Nowhere on Earth

by Nick Lake

  Just then, her dad came running out of the cabin; she saw the movement from the corner of her eye, and he pounded down the shore, their canoe moving along it, him chasing them, movements slightly jerky because of his bad knee, pain written across his face. He was zigging and zagging, bullets flying around him—he twisted and fired behind him as he ran, at the man who now appeared from the undergrowth, in his white snowsuit, aiming down his scope and shooting, shooting.

  Then—

  Boom.

  It wasn’t a huge explosion, wasn’t a movie explosion, but it blew the plastic windows of the cabin out, sent fire balling up into the dark blue, and the man in white—the man in black—ducked instinctively, even though he was too far away for it to burn him. Emily’s dad took a fraction of a moment to aim behind as he ran, and shot him; the bullet taking the man in the leg, it looked like, and dropping him to the ground, his own gun firing up into the trees and sky as if it had a murderous mind of its own.

  Emily’s dad kept pace with them, along the shore, then got a hand on the side of the canoe and lever-jumped sideways into it. He took the paddle from his wife, dropped the gun, and began to stroke, furiously. Emily’s mom pulled Emily into a hug, crying and laughing at the same time. It was only after, when Emily sat back, drying her eyes, that she noticed her mom had not drawn Aidan into the hug: as if there was a part of her, deep down inside, that wasn’t fooled—that didn’t acknowledge him as real.

  Emily didn’t know whether to be pleased or sad about that.

  The pebbled shore slipped by.

  She looked back—they were nearly out of range, but anyway, the guy was still lying down, twitching, it looked like. The cabin was burning. She hoped the flames wouldn’t reach the cold storage, hoped the ice would hold them back if they did. It was fifteen feet from the cabin….It should be OK…she hoped. And Bob could move well enough to get out of the way of the fire, if he needed to.

  Aidan squeezed her hand. “Bob is all right,” he whispered.

  She met his eyes. “You know?”

  “I know.”

  It was true. She saw it behind his clear-water eyes. She didn’t know how he knew, but she didn’t want to know how he did anything he did. The important thing was that Bob was unhurt.

  She saw a flicker of movement in the scrub on the shore—to her surprise, the camp robber was following, flitting from tree to tree, like some protective spirit of the cabin making sure that they got away safely.

  “What did you do?” she said to her dad. She gestured at the burning cabin.

  “Shoved the tank of gas in the stove and shut the door,” he said. “Hoped it wouldn’t blow before I was out.”

  This, thought Emily, was a whole different reality. Alternate dimension. Her dad hadn’t let her use a stove until she was ten—until he’d given her proper training, as he put it. He’d given her a knife when she was twelve, said she was responsible enough for it now, had shown her how to use it properly—training and preparation, those were his things. Now here he was, blowing up cabins and hoping for the best.

  She was cold, the canoe moving faster than she could walk or even jog; the air breezing past her skin, chilling it, drawing out its heat. Clouds covered the sky, reflecting in the lake so that they were all around them, gray, smoky. Real smoke poured up from the cabin; a dark gray vertical slash.

  She looked over at Aidan. He smiled at her, and the world lit up. Above, the old moon was on its way out, cradling the dark circle of the new moon in its arms.

  The water below them was so clear you couldn’t see it.

  As if the pebbles and weeded rocks were under nothing but air.

  As if the canoe were levitating.

  As if they were flying away.

  CHAPTER 41

  AT FIRST—AND EMILY was glad of it—there was nothing they could do but concentrate on getting away from the cabin. They paddled along the shore of the upper lake, sticking to the edge, where there was no ice at all. The sun was up now—though low on the horizon—and a few white clouds scudded across the sky. Fog covered the tops of the mountains, as if cutting them off—in the frosty air, they looked like towering headless ghosts.

  The cold breeze scoured Emily’s face, and she buried it in her sweater, zipped her jacket up tight. Geese flew overhead, not in a V but in a straight line, like an arrow, like dark tracer bullets against the brightness.

  “There’s the runoff,” she said, pointing ahead. “It leads down to the lower lake. I don’t know how deep it is, though.”

  “Worth a try,” said her mom.

  They paddled to the end of the lake and into the funnel of the short, rocky river. It sloped down sharply, white water foaming.

  “Brace yourselves,” said Emily’s dad.

  The canoe rushed downward—Emily fell forward, clung to the side with one hand, pulling Aidan close to her with the other. The bottom of the small craft scraped against stone. The canoe rocked and nearly tipped over when they slammed into the bank—but then they hit deeper water, sluicing over the front of the canoe, and—

  —dropped

  and cannoned, nose-first, into the lower lake, water spraying up like an explosion, soaking them.

  Emily rubbed her eyes, checked that Aidan was still in the canoe, her mom and dad too. Aidan shook his head, like a dog, and his hair flicked more water onto her.

  “Hey!” she said.

  Aidan laughed—a laugh that had relief in it too.

  Her dad nodded at her, then dipped the paddle again. There was more ice on the lower lake, but the runoff had made a kind of track into it, and it looked like they might be able to get around some of the lakeside, at least.

  They would need to make a fire. They were wet, and that could be fatal in these temperatures. You get wet, you die. Her dad would be thinking the same thing.

  “We need to get dry, and soon,” he said.

  Yup.

  Emily watched the blueish ice slip by. They neared the shore, the lake becoming shallower, the pebbles at the bottom so close that, if she wanted, she could reach down with her hand and touch them. But she felt cold enough already.

  Soon, though, the lake ran out: into a river, or a stream, really, that twisted down through bracken and tree-covered foothills. But it was too steep, too narrow and shallow and stone-littered—there was no way the canoe would be able to negotiate it. Emily’s dad steered it to the shore, and it bumped gently against the earth.

  “We’ll have to walk from here,” he said.

  “Walk where?” said Emily’s mother.

  “I don’t know. Somewhere we can shelter.”

  They climbed out of the canoe—Emily boosted Aidan up onto the loamy ground; there was no beach here, only earth that crumbled when its edges met the lake. Then she followed: an ungraceful lunge into a kneeling position, a short crawl, and up onto her feet.

  Her dad stood for a moment, looking at the canoe. Then: “Grab the stern,” he said. He got hold of the bow and dragged it out of the water. Emily and her mom took the stern. He scanned the area.

  “There,” said Emily, guessing his intention.

  A large fir had fallen, perhaps in a storm, its trunk low to the ground, its branches still thick with green needles. If they slid the canoe under the branches, it would be mostly covered.

  They hauled it over the grass, pushed it under the tree. Emily was shivering badly—saw her mom trembling too. But they had to conceal their tracks, that was the first priority. Emily’s dad took a knife from his backpack and began cutting more branches from nearby trees—he handed them to Emily and her mom, who draped them over the canoe, concealing it as much as possible. If someone followed—the man with the injured leg, perhaps, though that seemed unlikely—they would not find the craft unless they looked for it. Which might buy a little time.

  When it was done, Emily was
sweating, even in her damp, cold clothes, and that just meant more moisture to freeze when she cooled down.

  “Let’s go,” said her dad. “A couple of miles, no more. Then we’ll have to make a fire.”

  “What about the smoke?” said Emily.

  “What about dying of exposure?”

  There wasn’t really anything to say to that, and Emily smiled, remembering a similar exchange she’d had with Bob—except the roles had been reversed then. Above, far above, a jet on its way to who knew where crossed the sky, the low sun lighting the contrail so that it shone, like a shooting star.

  Emily held Aidan’s hand as they walked through the snowy woods, heading downhill. Not for any reason that she could discern, just…it was easier. And quicker. It was also, by pure coincidence, in the rough direction of the HAARP facility.

  “This is…complicated,” said Aidan quietly.

  “Yes,” said Emily.

  They trekked on for what felt like hours but was probably no more than an hour: the unvaried terrain—tree after tree after tree after tree—covered in white snow that made everything the same, did something strange to the passage of time.

  Soon, Emily’s shivering got worse, not just little vibrations but her whole body shaking, her teeth chattering in her head, rapping out some mysterious Morse code of their own. She gripped Aidan’s hand. If she was this cold, he was in trouble. Could he die, in this human form, from the cold? She thought he could. She realized they were both walking very slowly. Her dad glanced back. Her mom paused.

  “Honey, we have to stop,” she said. It was unclear if she was addressing Emily or Emily’s dad—both, maybe.

  Her dad nodded. There was a tree with a low, thick branch, just a little way ahead. He pointed to it. “We’ll use that,” he said.

  While he cut greenery and brought it over, Emily helped her mom to lean long branches against the low one from both sides, using it as a beam to construct a tentlike shelter, with a chimney hole in the middle. They swept the snow out from under, and removed as many large rocks as they could—Emily was good at that, with her small body; ducking underneath and picking up stones, which she threw into the undergrowth.

  Aidan wanted to help, but when he tried, he just couldn’t find the strength to do it for long. Emily’s heart was banging in her chest with anxiety for him as she and her mom wove thinner twigs through the branches, making the shelter wall as thick as they could.

  While they did that, Aidan helped her dad with the fire. The two of them gathered dry moss and leaves, twigs, small pieces of wood—well, Emily’s dad did most of it; she could see he was really just keeping Aidan moving to prevent hypothermia. Then he took a striking flint from his bag—of course he wouldn’t just carry a lighter—and quickly got the tinder smoking, then built up the fire, right in the middle of the shelter.

  Emily watched. It was nice—and somehow irritating—not to be in charge of this stuff anymore.

  However many times she saw it, she was still amazed how quickly the fire pulsed into heat, into light, glowing orange against the green of the leaves and pine needles. They all edged as close to it as they could.

  “Take off your top layers,” said her dad. “Or they’ll ice up in the night.”

  “You think?” said Emily sarcastically.

  Her dad acknowledged that with a half smile. “OK, OK,” he said. “Always forget you’re a quick study.”

  A pause while he kept looking at her, as if about to say something more.

  “You did good, kid,” he said eventually. “Getting to that cabin. Getting us away.”

  She blinked. “Oh. Um. Thanks.” She felt a warmth she hadn’t expected at this.

  Turning away, she pulled off her sweater and helped Aidan with his. They snuggled up close together, as if it were something they had done a million times, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Her dad took his phone from his pocket. He tapped on it.

  “What are you doing?” said Emily.

  “Calling Mountain Rescue. Telling them there’s a man—”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean, don’t call Mountain Rescue. Don’t call anyone.”

  Her dad was watching her, over the flames.

  “OK,” he said. “I think it’s time we talked. There’s something you’re not telling us, Em.” He put the phone down, though. That was good.

  She took a breath. Her heart was booming, a bass drum. The warm feeling was gone from inside her. But if there was a time, then it was now. They had to get to the HAARP radars or Aidan was lost. And they could never do it as long as her parents believed he was their son.

  “The thing is,” she said, “I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

  Aidan stiffened against her.

  “Try us,” said her mom. She was doing a half-smile, half-worried thing with her face.

  Emily wanted to, she wanted to try. But what if she lost her parents as a result? What if they never spoke to her again?

  She took another, deeper breath.

  She told herself: It seems like a bereavement, but it’s not. He seems like their son, but he’s not. It seems like a loss, like taking something from them, but he was never theirs to begin with.

  None of it made her feel any better.

  “…going to explain,” she said. “Which might be a terrible idea. I don’t know. But I can’t think of an alternative. Just…try not to freak out.”

  CHAPTER 42

  “SHOW THEM,” SAID Emily, turning to her little brother.

  “No,” said Aidan.

  She opened her mouth; shut it again. “What?”

  “I can’t show them.”

  She sighed. “I get it, but, look—I really can’t see how else we—”

  “No,” he said. “I would, if I could. But I can’t.”

  “You showed Bob.”

  “That was easier. He wasn’t family. He didn’t know me.”

  Emily watched the firelight dancing on his not-real skin. She was starting to warm up, at last, the feeling spreading glowing tendrils through her limbs. The fire seemed almost to hold back the dense blackness of the night, as well as the cold, to make a circle of safety. “And family is different because…?”

  “Because if I show them, they’ll remember me. After I’m gone. It…it will hurt them too much. Raise too many questions.”

  “Oh,” she said. “But if you don’t show them, they’ll forget?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I won’t?”

  Was that sadness on his face?

  “You won’t,” he said.

  “Show us what?” said Emily’s mom. “And what do you mean, when Aidan is gone?”

  So Emily told them.

  She told them the truth.

  She told them that their son was an alien, and not their son at all.

  To her surprise, her dad smiled. He scooted over, opening his backpack and taking out a small blanket. “You’ve had a shock,” he said. “And it’s cold, you need to—”

  “It’s true,” said Emily. “He’s not your son. And we have to get him home—that’s why we’re out here, that’s why we got on the plane.”

  “You’re…But…What kind of joke is this, honey?” said Emily’s mom.

  Her expression was hurt, deeply hurt, and Emily hated this. Hated it.

  “It’s not a joke,” said Aidan. “I am not Aidan. You first met me a month ago.”

  Emily’s mom laughed a hollow laugh. “No. I gave birth to you.”

  “I was there,” said her dad. “I cut the cord.”

  “No,” said Aidan.

  There was still that hurt, confused expression on her mom’s face—an angry one on her father’s. Emily didn’t know which was worse.

 
“What are you two doing?” her dad said. “Is this some kind of game to you?”

  “I’m trying to explain what we’re doing. Why those men are chasing us,” Emily said.

  “OK, so explain,” said her mom. Her voice was as cold as lake ice. As blue and hard and lifeless.

  “Aidan has to get back to his…his family. So we’re going to a radio lab. To send a message into space. The men with the guns—they’re trying to stop us. They want Aidan for themselves. To…experiment on. I guess.”

  “Because he’s an alien,” said her dad flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “How do they know about him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aidan. “Satellite. Radar. They would have seen my ship crash.”

  Her dad laughed. “Your ship,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Aidan, expressionless.

  “I remember the songs I used to sing to him,” said her mom, like she was continuing her own personal conversation. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from farther away than it really was. “I remember the Halloween show you both put on when Ade was four. He made up a poem: ‘Pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin pie, pumpkin pie with your Halloweeny eye.’ I remember when your dad and I were having a big argument when Aidan was little and he said, ‘Stop being opposites,’ and then that was always what we’d say if we had a disagreement, that we shouldn’t be opposites. That we should try to make up.”

  Emily did not remember these things because they had not happened. With one exception.

  “That was me,” she said. “Who said the thing about being opposites.”

  Her dad wasn’t laughing anymore. He was looking at her with an intense, sideways expression. “She’s right,” he said. “That was Emily.”

  “It…was?” said her mom, frowning.

  Emily was thinking about something else too: about her mom listing those things. Those memories. Like an incantation, like a protective spell. Like, on some level, she knew the truth. She remembered how it had been her and only her—Emily—whom her mother had hugged when they were safe in the canoe. When she was reaching out, instinctively, without thought, showing her gratitude to be alive.