If I get to the top of the hill, the Instructors won’t be able to follow on those carts. They’ll have to chase me on foot. But that’s a big if.
One of the Instructors beings to pace. If I wait a few minutes, the two could decide to go inside. But if I don’t go now, the Instructors coming for me might arrive and I will have forfeited this chance.
After what Isaac has done for me, there is only once choice for me to make.
“When you leave the building, walk. Don’t run,” was Isaac’s advice. “Running will attract attention.”
Maybe, but the base of the hill is well over a football field in length from where I stand now. Not making it to the trees at the top of the hill before those Instructors turn around will guarantee I get caught. Isaac’s ass isn’t on the line right now. Mine is. Which is why after taking several slow steps, I glance at the Instructors one more time, then run.
My battered legs burn.
Gravel crunches. I reach the grass past the building, grit my teeth, and run harder. The grass gets longer. Wilder. I don’t look over my shoulder. It will only slow me down. Against the backdrop of swaying green, the pale pinkish-gray shirt and pants will stand out like a white light against a moonless night sky. No one is going to mistake me for a weed. But if I reach the trees halfway up the hill, the lack of sunlight and the shadows of the branches will at least give me some cover.
Fragrant wildflowers and prickly weeds snag my baggy clothes as if trying to hold me back. I want to shout with triumph when I reach the bottom of the hill and almost immediately realize I started celebrating too soon. While the incline is gentle at first, it grows steeper and harder to climb with every step.
I grit my teeth and will my legs to keep pumping as I trek through the grass. My chest strains against my bandaged rib cage. Each shallow breath is like inhaling glass, but I refuse to give in.
The tips of my shoes catch on the weeds. My legs tremble under the effort of staying upright and making the rapid climb. I tether my focus on the closest tree, lean forward and push myself to reach it.
The grass rustles and a startled rabbit shoots out of its hiding place. The trees grow nearer and I look for one wider than the rest and when I reach it slip behind its trunk. Breathing hard, I close my eyes and listen to the rustle of the leaves.
Birds chirp.
The wind gusts.
No alarms blare.
There are no shouts.
I brave a glance down the hill.
No one has arrived at the infirmary.
The Instructors that had been standing outside the red building have moved. One is gone. The other is getting into a dark green golf cart. No one seems to be aware that I am missing. Yet. If I am still wearing the ear cuff when they realize I’m gone . . .
The official in the cart speeds off. Once the vehicle is out of sight, I resume climbing the hill, moving deeper into the grove of trees that grows denser the closer I get to the top. My side throbs, but I don’t slow my pace. Fear keeps me moving.
The hill flattens near the top, making it easier to navigate and I start to run again. When the hill slopes sharply in the other direction, I half climb, half slide down several feet of uneven terrain, then glance back to where I came from.
The infirmary and other buildings are no longer in sight. Since I can’t see them from up here, I’m betting anyone outside those buildings can’t see me. I head for a squat bush that is attempting to grow under the shadow of a much larger tree. Kneeling on the dirt next to it, I drop the bag I have been clutching and flex my hand. When my fingers aren’t so stiff, I pull the compact out of the bag, flip it open, and wipe grime off the mirror with the bottom of my shirt. I wedge it into one side of the bush and now am eye-level with my reflection. Then I dig out the black case.
I stare at the scalpel for several long seconds. Slowly, I remove the blade from the box and spin the narrow, round handle between my fingers. The Marshals put the barcode in my ear against my will. They tagged me like an animal. I refuse to allow them to use it against me now.
I push my sweat-damp hair behind my ear and feel the ear cuff one more time, searching for a way to get it off without cutting through my ear or releasing the poison they say is inside.
Ow. I bend the side cartilage of my ear all the way forward so I can get a good look at the seam on the back to figure out how the two pieces are held together.
My hair slips back over my ear and I try again.
The cuff part that wraps around the lobe from the front to the back makes it impossible to see how the tag comes apart.
A siren sounds. My heart sputters. They know I’m gone. It won’t be long before someone searches for my barcode location and comes this way.
I grab a broken branch off the ground and place it in between my teeth. Then, before I can lose my nerve, I lift the scalpel.
My hold on my ear slips. I wipe my sweaty fingers on my pants and get a firm grip on the side of my ear. Cutting inside to out is the fastest way, I tell myself as I fold and flatten my ear against my head.
Now or never. Before I can talk myself out of it, I bite down on the stick and jam the tip of the scalpel between the back fastener and my skin next to the post.
A scream claws up my chest into my throat. Blood drips. The scalpel slips and pops out from under the tag. My heart roars in my ears and I dig my teeth into the stick, shift the scalpel, and try again.
I dig the blade under the backing and the cuff. Just one quick movement, I tell myself. A little more pain and I’ll be free.
Oh God! The pain flares impossibly hot and overwhelming. Blood drips faster in the mirror’s reflection. I gag as pieces of the stick tickle the back of my tongue, and start to cough.
I scream against the branch again as the coughing jag causes the scalpel to dig deeper into my ear. My fingers are weak and brittle, but I don’t drop the knife.
I shift my grip, take a deep breath, and brace myself to cut the rest of the way though and that’s when I see it—the back of the ear cuff that held the metal post in place is dangling in the mirror’s reflection.
The blade drops from my fingers that are slick with my blood. My stomach heaves and my hand trembles as I yank the barcode out of my blood-slicked ear and let it drop onto the dirt. Blood swells from the jagged hole along the side of my ear and trickles down my neck but I don’t care.
Their tag is out and I’m alive.
Sirens whine in the distance. The sound urges me on as I wipe the blood off the knife and the compact, shove them back into the bag, then reach for the ear cuff. With the tag tight in my fist, I once again start down the incline.
The pitch of the ground is steep. My legs are liquid. Drips of crimson seep into the grass as I stagger away from the bush, lose my balance, and slide downward. I squelch the shriek of pain. Rocks and bushes scrape against me as I skid along the steep incline. Until finally—oof—my feet land on a large rock just before I reach the bottom and I come to a jarring stop.
If I was bruised before, I’m going to be Technicolor now. But my inadvertent slide was fast, and after three more steps, I reach more level ground.
Now to find the creek Isaac told me to follow.
I head through the trees down a far gentler slope than the one I just navigated. Between my jagged breathing and the crunch of twigs and leaves I no longer can hear the wail of the sirens.
When the trees thin I spot a low steel fence. In the distance beyond the fence is a cornfield with waist-high stalks. Just beyond the fence is the creek Isaac instructed me to find. It’s three-feet wide and widens to the right as it flows into a concrete tunnel set into a hill.
My instructions were to “Follow the creek to the left” as it snakes through rockier ground around the base of the hill and disappears into more trees. But I can’t help looking at the tunnel to the right as I climb over the fence to the other side.
Water trickles as I look down at the blood-streaked ear tag in the palm of my hand, consider my options, and head ri
ght. I wipe my hand against my bloody ear and place it on the narrow trunk of a young tree. A few feet beyond that, I smear a streak of crimson onto a low, bright green bush beyond it and paint the cheerful yellow dandelions at the bank of the creek. I take several steps, cock my arm back, and pray that I have good aim before letting the barcode fly. It skips off the water, then sinks a few feet inside the opening to the concrete tunnel.
Chase that. I turn on my heel and follow the creek in the other direction. If I’m lucky, the Instructors will waste time following the false trail I have left and give me more time to figure out how to get away.
I run along the narrowing bank of the water. The trees get thicker and . . .
I stop and listen. Voices shout somewhere above and sound like they are getting closer.
The creek narrows to barely a foot wide and disappears under a wide thicket of prickly, green leaves that are growing in mostly grassless, muddy ground. Since I can’t afford to leave a trail of footsteps behind me, I step into the water and keep going.
The voices grow louder. I have to force myself to take careful, soundless steps through the water as my heart screams for me to run. When I reach the thicket, I clench the bag between my teeth and half crawl, half slither under the foliage through the narrow stream of water until I emerge on the other side wet and muddy and covered in little prickly thistles.
I lie there, a stingy trickle of water running against my cheek. Then, arms trembling, I shove myself out of the wet and onto my feet. This isn’t like running the mile in phys ed where the teacher will let you stay after school to try again if you don’t finish with a passing time. There are no do-overs today.
The ground evens out and the shouting gets louder. They’re closing in.
I wince at each snap of a twig as I shove my way through the brush, looking for the building Isaac told me I’d find somewhere out here.
My leg muscles weep as the ground once again slopes upward. I’m thankful it isn’t very far before the foliage thins. I crest the hill and spot a black steel fence that surrounds a field of dirt and mud. A yellow machine—I think it’s a backhoe—sits in the middle of the muddy field. Beyond the field and the fence is a slightly tilted gray wooden structure.
That has to be the building Isaac wanted me to find. The field looks too muddy to cross without leaving any tracks, but going around the perimeter will take too long.
It takes two tries to scale the low metal fence that thanks to my training would have normally required almost no effort to get over. The sun is still hidden. The air is hot and thick with the earthy, damp smell of dirt and decay as I hop from dry patch to dry patch, doing my best to stay out of the mud.
Sweat drips down my neck. My clothes are heavy with mud and water. I am halfway across the pasture when I realize the voices behind me have gotten closer. It’s still faint, but I make out a woman shouting two words that make my heart go still.
“. . . this way!”
They’re close. There’s no way I’ll make it to the other end of the pasture before they push through the brush. The only option I have is to hide. I make a beeline to the backhoe. The closer I get, the less dry dirt there is to step on until there is only mud and puddles. I stick to the water-filled tread marks when possible and pray they don’t see the places where I leave fresh treads.
My pursuers are louder still by the time I reach the small backhoe. Its wheels are thick, but not very tall. There isn’t enough space for me to fit under the machine and the open cab with its exposed narrow seat doesn’t offer any place for me to hide.
Now what?
I turn to the large shovel-like section that is suspended two feet off the ground and get an idea. The digging part of the machine is shaped kind of like a bucket with teeth. Albeit not a very big one. But there is just enough room inside the dirt-caked metal bin for me to climb in, fold myself into a tight ball, and hopefully be completely out of sight.
It isn’t long before I hear three voices. They’re still too far away for me to make out everything they’re saying, but I can recognize a fight when I hear one.
“. . . said to . . .”
“I’m telling you . . .”
“. . . who cares . . . go back . . .”
“Going to check . . .”
Slowly, I shift my head a fraction of an inch and peer through two of the digger’s teeth so I can see pieces of the pasture beyond.
The arguing grows louder. Something about one guy knowing what he saw and the others insisting that they follow orders.
I catch a glimpse of the edge of the familiar deep blue uniform and a hint of sandy hair as the Instructor turns his back to me and waves his arms. Whoever he’s talking to is out of my sightline. I hold my breath and strain to hear the words while trying to remember the exact path I took around the backhoe to get to my hiding spot. If they move just a little to their right…
“They’ve found her earpiece,” someone yells loud enough for me to hear over the pounding of my heart. “Let’s go!”
The Instructor with the sandy hair turns in the direction of the backhoe. He cocks his head to the side and steps just out of my view.
Is he still there?
I count the seconds—waiting to be found.
Ten.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sweat drips between my breasts.
Sixty.
Still, I don’t move. The muscles in my legs begin to cramp, but I stay huddled in the digger listening to my heartbeat and the sounds around me. Time seems to stand still as I wait. After ten minutes—maybe twenty—I slowly raise my head to peer over the edge of the teeth.
The field is empty, which is good because it takes several tries for me to uncurl myself from the pretzel position I am in before I can climb out of the digger. My foot catches on one of the teeth. I pitch forward and tumble out of the backhoe with a splat into the mud.
Well, if they come back, I’ll at least be camouflaged. I giggle, feeling a touch insane as I push to my knees, and look for the bag I had been holding. There. Sitting in the muck next to a rock a few feet away.
Only, I—I don’t think it’s a rock. I tell myself to go to the barn. To leave the bag and move before the Instructors come back. Instead, I reach forward and dig into the soft, wet earth, then jerk back when I uncover enough to understand what I’m seeing.
It’s a foot.
There’s a body buried in this field.
Seventeen
I stagger backward. My foot slips and I catch my balance before I land next to the body.
There’s a dead body beneath the mud. And if there is one . . .
I turn and look at the backhoe’s clawlike digger. The machine has clearly been used. Despite being out here exposed to the elements it appears in good condition. No rust. No missing pieces or flat tires. And I ask the question that I didn’t ask when I was running for my life. What purpose could a backhoe have where there is nothing but a field of mud and a barn that doesn’t look as well-maintained as the others I’ve seen?
Bile bubbles in my throat. My stomach churns as I look back at the heel poking up from the wet earth.
Last night, the man in the scrubs told someone that he wasn’t needed because I was going to survive. That person was called to the infirmary because they thought they were going to have to dispose of my body. They were going to bring me here. This . . . this must be the place where they buried the bodies of those who don’t survive. The place one Instructor referred to as “the pit.” A graveyard of the missing and forgotten.
My skin crawls with every step. The mud sucks at my shoes until finally, I reach the fence. There is an open gate a few yards away, but I grab the top black steel bar and pull myself over to the other side. I make it to the tall grass a few feet beyond before the metallic taste filling my mouth overwhelms me. My stomach cramps and I hunch over a patch of large white lace wildflowers as hot, yellow bile burns my throat and trickles out of my mouth.
I have eaten nothing i
n the last twenty-four hours, but my body doesn’t seem to know that. It continues to heave after the last acidic drops have been squeezed from my stomach.
Shaking, I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. Then, after making sure no one is around, I tug off my mud-caked shoe and reach for the GPS camera.
I take pictures of the field. Of the heel peeking from the slick earth. Then, legs shaking, I trudge to the gravel road that runs near the building. The road branches in two directions—one leads through the tall grass to somewhere over the hill—away from this place. The other Isaac told me to follow. It ends on the opposite side of the barn from the body in the field I just left.
As promised, the dingy white side door is unlatched. The rusted hinges give a token protest when I ease it open and peer inside. Empty.
The barn isn’t all that big, by barn standards. Maybe half the size of our small gym at school. Or maybe I just think it isn’t big because other than the last few days the only time I visited a farm was when I was in elementary school and we took a field trip to a local pumpkin patch. The memories of bins of apples and gourds and ripe orange pumpkins of all sizes, the perfectly maintained red-and-white barns with brightly lit spaces filled with picnic tables for eating sack lunches, and the screens playing videos touting the importance of the farmer to our democracy stand in stark contrast to the dirt-caked concrete entrance and the earthy scents of mildew and wood.
The only light sneaks between the loose wooden boards and the closed, machine-size doors that are to my right. Despite the lack of windows, I don’t chance turning on the lights. Instead, I prop open the door I came through with a small clump of dirt before walking into the barn.
A haze of dust dances in the meager light. The outline of a much larger backhoe than the one huddled inside looms in the center of the concrete floor. Shovels, hoes, rakes, and other tools with long wooden handles hang from the wall to the left of me. A bunch of filled, large white plastic bags are stacked in a corner to my right.
I peer through the crack between the door and the threshold to make sure no one is approaching from that direction, and step deeper into the shadows. A discarded wrapper crunches under my mud-caked shoe. A sturdy wooden workbench lines half of the far wall. Atop the bench on one end is a computer with a hairline crack running down the length of the screen. As the computer powers up, I yank open the first drawer and rummage through more empty wrappers, pieces of twine, and loose nuts and bolts and machine parts. Then I move on to the next. I pull out a small flashlight with triumph and find a pair of batteries rolling around the back that bring it to life.
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