Stranded (8 page)

The view in front of me brightened. The moon was back out. I checked my eyes up, finally seeing the top, about twenty yards away. Small trees twisted out of the side of the rock face, but I didn't dare grab them. It was all too easy to imagine them ripping away in my hands. I knew I must be carrying at least an extra forty pounds, maybe more. I climbed more slowly, taking shorter steps, looking for handholds in easy distances. Twenty yards to go. Fifteen. Ten. Five.

Hand, hand, check. Foot, foot, rest.

I reached for a jutting chunk of granite and tugged, but the piece broke off under the pressure. My right arm flew out into space. “Shit!” I was dangerously off balance. The pack on my shoulders pulled me backward with momentum. “No!” I gripped my left fingers harder on my handhold.
Dear Jesus, please don't break. I have to drop the pack. I have to or I'm going to fall.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to drop it.

Drop it! No! Not yet! You're almost there!

Instead, I wrenched my chest back toward the rock face, using every muscle in my shoulders and stomach, while hot streaks of pain erupted under my ribs in protest. I slammed back against the cliff, the force of my impact sending a stream of gravel and sand down on my head and neck. A clod of dirt hit my face and exploded against my mouth. “Son of a bitch!” I coughed, trying not to gag.
Don't drop it!

Suddenly I was rising, my chin butting the rocks as I ascended, like I was being lifted by a crane. Within seconds the ground flattened out, and I collapsed forward onto it and turned over, only to see a large shadow hunched over me. Isaac clicked his flashlight on, holding it under his chin. He looked like a ghoul. “You called?”

*  *  *

An hour later we were all huddled together on the smooth granite outcropping, taking shallow breaths through our shirts. Isaac had shown me a slim trail up the far side, steep but still walkable. Apparently I had picked the hardest route
to the top. And with Oscar's help we got Chloe up the cliff. The smoke came in waves, gusting thick, then ebbing out, depending on the direction the wind shifted. It swirled so quickly it was impossible to know where it was coming from, impossible to know what to do.

So we did nothing but sit. We hunkered down, as Isaac called it, and rode it out, hoping the bare rocks would keep the flames from us.

Another gust made my eyes burn; at least it didn't feel hot. The wind seemed to be picking up.

“Thank you, Jesus,” Isaac coughed weakly. He pulled his shirt down and gulped the fresh air.

“Whaddya mean?” Chloe said, her whole face buried in her flannel shirt.

“The wind's coming from the north,” Isaac said. “The fire was behind us, to the south.”

“How do you know?” My eyeballs felt as though they'd been scraped with sandpaper, and I squeezed them tighter, hoping to make some tears.

“I just do.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better,” Oscar said. I couldn't tell by his voice if he was being sarcastic or not. Mainly, he sounded tired.

“It should. That means we won't be turning into crispy crunchies any time soon.”

“Unless the wind changes direction,” Chloe muttered.

“Yeah.” Isaac rubbed his face, smearing soot. He looked
like he was wearing camouflage paint. “But I think we've had enough bad luck for one night.”

“I think we've had enough bad luck for the rest of our lives,” Oscar said.

I knew a little about bad luck, enough to know it didn't work that way, but I didn't bother to say it. There was no point. Instead, I took deep breaths of fresh northern air, grateful for the reprieve, however long it would last.

I woke to see the horizon edge glowing seashell pink.

How long was I asleep?

Crouched between Chloe and Oscar, I pressed my back up against the ledge and sniffed the air. No smoke. Oscar's head was crooked on my shoulder, Chloe's bad leg propped up in my lap.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.” Isaac poked his finger against my forehead.

“What time is it?” I wiped the crust out of my eyes, still raw and gritty.

“Time to get off this cliff and find some water.” He shook his empty canteen at me. “We're out.”

“I have some left.” Immediately I regretted that. I certainly wasn't going to give him my share, but then again, I figured he was the type who'd just take it.

“We're going to need more soon.” He kept staring at me.
Curious. Hungry almost. Like a bird looking at a worm. He leaned over me, blocking out the view, and I noticed his boots were only a few feet from the edge. If I jumped up, I had the distinct impression he would fall backward off it. Or maybe I would push him.

Don't think that stuff.
My palms itched at the possibility. Chloe's leg was heavy in my lap; I knew I wouldn't be jumping up any time soon. “Chloe?” I nudged her awake.

“Mmm.” She stirred, yawned, then winced. “Oh damn! That hurts.” Gingerly she withdrew her leg off me. Last night Oscar had wrapped her ankle tightly with an Ace bandage he found in the first aid kit. Wedged between the layers was a chemical ice pack.

“That wasn't enough sleep,” Oscar groaned softly, lifting his head off my shoulder.

“We can rest when we get water,” Isaac said.

“What about the fire?” Oscar removed his glasses and began to polish them with his shirtsleeve.

“What about it? Don't matter. We still need water.”

I scanned the horizon, the view growing lighter by the second. Trees, trees, and more trees, in every color green. But no blue. No silver glimmer in the distance. There must be thousands of lakes and ponds and streams out there. How did that poem go? “Water, water, everywhere, / Nor any drop to drink.”

“All right,” I said, heaving myself up to standing. “We should climb down to the base.”

“Oh yeah, Dodd? What's your plan?”

“Well, water of course,” I said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Chloe can't walk, so she'll have to stay here. Someone should stay close.” I looked pointedly at Oscar. I knew if the fire came back he wouldn't leave her. “Actually, both of you should stay close.” I wasn't going to come right out and accuse Isaac. That wouldn't work. I needed to flatter him—make him feel important.

“And do what, exactly?”

“You and Oscar could look for food and supplies around here. Water might be farther away.”

“So maybe I should look for it.”

“You're stronger,” I said, trying out my version of a compliment. “And between the two of you, if the fire does come back, you'll be able to carry Chloe much faster than I can.”

Isaac crossed his arms. “And what are you going to do?”

I nodded at his canteen. “I'm going to find water.”

Twenty minutes later I pushed through a scraggly dogwood bush, the whiplike branches slapping thickly against my pants.

How long does it take to starve?

Two weeks without food? Ten days?

Or thirst, that's definitely quicker. Probably three days without water, maybe four.

So how do I find water?

Water was something you bought in a bottle at the Kwik Trip or ran through the filter on the kitchen faucet. Food
was something you took out of the pantry or the refrigerator, something you ordered in a restaurant, bought at the grocery store. Finding those things had never been on my list of concerns.

Past the dogwood clump, the bright red berries on an evergreen caught my eye. My stomach involuntarily clenched and pulled tight as I remembered the taste of a strawberry, the sweetness bright on my tongue. When I was a kid, I once went strawberry picking with my mom and Lucy on some farm that charged by the pail. I crouched in the dirt with my little sister, and we ate them until our stomachs hurt, until it hurt to breathe. Then we filled our buckets.

But these weren't strawberries. I plucked one anyway, turning it over between my finger and thumb.
Is it poisonous?
I didn't have that book on plants that Chris had brought along on the trek.
The Upper Midwest Field Guide to Native Plant Species
. Illustrated with full-color photographs and Latin names. The first night I had scanned the pages—some of the drawings and photos from the pages on edible mushrooms—but I had skipped the section on berries.
Stupid
. The book was burned to a crisp by now, like the rest of the supplies, like Chris and Jeremy and Wes.

Probably poisonous.
I flung the berry into the trees, then pulled a thin strip of plaid cloth from my down-vest pocket. Eight inches long, plaid flannel, cut from the plackets. I tied the strip around a slim white paper birch. Was the pattern called Royal Stewart? It didn't matter what it was called,
only that the red tartan stood out brightly in the endless green. The shirt was a birthday present from my parents, along with a new phone. I also got art supplies from Lucy. Watercolor paints. Payne's gray, viridian, Naples yellow, Chinese white. A sable fan brush. But that was over a year ago, and I don't paint anymore.

I finished the loose knot and wiped my eyes. Two strips of shirt tied so far, at one-hundred-yard intervals. One hundred yards on a track was easy, but I was less certain of the distance out here. I had eight strips left before I was supposed to go back. The trail here was decent, made by some sort of animal, probably a deer. Definitely not a person. No one would be out this far. At least, I reasoned, not someone who wasn't crazy. Or suicidal.

It was still early, the birds shrieking morning songs in the thickets. Soon the buzz of mosquitoes would start. Another reason to hurry. I glanced up. The sun was rising steadily—already a white ball, the day promising to be hot and muggy—and I couldn't help but think about the coming snowstorm. Chris had said it was coming in a week, but what was that thing that happened last night? Just a freak of nature? Or a sign of more to come?

The weather up here, so close to the Canadian border, seemed to have a mood disorder. Clear, perfect mornings that bloomed into muggy afternoons, with blackflies buzzing incessantly. But at night the temperature dropped, sometimes by thirty degrees or more, and by the time the morning
rolled back around you could see your breath as you exhaled little puffs of steam.

After another estimated hundred yards, I tied the seventh flannel strip, this one around a scraggly pine, and continued down the trail. It widened out.
A good sign?
Maybe it's leading to something
. This was the third morning of the trip. No one would be looking for us until the eighth when we failed to check in. But maybe—just maybe—they were already searching, considering what had happened. I watched the sky once more, wishing for a plane, a helicopter, something. We hadn't gone more than a few miles from the last camp on foot; we couldn't be that far away, could we? They knew we were out there; they knew where we were supposed to be.

My toe caught on a rock sticking up from the dirt like a broken tooth, and I pitched forward, almost driving my face into the ground. “Dammit!” It sounded frighteningly loud in this wide stillness. The birds went silent at my outburst.

I shrugged my pack into position.
If a tree falls in the
woods . . .
something, something.
I forgot the rest, but I did know one thing. I could scream out here. I could cry and yell and swear my head off. I could beg and pray and plead. And I could die. No one would hear. No one would know. No one would find me.
I would disappear into the ground, just like that smushed berry I picked, just like everything else.

A chill trickled down my back. I closed my eyes, listening. I needed to keep going. Just a little farther.
Is it “further” or “farther”?
A stupid thought at a time like this. Whatever it
was, I needed to do it. I needed to find water. The canteens were empty. I took a shallow sip from my bottle, only a few gulps left.
Isn't that the clue to go back? Shouldn't I turn around now? Maybe I should have put the cloth at fifty yards, not one hundred. I should go back. What if I do fall and get hurt? I would be stuck out here.

I pressed my hand against the shedding bark of a paper birch, closed my eyes, and smelled the breeze.
Ridiculous.
You can't smell water. Can you?

I pushed off, determined to use all my markers before I stopped. Surely there would be water somewhere. This whole forest was full of it. I should be able to throw a rock and hit it.

Keep going,
I thought.
You'll find water if you just keep going. You have to
.

When I came around the corner, the trail flattened out, turning soft under my boots. Sand.
There must be something near,
I thought, and through the brush of pine, aspen, and sumac I finally saw it. Water. It glinted in the sunlight, blue and promising.

It was not a large lake, and the shoreline was sandy, studded with rocks. It wasn't one of those swampy, algae-ridden, boggy ponds, but a true lake, clear and cold and deep. I bet there would be fish—big ones. I slid off my pack, retrieved the four large empty canteens, and filled each one completely at the water's edge, promising myself I wouldn't drink any until I got back and it was sterilized. I dropped the tablets
into each one—twenty minutes before they would be okay to drink. The lake smelled of weeds and iron and minerals, and the saliva flowed in my mouth, imagining how good it would taste. I splashed it on my face, running my hands over my hair. It still stank of wood smoke and burned plastic. My throat was still raw, my skin itchy. When the canteens were full, I capped them, loaded up, and headed back. Seven hundred yards to water. No problem. This would be an easy place to die, I knew, a wry smile blooming on my lips.
But not today. I'm not going to die today.