Nowhere Wild (20 page)

Sleep that night consisted of a series of alternating short naps interspersed with moments of sheer panic. Jake jumped at every sound during his watch. Every wind-caused rustle of leaves put his hands on his rifle. During Izzy's shifts, every creak of a branch had her tapping him to warn of Rick's impending approach. Up well before dawn, they moved swiftly as the first glow in the eastern sky brightened their patch of the woods. They snacked on pieces of venison roasted during the night, and they jogged through the gloom. They talked little.

Sometime around noon, they stumbled through a shallow, water-filled ditch and clambered up the side of a rutted winter road, heading in roughly their desired direction. They reached the bridge an hour later. They paused before making the final run across.

“Do you see him?”

“No.” Jake removed the lens covers from his rifle scope and meticulously scanned the opposite shore. Weeds covered the aging box girder bridge. Spots of peeling olive-green paint remained on the steel, but brown rust overwhelmed the structure. Steam rose off the river, filling the area the locals called the Narrows with mist. Overhead, the clouds fled the scene. The next night, Jake guessed, would be cold.

“Do we go?”

“Give me a minute.” They hid behind a downed tree that neatly
blocked the road two hundred meters from the river. The far side of the river, another fifty or seventy-five meters away, disappeared and reemerged from a veil of mist as if someone were towing a train of clouds down the river. Jake completed two more scans, then nodded. “Let's go.”

He clamped the butt of the rifle against his shoulder as they moved out from their hiding spot. He hoped that they had made better time than Rick. The distance was about equal. Jake and Izzy had used every minute of daylight to gain an advantage.
Rick probably did the same
, Jake thought. He didn't say it aloud.

They walked as quickly as their aching feet would allow. Extended time walking had forced Jake to make more room in his cramped boots for his toes so as to avoid blisters of his own. By the light of the campfire, he had finally cut the toe caps off his boots with his knife. Now, instead of being blistered, his toes were wet, cold, and numb. His boots filled with water and mud from puddles, streams, and creeks too numerous to count. On the other side of the bridge, they still had a few more kilometers to hike to the outskirts of town. He hoped his feet wouldn't fall off from trench foot before then.

The road rose to the broken concrete approach to the bridge. At one time, logging trucks had rolled over this one-lane structure on an hourly basis. Spring floods had left the framework under the roadbed impaled by dozens of broken trees. High water had slammed the footings and washed out large sections of the embankment. It was just a matter of time before all support was lost and the bridge fell into the churning rapids below. Jake couldn't help but notice that no one had come out to repair the damage.

Every step they took put them farther into the open. Jake measured the distance to the first steel girder. His grip on the gun relaxed. His eyes searched the opposite shore for any signs of movement.
At fifty meters from the bridge, he shouted a quick order to Izzy: “Run, Izzy! Run!”

They sprinted toward the steel frame and slid in behind it. The forty-meter-long bridge hung over the water on trestles that appeared ready to fail at any moment. Long sections of rusted rebar poked through the fractured concrete deck. The sides of the bridge would protect them from shots from upriver or downriver, but if Rick were close enough to appear at the far end of the bridge before they finished the crossing, he could fill the roadway with shotgun pellets. Jake's heart drummed in his chest, only partially from exertion.

“Okay, let's go, fast as you can. Watch for the potholes. If you see Rick, duck behind one of the girders. When we get all the way across, get into the trees on the left as fast as you can, okay?”

“Yep.”

Jake led the way, gun pinned to his shoulder. The safety was off this time; he had checked it three times before they started the initial run, and verified again at the last stop. He weaved around a large hole in the deck that fell straight through to the water. He counted the distance in his head. Fifty meters. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. A movement to his right caught his attention. He slowed slightly, turned the gun toward the motion, and fired. His finger flew off the trigger as his arm reached behind him. Izzy ran hard, right on his heels. Her tunic hit his hand. He grabbed at it. His left foot slid on loose pebbles. His hand redirected Izzy's momentum down and to the concrete curb. She tripped and slid to a jarring stop. The blast of Rick's gun echoed through the trestle as the ping of shotgun pellets rang off the steel beams. Jake spun as he dropped to the deck. The gun slid from his grip as he protected his face from impact with the ground. His chin slammed into the rubble. Stars danced in his eyes.

The feeling of liquid running across his back broke him from the impact-induced fog. He arched his back and searched with his
hand to determine where he had been hit. After searching fruitlessly for three or four seconds, he pulled his hand back and checked it for blood. It took a moment for him to realize that the liquid was not warm; it was cold. A pellet had punctured one of the water bottles strapped to his pack. He almost let out a laugh, but the ache in his chin squelched it short. There
was
blood there, and plenty of it.

“Izzy?”

Izzy groaned.

She lay wedged into the gap between the curb and the bottom of the bridge railing. Jake pulled her down into the gutter and crawled forward on the deck until he was even with her. Her eyes were closed. A large scrape crossed her forehead and terminated near her right eye. A circular knot there had already swelled to the size of a Ping-Pong ball. Blood gushed from a laceration along her temple. She tried to raise her head, but Jake held it down.

Approaching footsteps forced Jake to delay any further inspection of her condition. He brought his rifle forward, cranked the bolt, and shoved a new round into the chamber. With his finger on the trigger, he assumed a prone firing position, raising his head barely above the gutter's edge.

Jake slowly lifted the gun over the concrete lip to locate his target. Rick had been hiding behind a thick pile of stumps to the right of the road for his first shot. He now closed the distance to the bridge at a full run. Jake aimed between the bridge supports, caught a brief glimpse of Rick's legs, and fired. With a quick pull on the bolt, he slid another round home. He had had six rounds in the clip when he started. Four remained. He fired again. Three.

The footsteps slowed and hesitated. Jake had a bad angle on Rick through a thin slot in the ironwork. He lined up another shot and took it. The bullet grazed one of Rick's legs. The response was a howl of pain and anger, and a vengeful return volley from the shotgun.
Two. Jake ducked below the curb as he cranked another bullet into the chamber. He popped his head up and fired another shot as Rick retreated back to his pile of stumps. One.

“You ain't getting off that bridge alive, boy!” Rick taunted as soon as he reached cover, a slight hint of pain in his voice. Jake slid the last bullet into the chamber. He checked Izzy's head and rubbed her face.

“Izzy? Izzy, you okay?”

Izzy's hand came up to her forehead, gently touching the swelling lump. She groaned again, and coughed.

“It hurts.” She curled into a ball, both hands clasped to her head, knees pulled to her chest.

He couldn't lift himself up far enough to examine her—not that he would have been able to do anything if she was injured beyond a scrape or a splinter. He had no medical training, or even a spare bandage. His own blood ran down the outside of his throat from the cut on his chin. He set his chin on his arm to staunch the flow.

He evaluated his options. They had fifteen meters to go before they were off the bridge. Rick was below them and to their right, behind a wall of stumps. Even after the bridge, forty or fifty meters remained to reach the tree line. To Jake's left, a shallow ditch, half full of water, ran along the edge of road. Jake could crouch and run, fire his last shot, and hope that kept Rick's head down long enough for him to find better cover. Doing that, however, would leave Izzy alone on the bridge.

They could stay and try to out-wait Rick, but the concrete deck sponged heat from their bodies at an alarming rate. The drenching fog above the river only made it worse. In an hour, they would be too stiff to walk. In a few hours, without moving and without a fire, they'd be dead from hypothermia. They were both soaked in sweat,
and with the punctured bottle having drained across his back, his vital organs would soon be wrapped in a cold towel. Neither of them had the reserves to wait it out. Jake had no option but to move.

With just one shot left, he had to reload. He released his pack, rolling it to the top of the curb. His movement drew more fire. The bag moved backward. Pellets ricocheted around the girders. Izzy twitched at the sound and let out a short shriek. Jake reached into the bag, trying to find the plastic box with his spare bullets. Instead, his hand felt something colder, and harder.

It took a moment for Jake to recognize what it was. His heart jumped as he pulled his grandfather's army .45 out of the bag. The green dishcloth he had carefully wrapped around it clung to the barrel sight. He plucked the cloth free and wrapped his fingers around the grip. The gun was heavy—almost heavier than his rifle. He remembered back to the first time he had shot it. His heart had pumped a million beats an hour then too, but for different reasons. His grandfather had hauled this gun around a half dozen countries, though according to Amos, it had never actually seen combat. That was about to change. Jake pulled the slide back, chambered a round, and set his rifle on the bridge deck next to Izzy.

“Izzy, can you hear me?”

She nodded slowly.

“I'm going to try to make a run for it. See if I can't pull him away from here.”

“Jake . . . don't leave. Take me with you.”

Jake held her down with one hand. “Stay here until I come back, or until the shooting stops. Then run for the trees on the left, okay?”

“No, Jake. I want to go, too. Don't leave me here.”

“I'll leave the rifle. It's right here. If you see him coming, you use it, okay? It's got one shot left.”

He pushed the rifle in front of her and ran his hand over her head. Her blood-ringed eyes lodged one last protest, but he could wait no longer.

“I'll come back. I promise.”

He began to move.

Izzy grabbed for Jake's pant leg as he slithered forward. Her ears rang from the blasts of his rifle. Blood coursed down her cheek. She objected one last time, but it was too late. Jake was gone.

Panic surged through her body and she began to tremble. From cold. From fear. The broken concrete seemed to latch on to her, anchoring her body to the ground. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves. The smell of gun smoke and pine and blood mingled into a bewildering mix. The river rumbled beneath the bridge, humming through its superstructure as if an army marched nearby.

She was alone.

The pounding in her head slowed just enough to form one coherent thought.

I can't stay here. I have to move.

She reached forward and touched the rifle. Jake had said there was one shot left. One shot with a gun that would probably break her shoulder the first time she fired it. She lifted her head above the concrete edge. Jake disappeared to the left. Rick was somewhere to the right.
Where exactly?
She pulled the gun closer. It was so much heavier than the .22—too heavy for her to manage.

Jake had told her to stay put.

She couldn't stay there. Not with Rick out there. He'd be coming. He'd kill Jake, and then he'd come back for her. But she couldn't go back the way they had come. She wouldn't go back there, ever.

She moved the only way that made sense. Forward.

On his elbows, Jake crawled five meters, rested, then another five. At any time, Rick could bolt from his cover and catch him without an angle on the stump pile. As Jake scooted forward, he gained a better view of the ground ahead of him. The ditch to his left followed the road closely. Forty meters from the bridge, the sight of a concrete abutment caught his attention.

Rick had a better gun at this range—one that could make up for poor aim—and better cover from which to use it. The only thing Jake could do was try to keep Rick's head down as he ran, so Rick couldn't get off a shot while Jake was exposed.

Jake jumped from the prone position to standing as fast as his fatigued legs could manage, using the last angular bridge beam to cover his move. His left hand braced his right hand. He fired at the pile of brush. The .45 boomed like a cannon. His arms drifted upward with the recoil. He re-aimed the barrel at the corner of the stumps where Rick had disappeared, then sprinted down the short embankment to the left and slid into the ditch. A twig near the pile moved. Jake fired again.

The ditch was deeper than Jake originally thought. The bottom held a reservoir of fast-moving water. Jake ignored the discomfort of cold water running through his open boots in favor of the safety of concealment.

The stumps still protected Rick from Jake, but the berm of the road would prevent them from seeing each other if they moved. Their current positions led to a stalemate, but in time, Jake—and Izzy—would lose. Jake had but three rounds left in his gun. Rick's supply of shot seemed inexhaustible.

Jake worked his way south toward the abutment, careful to stay concealed by the road. He monitored the approach to the bridge. If Rick made a run for Izzy, Jake would have a good line of sight only once Rick reached the road. He wanted to poke his head up to check on Rick, but it would mean giving away his position. The longer Jake stayed concealed, the more places Rick had to watch to figure out where Jake was.

The roar of the river running through the debris below the bridge disguised any noise Jake made as he moved. Still, he moved quietly, as if he were stalking a wounded animal. To Jake, that was what he was doing. He couldn't think about it any other way. He covered the ground to the abutment at a fast jog. A short tunnel made of a double layer of creosote-covered railroad ties supported the road over a creek that fed the ditch. He plunged into the darkness. If Rick was waiting on the other side, there would be no retreat—Jake would be penned into this wooden crypt, likely for all eternity. Frigid water rushed into his pant legs, nearly up to his groin. He stifled a cry of pain. With one hand, he pulled himself along using the underside of the trestle deck as a guide.

A copse of dry grass hid the exit from Rick's view—not that he was looking in that direction. Jake's speed and quick decisions had put him behind and to the right of Rick. The barrel of his gun led the way through the grass, separating the stalks with barely a shimmer. Ahead, a dozen meters away, Rick crouched behind his pile of stumps, eyes fixed on the road where Jake had disappeared just a minute before.

The shot was clear and easy. And at that moment, Jake was glad he didn't have his rifle and its scope. Even without the scope, he saw something he didn't want to see: a human being. Rick was no animal. Maybe in behavior, but not in form. Rick grimaced and pressed down on the top of a thin streak of blood on his leg where the bullet had nicked him. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then rose slowly, scanning the far side of the road. These weren't the actions of an animal. This was a man, made too human in Jake's eyes by the close range.

Five seconds passed. Jake began to lose the feeling in his still-submerged legs. Five more minutes and he'd be too cold to walk. He had a pair of semi-dry pants in his pack. That was a lifetime away. Jake hesitated ten seconds longer, hoping that Rick would do something—anything—that would justify taking the shot. Rick didn't move.

“Drop the gun!” Jake shouted from his hiding spot. It wasn't his most commanding voice. It shivered with fear and cold and came out more of a cry than an order. Rick's head spun around. His gun came up at an incredible speed.

Jake's heart thudded. In a flash, he was back in the clearing with the bear. The bear had run when Jake stood tall. Rick wouldn't run. The expression on Rick's face morphed into that of the bear. His teeth were long and sharp. His nostrils flared. His eyes locked onto Jake's position. He roared in anger.

Jake squeezed the trigger.

The .45's recoil knocked him off balance. Jake's shot missed high and to the right. His left foot lost its grip on the bank, sending him sliding backward.

Rick fired as Jake toppled into the creek. The shot scythed through where Jake had stood just a second before. Blades of grass spun through the air. Water funneled into the neck of Jake's sweater. He gasped and tried to pull himself back to the bank. The .45 slipped
from his grip and dropped to the muddy creek bed, out of his sight and out of his reach.

“You stupid kid.” Rick appeared over the edge of the creek. His shotgun pointed directly at Jake. It could not miss from there. “You should have never taken her. She was mine.” His hand tightened on the trigger. Jake raised his arms to protect his face.

The rock hit Rick flush in the temple. Rick's eyes bulged as his head snapped sideways. His gun discharged harmlessly over Jake's head. The sound of the shot rolled like artillery under the trestle while the shotgun pinwheeled off to his left. The force of impact threw him into the creek. Rick's head bounced off a large river rock before sliding face-first into the water. He did not move again.

Jake's eyes fogged. He dove under the water to retrieve the Colt and came up with it aimed at Rick. Jake kicked Rick's back, but he was dead.

Water cascaded from his clothes as Jake scrambled out of the creek. The slight breeze felt like a gale as it chilled his body even further.

There, on the berm of the road, stood Izzy, her sling dangling from her right hand. She wiped her face with her left hand. Blood from the cut on her temple created a mask of red on one side of her face.

“I told you I was good with this thing,” she said.

Jake glanced back at Rick. Water built up around the new obstruction in the creek and flowed over the top. Jake swerved and skittered up the muddy embankment, trying to gain traction toward the road and Izzy.

She slowly drooped to the ground, her face suddenly pallid and lifeless.

“Izzy!” Jake dashed to her, grabbing her as her knees hit the ground. “Oh, Jesus.”

Her skin was cold to the touch. He laid her gently on the ground. She was so cold.
Fire
. We need fire.
Shelter. Fire. Water. Food
. Jake just had to keep moving until they had those things.

He raced to the bridge, grabbed his pack and his rifle, and ran back. He stripped off his wet pants and shirt and pulled out his last remaining pair. The wet ones he left where they fell. The dry pants weren't as thick as his others, but the suck of heat from his skin slowed. He discarded his socks for a somewhat drier pair, though just as rank. His boots he dumped out and then put back on.

He needed fire and warmth. Izzy needed immediate medical care—more and better care than he could give her. His fingers fumbled with the rifle, added a half dozen rounds into the magazine, just in case. The Colt he safed and dropped back into his bag. He shouldered his bag and looked at Izzy. He would have to carry her. It took him a moment to figure out how to do it. He slid the pack down his back slightly and threw Izzy over his shoulder in a fireman's hold.

He took five steps and froze in his tracks.

“Stop. Right. There.” The voice came from down the road. It took him a second to recognize that it wasn't the same crazed voice he had heard just minutes before.

There were actually two people: a middle-aged man in a blue jacket carrying a .22 rifle, and another man, somewhat younger and leaner, carrying a Remington similar to Jake's. The .22 was aimed at the creek to Jake's right, where Rick lay motionless. The Remington was pointed squarely at Jake's chest. Even in the hands of a rank amateur, the gun couldn't miss from that range, and this man looked like he knew stock from barrel just fine.

“What the hell is going on here?” the older man in the blue jacket questioned. Jake took a quick glance at the body in the creek. Izzy spasmed in his grip.

“He was trying to kill us!” Jake explained.

“Looked like you had the same intentions,” the man said.

Jake nodded. “Yes, sir. But not by choice.” The weight of Izzy and the pack began to tip him backward. He shuffle-stepped to keep his balance.

“What's your name?” the man asked.

“Jake. Jake Clarke.”

“Where you from?”

“Thompson.”

“Ain't seen you around.”

“I've been in the bush a while.” Jake shifted his feet again. Izzy convulsed in his arms.

“Sir, can you check on—my friend? I can't hold on, and she's hurt, bad.”

He adjusted his grip on Izzy as she started to slide off his shoulder. He had no choice but to trust these two, despite the fact that one still pointed a gun directly at him. The older man gave a tip of his head to the younger one, changing positions while the younger man cautiously approached Jake from the side.

“How long have you lived in Thompson?”

“All my life, till the last year or so. My dad and grandfather ran Clarke Excursions.” The man's expression changed slightly at the name. “You know it?”

“You're Leland's boy?” The man's gun dropped lower. The younger man arrived and slowly pulled the hair back from Izzy's face while keeping his distance from Jake.

“Yes, sir.” Jake's eyes welled up at the mention of his father's name. He clenched his jaw. “Have you seen him?”

His chest locked up. He dreaded the answer. The younger man reached over and grabbed Izzy off Jake's shoulders as though she were a feather-stuffed pillow.

“I'm sorry, no. Not since before the flu.”

The barrel of his gun now pointed at the ground. Jake's spine could no longer support him, and he fell forward on his knees. Drops of blood fell from his chin onto the gravel. The enormity of his journey landed squarely on his exhausted body.

“Davis, she's conscious, but barely. Exposure for sure. Maybe hypothermic. A concussion, too, probably.”

Jake turned his head to Izzy. The younger man held the inert girl with one arm while examining her with the other. She was limp and gray, her hair matted with blood and mud.

“Take her back to the camp, Eddie. Get her warmed up.”

Davis waved Eddie south, then stepped forward to Jake, who had barely moved from his bowed position on the ground. Davis reached down and lifted Jake to a standing position. He held his shoulder with one hand to help him maintain his balance. Eddie was in motion before Jake could try to follow.

“Who's the girl, Jake? I don't remember Leland having a daughter.”

“Her name's Izzy. She was with Rick in a cabin out there. She—she asked me to help her. I think he kidnapped her, but I'm not sure,” Jake said. Davis's eyes went wide with familiarity.

“Eddie, that's Izzy—Izzy Chamberlain,” Davis called out. Eddie stopped in his tracks. He looked back down at Izzy's damaged face.

“Is that Rick?” Eddie asked. He pointed to the body in the creek. Eddie's face flashed with an anger that made Jake shiver. Jake nodded. They knew who she was. And they knew Rick.

Eddie gave Jake a nod of his head that conveyed more respect than he had ever before felt, then headed off down the road at a near run with Izzy carefully cradled in his arms. Jake looked down at Rick's body, then back to Davis.

“We didn't want to kill him. He just kept coming. He was going to kill us.”

Jake closed his eyes and tried not to remember the image of Rick standing over him with the gun. Izzy had saved him. Another second and it would have been all over. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“I know, Jake. We know about Rick. You done good. Your dad would be so proud. You done real good.”

“It was Izzy. She saved me,” Jake admitted.

“Looks more like you saved each other, son.” Davis removed his hand from Jake's shoulder. Jake swayed, but then steadied himself.

Jake gazed back into the trees to the north, as if he could see all the way to the cabin, back to a boy standing on a dock, ready to start an impossible journey. A lifetime had passed since that last morning on the dock, yet he could see back into that boy's eyes. That boy had not been ready for the trip. Yet here he was.

Davis gave Jake a moment to catch his breath. “Come on. We've got a long walk ahead of us. It'll be dark in a couple of hours, and I don't want to be out here then. It can get pretty nasty without the right gear.” He took a brief glance at Jake's boots and shook his head.

Jake nodded and flexed his mud-encrusted toes.

“We'll find you new ones when we get back to town, unless you want his, now.” Davis pointed at the boots on Rick's lifeless feet. Jake looked at them for a moment, then back at his own. He couldn't bring himself to do it.

“No thanks. I'll make it.” Jake picked up his gun and adjusted his pack. Davis retrieved Rick's shotgun, pulled the fired rounds from the barrel, and draped the broken-open gun over his arm.

“You ready to go home?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said, taking a long breath. “But I'm not sure where home is these days.”

He took a final glance at Rick, and then a long look past the bridge and into the deep woods.

He had made it. He hadn't done it alone. Amos had pulled him through the winter and passed on the knowledge of his ancestors. Izzy had saved him more than once. Still, he knew, without a doubt, that Davis was right. His father would have been so proud.