Stranded (19 page)

“Where you going?” Chloe asked.

“To wash it. The oatmeal will stick on like cement.” I glanced down—the pot was spotless, not an oat left. “Well, usually it sticks. I guess I'll go rinse it out and get more water.”

I was halfway down the trail when I heard Oscar say, “I'm going to bed.”

“Sweet dreams,” Isaac called back.

I crouched down at the water's edge and submerged the pot, swirling it clean before I refilled it.

Footsteps behind me, crunching on pebbles, turned my head.

“Hey.” Oscar sat down, but this time he looked directly
at me, obviously waiting for me to say something. Or maybe do something. His gaze was unnerving. He wanted an explanation.

“Hey.” I filled the pot to the brim.

It was quiet, but not really, not when I really stopped to listen. Peeping frogs, twittering birds, leaves rustling in the wind, and below all that the constant hum of insects. Even with all the sounds I could still hear Isaac and Chloe talking. Their words were unintelligible, but it sounded more like a conversation, less like a brewing fight. I cocked my head in their direction. “That's a first.”

“Wonder how long it will last.”

“Five minutes, maybe.”

“Wonder what they're talking about.”

“I don't know.” I made a face at the water, the flash of Isaac pressing me up against the tree made me drop the pot. Just like that he had changed, as unpredictable as a wild animal, maybe even more so. And I had never seen it coming. “I don't know anything.” I kept filling and emptying the pot of water.

“You know how to survive,” he said. “That's something.”

“That's just dumb luck.”

“I don't think so.”

I started up to go back to the campfire. Oscar didn't follow me. I didn't expect him to. But when I passed, he grabbed my elbow, pulling back gently, like he was directing a kite on a string, and I couldn't help but notice how different his touch
felt on my skin than Isaac's. “Don't go.” I looked down at the top of his head, but he was only watching the creek. “Not now. Don't go.”

I didn't want to go. “They want the water.” It was a stupid protest.

“They can wait.” His voice was thick, heavy with something. His grip tightened.

I sank down and dropped the pot, letting the water run in rivulets back to the source.
Does it matter anymore what we do? Does anything matter?

“Maybe,” Oscar answered, and I knew I had been thinking out loud again. “I think some things do matter.”

“What Isaac said before,” I began, feeling shaky and embarrassed. “He saw me get out of the water when I took a bath. He wouldn't give me my towel.” I swallowed with some difficulty, thinking about what to say next. No way was I going to tell him what had happened in the woods. Not now. Not ever. I couldn't risk another fight. “That's it. That's all. He made it sound like something different.”

“Oh.” I could see the lines of veins pulse in his throat.

“He's an asshole.”

Oscar turned to me with a quiet smile. “Oh really? I hadn't noticed.” Without his glasses on, his eyes looked even darker, more black than brown. He exhaled slow and heavy; I could see his whole frame relax, tension sinking away.

“I just wanted to explain.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me, Emma.”

“I want to.”

“I believe you, you know,” Oscar said. “It's okay.”

“Good.” I exhaled. “Just don't get into any more fights, okay? It's not worth it. It doesn't matter what Isaac says.”

“It matters to me.” His voice was hard, remembering.

“But we need to stick together or we won't make it. We need to get along.” It was a simple statement. An opinion. A fact. An undeniable truth. I shook my head. “We'll all die out here.”

“All the more reason then.” He pulled me to him, his mouth quieting mine, and that was good, because there really was nothing left to say. He was right. All the more reason.

*  *  *

We attacked each other like we were starving. Because we actually were. His fingers wound through my hair, and I gripped the back of his head, our noses and teeth clicking together when our lips collided. He tasted like dirt and sand and leaves, salty and sweet water, and it made me even hungrier. I rolled back down onto my shoulders, conscious of his wrist, and that one small gesture was all the invitation he needed. He slid his good arm underneath the small of my back, following me down with a soft sigh. My lips were numb, almost bruised, but his tongue was warm in my mouth, each kiss sending small electrical shocks through my veins until I was certain my blood was boiling. The roar of it echoed in my head, but all I could think was more. I wanted more. I
needed more. I panted like I'd sprinted a mile but knew I could keep going. I definitely wanted to keep going. I bit his lip gently, moved my hands down his chest, pressing myself closer. Oscar responded by running his hand up the inside of my thigh and cupping his palm firmly against me. I felt like I might go blind from the sensation. Seeing my reaction, Oscar proceeded to unbutton my shirt.

“Hey, Dodd? Where's the water?” Isaac yelled. “Are you doing a rain dance down there?”

Oscar pulled back and looked down at me, his eyes a blur of anxiety and lust and bewilderment. I must have looked the same, because he immediately sat up and apologized.

“I'm sorry.” He cradled his bad wrist against his chest, wincing.

“For what?” I sat up and picked a leaf out of my hair.

He exhaled a bit shakily, his mouth quivering with the words. “I don't know.”

“You don't have to be sorry,” I said, realizing it sounded exactly like something my psychiatrist would say. I decided to finish the line. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Says you.”

“Yeah, says me.” I couldn't figure out why his mood had changed so abruptly. Then again, I often did the same thing. He almost seemed scared, not of me exactly, but of himself. I shook my head, letting the dirt sift out. That was just my crazy talking again.

His fear made me brave, if only to reassure him. “You don't
have to do anything you don't want to do.”
There, my therapist training is complete
.

He swiveled around to face me and swallowed hard. “That's just it,” he said. “I do want to. I want to so badly I can't even think of anything else.”

Flattery was warm syrup in my blood, flushing me with pleasure. “And that's so bad?”

“Out here it is.” He nodded, serious. “Out here it can get us killed.”

“It can get you killed anywhere.”

“More here, I think.”

I sighed and stood up (still tingling). “We'll see.” I refilled the pot of water and walked back to the fire.

We're going to die.
I scratched the sentence into the dirt with a stick, read it to myself several times, then stepped on it, smearing the words with my boot. I refilled the pot and grabbed my fresh stack of kindling.

I settled the cook pot on the ring of rocks (a makeshift stovetop) and watched it until bubbles pricked up from the bottom.

“What's on the itinerary today, Dodd?” Isaac cut a fat worm into thirds, using a sharp rock. He smiled at me, obviously looking for dirt. I had no idea why he thought I would tell him anything, but it's not like I could blame him. No TV. No Internet. No cards, no music, and the only other object of entertainment we had possessed we used to start a fire.

“We need to find some food before we leave.”

“No shit we do. What do you think you're gonna find?”

“Mushrooms. Berries. I don't know.”

“Wiener going with you?”

“No.”

“Really? Why not?” His grin was pure evil.

“I think he went to find more wood for the fire.”

Immediately I regretted my choice of words.
Three, two, one . . .

“More wood? I know what wood he'd like to give ya.”

“You're such a delicate flower, aren't you?”

“I try.” He stuck the hook through a chunk of worm, wrapping it around into a juicy knot, running it through the barb twice, making it impossible for a fish to remove. “Maybe I should go with you.”

Hell no.
“I think you should stick to fishing.” I picked up the empty oatmeal box, all thoughts turned to food. Even that worm was starting to look good.

“Take the shirt strips if you're going,” he commanded. “Take the whistle and don't go far. We still need to do five miles today.”

Since when do you care, you creep?
“Check and check.” I tugged at the whistle around my neck.

“Well, well.” Isaac smiled.

“Well, well, what? What does that mean?”

“Didn't know girls could plan ahead.”

“Since when?”

His blue eyes were brittle in the morning light. “My old man used to say that women couldn't be soldiers. Said they
were too sensitive. Said they were too emotional. Would panic when the shit hit the fan.”

“Oh really?”

“Also said they would bleed five days a month and what do you do with someone like that?”

“What's your point?” I crossed my arms, waiting.

“My point?” Isaac looked at me as though I was an idiot. “My point is that my old man didn't want those bitches in combat. Thought they couldn't do the job as well as a man.”

“That's not a point,” I said. “That's an opinion. My opinion is that your dad sounds like an asshole.”

“Actually, that's a fact.” Isaac smiled, as though I got the joke. “My dad
is
an asshole.”

I walked off clutching the box to my chest. “I don't give two shits what your dad thinks.”
Or you.

*  *  *

Mushrooms grew in shade. In damp places. On rotted, moss-covered logs.

I didn't know where to start. Everything looked shady and damp, so I just started walking, edging the pond with my eyes on the ground, looking for creamy white buttons in all the brown and green. After a while, I realized looking at the ground might be a good way to get lost, so I made sure to keep the water on my left side, staying close enough to always see it through the trees.

My stomach burned as I walked, and I prayed Isaac would catch something. After I walked for thirty minutes or so, I
came to a place where the trees thinned out. Against the blue sky I couldn't see the trail of smoke from the campfire, which depressed me. I wasn't that far. How could I expect a plane to see it? I walked a few more yards and sat down to rest. The breeze was stronger today. Fewer bugs. That was a plus. I was too tired. Lack of food will do that, I guess. I didn't know how long I sat there until a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye. Animal movement, darting and weaving through the trees. I froze, not even daring to turn my head.
What is it? What is it?
Small, sleek, orange and black, splotches of gray and white. Oh my God. I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out my knife, flicking up the blade with trembling fingers. When I glanced up again, it was in front of me, five yards away, blinking curiously with bright gold eyes.

A fox. And not just a fox. It carried a dead rabbit in its mouth.

All I saw was breakfast.

I jumped up, clutching my empty oatmeal box and canteen. “Gimme that,” I told the fox, which blinked and wheeled in the other direction, breaking into a lazy trot. I followed, sprinting quickly, my eyes on its tail. It wasn't moving fast, and it clearly wasn't afraid of me, but there was no way I was quick enough to catch up with it. What would happen if I did? The fox turned its head back, then darted sideways underneath a bush.
Just drop it,
I thought. If I got close enough, maybe it would get scared and abandon it. I pushed through the thicket
in time for a glimpse of a white tail vanishing behind a rock. I took two giant steps before something caught my foot. I went down like a felled tree, and though normally I would have had the presence of mind to put my hands out, in the process of jumping up and running (on an empty stomach), all the blood from my brain had drained down as though a plug had been pulled from the base of my head. Splinters of light punctured the view in front of me, which was the image of a large rock, growing larger as it rushed up to my face. I didn't even have time to wonder what was going to happen next, let alone put my hands up.

Everything went black.

*  *  *

Rose-red light flickered behind my eyelids, and when I opened them, wispy clouds threaded through the solid blue sky above me. I pushed myself up slowly. My forehead throbbed in time with my pulse, and my fingers came away red and sticky when I touched the sore spot. I fumbled for my canteen. It was half empty, and I quickly drank the rest.

What happened?

I was looking for something. Mushrooms.

The fox. The rabbit.

I scrambled up, but everything went hazy, slanting sideways, so I exhaled slowly through my nose and sat back down. I needed to go slow, do everything slow.
What happened to my shirt markers?
I looked down; they were still tied to my pack.
How long have I been here?

Panic started like a virus, making me sweat. I didn't have any idea how long I'd been unconscious, but the sun was already past the high point in the sky, so I'd been away for a few hours, at least. And no one found me.
Did they even look?

I staggered up, moving headlong through the trees in determination. Even though it was afternoon, it was gloomy in the shade, and I kept tripping over the uneven terrain. Wet, spongy ground under my boots made sucking sounds when I walked.
Is this the way I came from?
This doesn't look familiar at all.
I needed to go back, but which way was it? All the trees looked the same, flinging violet shadows on the ground, stretching out around me. They looked different here—thinner, stragglier.