot on the fire, that task, at least, was taken care of.
Check.

Food. Tapping on his canister created a hollow thud.
Empty
. Now he'd need even more food to keep two of them alive. He wasn't sure how long she had been out in the woods, or how much she had eaten lately. She'd need more than she'd had.

The same, he reckoned, could be said for him as well.

He grabbed his fishing pole from his pack and began casting his lure off the rocks to the east of the camp. He'd fished this lake with his father and grandfather and a small client group many summers before. Somewhere around here, at another small campsite, was a log pitted with practice shots from Jake's air rifle. At seven years old, Jake had been little more than a camp mascot to the clients. He fetched the firewood, cleaned their fish, and picked up their trash. They had treated him well, but they hadn't expected anything out of him.

Now, the expectations were unbelievably high. The responsibility of keeping this girl alive and getting them both back to civilization almost overwhelmed him. Everything would have to go right. He had to get her warmed up. Feed her. Keep her from . . . from trying to kill herself again, until he could get her to someone who could really help her.

And what of that man? That man who had
shot
at him—had tried to kill him for helping this girl. Would he follow them? Would he track them down? In these woods, on these lakes, tracking someone was not easy. That man, however, had skills. The stack of furs behind the cabin had been proof of that. He was a hunter. If he wanted this girl back, he would be coming. And if he came . . . Jake glanced back to his camp. Toward the pack leaning up against the canoe near the fire. To the gun in the case strapped to the side of the pack.

He shook his head to clear the thought from his mind. Then he cast the lure back into the water as the long summer day drew to a close. First things first: get the girl through the night. Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

Still, as the sky darkened, Jake kept a wary eye out to the north, where low clouds continued to gather. A storm was coming.

Jake caught a whitefish, cleaned it, and cooked it as the last light from the midnight sun disappeared to the west. Farther north, the sun would rise and set only once a year. Here, it would return in less than three hours. This night, Jake understood why his ancestors had celebrated the summer solstice. The sun warmed those who were cold and provided illumination for travelers. Jake needed it for both reasons.

He cleaned up the camp and added more wood to the fire as the fish sizzled in the pan. He ducked back into the tent when he heard the girl stir. This time she raised her head off the ground as he zipped the tent closed. He held out a plate with a large fillet of fried fish.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She nodded. He handed her the plate. She cleaned off half the plate in a single bite. Jake watched with fascination. She then licked the oil off her fingers, instead of wiping it on her clothes or on the tent. Jake appreciated that. Normally, he wouldn't have brought food anywhere near the tent. Bears would smell it for months. Today was the exception to all the rules.

“What's your name again?” she asked as she finished her meal. She reached for the mug Jake still held. Her fingers wrapped around the warm metal, but Jake didn't let go for fear she would lose her grip and spill the scalding liquid on herself.

“Jake. Jake Clarke,” he responded.

She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Izzy Chamberlain.”

Jake nodded. “Where are you from, Izzy?” he asked.

“Thompson.”

Jake's eyes widened. There weren't many towns in the area, but still, hearing that name clenched his throat.

“Me, too.” Jake smiled.

“We're going back there?” she asked.

“Yep. Laroque is two, maybe three days' paddle from here. We'll catch a plane out from there and be home in a jiffy.” He checked her forehead with his hand. “Do you think you can make it?”

She cocked her head slightly at the mention of the plane. “I'll make it.” The confidence in her voice assuaged Jake's fears that she didn't know what was going on.

“How old are you, Izzy?”

“Fourteen,” she said. Jake didn't know whether or not to believe her. She didn't look a day over twelve.

“How long have you been out here . . . with . . . that guy?”

“Rick? Since last winter.” She shuddered as she thought about it for a minute. “October, I think.” She talked slowly, each word taking energy and thought. “Maybe early November. It took us a while to get there.” She frowned and bit the inside of her lip. “How about you?”

“Eleven months, I think. Maybe twelve now.” Jake checked his numbers.

“Did you get sick, too?”

“Sick?” His mind spun back to his mother's injury and subsequent illness and his grandfather's gradual deterioration. His mother had gotten injured. His grandfather had cancer. Izzy wouldn't have known about either.

“My mom and dad got it, and didn't make it. My sister, Angie, and Rick and I got it, but not as bad.”

Jake's eyes popped at the matter-of-fact way Izzy had told him that her parents were dead. The grit in her voice could not have been fabricated. It rubbed against Jake's spine and made him sit up straighter.

“Got what?”

“You know, the
flu
. Didn't you get it? I thought everyone got it.”

“The flu? Your parents died from the flu? What? When?” Jake's breath whooshed from his chest.

“Last year.” She paused. “I thought you said you lived in Thompson?”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“On Prospect. Near the power lines.”

“What school did you go to?”

“Parker. What flu?”

“What was your last name, again?”

“Clarke.”

“I went to Frontier. I remember a Mrs. Clarke who helped out Mrs. Vaughn when I was in grade three. Do you know her?”

“My mother.” Jake swallowed, but his mouth was dry. The teacup was empty. “She died last summer.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What flu?” He needed an answer to this question. The longer it took her to answer, the more important he knew the answer to be.

“
The
flu. Everyone had it. You didn't get it? But your mom—”

“No, I never heard anything about it. My parents and my grandfather and I were up at our cabin last June, north of Sand Lakes. We were supposed to get picked up, but no one ever came for us. Mom cut herself. Bad. It got infected. No one answered on the radio when we called for help.”

“They stopped all the planes once they realized how bad this one was, to keep it from spreading. Didn't help. Where are your dad and grandfather now?”

“What? Start from the beginning,” Jake said, ignoring her question. Izzy looked at him, slightly distressed by his tone. He noted her expression and added, “Please.”

“I don't know much about how it started. It was a year ago. I was thirteen. I should have paid more attention . . . to a lot of things—” She stopped and studied her plate. “Mom worked at the hospital, in pediatrics. People started getting sick in late June in Thompson, but it was already in Winnipeg before that and a lot of other cities, too. Mom got it first, then Dad and Angie got it, then me. Dad had a fever on Friday and he died on Tuesday. Mom died the next day. Angie and I recovered and moved in with Rick and his ex-wife, Lois. He was our neighbor . . . before. He'd had the flu, too, but he recovered. Lois didn't. Their son, Brian, was out of town, but we never heard from him after the power went out. You really didn't know?”

“No.” Jake sat for a moment. His brain tried to process what she had just told him. It seemed so unreal. More questions than answers swirled in his mind.

“So why did you and Rick leave Thompson? Where's your sister?”

Izzy shook her head slowly, then shrugged. “It wasn't safe. Not after the food ran out. Rick took us south into the bush to protect us. Then the weather got cold, and we tried to get back to Thompson for the winter. That's when the gangs got Angie. Rick and I left and went back into the bush. It was pretty rough last winter, but we made it.”

“The food ran out? How could the food run out? And gangs?” In the darkened tent, facial expressions barely registered. Only the flickering campfire cast any glow, and that was changed to a dull blue shade to match the nylon walls.

“The grocery stores were empty after a few weeks. Rick said we
were all too dependent on the big cities. It was like they just forgot about us. The trucks stopped coming. Most folks only had enough food for a couple of days in the house. Even with all the dead . . . it just didn't last. People went south to get more, but they never came back. By mid-August there were all these people looking for food. They stole. They fought. They killed. People tried—tried to keep it together, but we couldn't. We did the best we could . . . for as long as we could.”

“What about the police? The army?”

“Gone. The police that didn't die from the flu—and didn't starve—ran into the bush like the rest of us. The army . . . never saw them. Word was that they tried to help out the bigger cities. They must have just forgot about us.”

Jake sat in silence as his brain organized the information into a picture that made sense.

“Jake?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have some more tea? I'm still thirsty.”

“Sure.” He grabbed the now-cool mug and the empty plate. Cool air spilled into the tent as he stumbled through the gap. Coals burned low in the fire, hissing and steaming as a spattering of rain fell on them. Jake refilled the pot with water, sliced off another hunk of the fish, and threw more wood on the fire. The forest was so peaceful, so quiet. His mind spun with noise and distraction.
The flu?
He'd had what his mom had called the flu a few times, but he had never heard of it killing anyone. There had been gangs at his high school—small, informal groups of kids who liked to pretend they were tougher than they were, but they never went farther than spraying graffiti on the walls of abandoned buildings, starting a few fistfights, or joyriding in a stolen car. The real gangs—the ones running guns and drugs on the news and the TV shows from
the US—those just didn't exist in Thompson. Thompson was a good town. With good people. The way she had described it, the good people were all gone, replaced by whacked-out nut jobs.

Could what she had described actually have happened? Could everyone else he knew—his friends from school, his neighbors—all really be dead? Or had her hypothermia caused some kind of weird hallucination? Was this all some elaborate story cooked up by a damaged little girl who, only a few hours ago, had tried to kill herself? If it was a story, then how did they end up with Bill's canoe? It made no sense.

Jake filled the cup, pulled another piece off the fried fish, and brought it back into the tent. Izzy dozed, but woke long enough to drink the tea and eat a little more before falling back to sleep. Jake again swapped out the rocks keeping her warm and left her alone while he cooked more tea and fish for himself. He curled up under the overturned canoe by the fire for a miserable night. Not that he would have slept more had he been warm. There were too may thoughts in his head, still too many questions he couldn't answer.

The answers he
could
find didn't help him sleep.