Nowhere Wild

by Joe Beernink

  Jake abruptly jumped to his feet and ran from marker to marker. His father, he confirmed, was not buried there.

  The houses. Maybe he was in a house? They hadn’t all burned.

  He spat more bile out of his mouth, away from the graves, and ran for the first house.

  “Jake!” Izzy protested.

  He ignored her. The door stood open, the hinge busted. A broken two-by-four from the railing of the small porch rested across the entrance. He hurdled over the wood and entered the cottage.

  “Dad?”

  The smell hit him. Scat and urine again, but tinged with something else he could not quite recognize—something sweeter, not overwhelming, but powerful enough to make him cough on the first whiff. The smell grew stronger. A chill kneaded his spine as he worked his way through a living room full of torn furniture and into a kitchen that had been professionally ransacked. His eyes watered. Mice scurried ahead of his footfalls, their squeaks of alarm warning others that a stranger approached. He pulled his hands closer to his sides and stepped around the piles of mouse dung littering the floor.

  A closed door on his right opened into a small bedroom. Faded wallpaper drooped from water-stained wallboard. A bed stood against the south wall, raised up on red milk crates to provide more storage underneath. A small white desk took up part of the west wall. The smell was even more pungent here. Jake covered his mouth and nose with his dirty sleeve. It took a moment for him to recognize the child-sized lump curled into a fetal position atop the stained bedsheets. Trickles of black hair ran across a pillow crusted with remnants of the slowly decomposing body. The hair danced as the breeze from opening the door moved through what had been still air. A shudder crawled through Jake’s body.

  He recoiled and bumped into the door frame. Dust dropped from the ceiling as the force of his impact shook the thin walls.

  Part of him wanted to run out of this place of death. Part of him needed to know how someone could leave a child to die alone in her bed. His feet moved him to an open door further down the hall. A queen-sized bed held another body, this one also curled up, but larger and partially consumed by some kind of animal. The rank odor matched the gruesome scene, and Jake could no longer hold in the meager contents of his stomach. What he hadn’t lost at the grave, he vomited on the floor by the door. He ran from the house, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and nearly tripped over the two-by-four as he vaulted off the porch.

  “Jake—Jake, we need supplies,” Izzy said as he sped past her.

  He sprinted back to the canoe as fast as he could. He had no desire to inspect the remaining houses. Laroque was a ghost town, empty of everything but trouble. He could feel the spirits he had disturbed chasing him, and he wanted only to be far away from this place.

  Jake was back in the canoe and ready to release the mooring before Izzy reached the dock.

  “Jake—”

  “We have to go. Now.” Jake reached for the cleat securing the canoe to the dock.

  “We can’t, Jake. We need supplies.”

  “Get in the canoe.” He didn’t have time to argue with her. If she wasn’t going to leave with him, he would leave on his own. He couldn’t spend another moment in this place. Jake’s shaking fingers struggled to release the knot.

  “No,” Izzy said. Then she did something Jake absolutely did not see coming.

  She stole his paddle.

  CHAPTER 34

  Izzy

  “Give that back. We need to get out of here.”

  Jake reached for the paddle, but Izzy stepped back from the edge of the dock and held the paddle away from him.

  “No! There are things here we can use—things we need. Clothes. Another paddle. Another sleeping bag. Blankets.”

  “We’ll just go. We can’t stay here.”

  Jake’s hair had broken free from its ponytail during his run. It fell forward, partially obscuring his face, but it could not hide his desperation.

  “Go where? Where are we going, Jake? What’s the plan?”

  From the moment she had stepped onto the dock, Izzy had known what they would find in the village. It had been the same when she and Angie and Rick had returned to Thompson. But this place, she knew, was truly deserted. No one could have stayed here. Not with the forest gone. Without the trees, the winter wind would have been unstoppable. Only the dead would have wintered over here.

  “I don’t know. Away from here. Away from this.” Jake’s face fell to his hands. He moaned and pounded a fist on the canoe.

  “You can’t run from this, Jake. Not from this.” She waved an arm toward the main street. “This is what things are like now. You have to learn to survive in this. Out there, once we’re out of this damn forest, this is what you’re going to have to deal with.”

  “My dad—”

  “Isn’t here—”

  Izzy stopped. In a perfect world, Jake’s dad was somewhere just ahead, but Izzy knew the odds were far better that he was dead. If Jake hadn’t realized that already, it would soon dawn on him. And when it did, he’d be useless. She needed him to stay coherent until they got somewhere else. They couldn’t stay here. That wasn’t an option. They weren’t nearly far enough away from Rick yet. She glanced back at the lake. He’d be coming. The black hole in her soul knew that to be true.

  “He’s gotta be up ahead, then . . . somewhere.” Jake scanned the lake to the south, then looked to Izzy as if she would know the answer to that question.

  “We need supplies. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Izzy set the paddle on the dock, but not close enough for Jake to grab it without getting out of the canoe.

  Jake’s eyes drifted to the village core. “I can’t go back in there.”

  Izzy nodded. “Fine. Just help me carry stuff and figure out what we need. I’ll do the searching. Can you do that?”

  Jake remained motionless for a moment, then pulled himself out of the canoe and joined her on the dock.

  “Let’s make it fast, okay?”

  Walking into the town the second time raised the hackles on her neck more than the first time. The dead had been disturbed here now. Jake’s run through town seemed to have awoken more of the ghosts. In Thompson, every house had felt that way upon their return. Back then, Angie had been there to help Izzy fight them. Jake wasn’t ready for that fight.

  Izzy covered her mouth and nose as she stepped into the general store. Jake stood in the center of the road, nervously glancing up and down the street like an Old West gunfighter, scared of his own shadow. Izzy ignored him and carefully picked her way between piles of scat and shredded cardboard.

  Her list ran through her head. Food, of course, though she expected to find none of that. This place had been ransacked long before they arrived. Perhaps a sleeping bag had been left behind—or blankets at the very least. Another paddle. A second tent. A compass. A knife. Clothes that fit her. New shoes. Something she could use as a sling.

  She paused at the second aisle. A small glass showcase had been shattered there. The display of fillet knives and multi-tools had been cleaned out. Around the corner from there, the mice had done a nice job of chewing into a plastic-wrapped rain poncho. Izzy grabbed it, peeled off the remains of the outer wrapper, and draped the green poncho over her arm. It would be nice to be somewhat dry during the next rainstorm.

  Her scavenging complete in the store, Izzy left and presented her find to Jake.

  “That’s it?” he said after inspecting the damaged garment.

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Sure,” Jake said. He turned back to the docks.

  “We’re not done yet.” Izzy grabbed his arm. “We need to check everything.”

  She tugged him back toward the bait-and-tackle shop. “I need your help.” She didn’t—not really. She could search every building on her own. In his current state of mind though, if he headed for the docks without her, it would take only a minute for him to leave without her. That was a chance she couldn’t afford to take.

  In
the bait shop, she found the paddle she needed. She also salvaged a loop of nylon twine—perfect for making a new sling—and a piece of plastic that would, in a pinch, do as a pouch. It wasn’t quite as flexible or as durable as the rawhide she had used at the cabin, but until she had something better, it would work. She presented her finds to Jake, who admired the paddle but looked at the other scraps with disdain.

  “What are those for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She dashed across the road to the diner. In the kitchen there, she searched until she found a collection of knives. The big ones had already been taken, but there were plenty of paring knives and steak knives. She’d lived for months with just a kitchen knife. These, all professionally sharpened, would do just fine. She also grabbed a good pair of scissors, almost dancing as she rounded up the supplies. This kitchen was a gold mine. She wrapped two knives and the scissors in a towel and dumped the collection into a plastic garbage bag. She grabbed a few extra bags as well. They could keep her dry while paddling. She added another item to her mental shopping list: a backpack to carry her stuff.

  Jake was still standing in the street right where she had left him when she emerged from the diner. She waved him forward to the houses that remained on the southern side of the street. Jake shook his head. “I’m not going back there.”

  “Then stay. Right there.” She pointed at the ground as if instructing a disobedient puppy and raced forward to the second house, skipping whatever it was Jake had seen in the first one. He hadn’t said what he had seen, but she could guess.

  A pit of burned mud surrounded the second house. Scorched siding peeled off on one corner, but the structure itself seemed intact. She hopped from dry area to dry area, trying to keep the borrowed shoes on her feet somewhat clean. She tripped as her foot slid forward in the loose-fitting sneaker and fell to one knee.

  “You okay?” Jake called out from his place of safety down the street.

  “I’m fine.” She pushed her way back to her feet, then stopped. Near where she’d slipped in the mud was a fresh boot print, leading into the house. She glanced back at Jake. He hadn’t come anywhere close to this house. And the print was large—much larger than his boot. A chill worked its way down her spine.

  She stood and took a step back.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked. Izzy held up her hand and took another step away from the house. A second later, she turned and sprinted back the way she’d come, grabbing him by the sleeve.

  “We gotta—we gotta go,” she stammered.

  “Why?” he asked, jogging with her.

  “Footprints.”

  “There are people here?” Jake slowed and turned back to the house. Izzy slid to a stop, reached behind him, and grabbed his arm again.

  “They’re Rick’s.”

  “You sure?”

  Izzy nodded.

  She didn’t hold him back this time when Jake bolted for the canoe. She followed, right on his heels.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jake

  After twenty minutes of hard paddling, Jake’s adrenaline rush subsided, leaving him weak and dehydrated. The paddle now felt heavy and rough, like a log instead of a precision-made tool. He rested it across his lap and buried his head in his hands.

  The images of those bodies and those graves were too close to recent memories. He had helped his grandfather lower his mother into her grave. He had thrown dirt onto her, watched the sheet they had swathed her in become muddy and wet. The bear fur had protected his grandfather, but the dead had a smell that was not easily forgotten. The smell of the bodies in the bungalow in Laroque still clung to his clothes. The canoe rocked with the oncoming waves and added to the frothing sadness rolling through his chest.

  “Dad! Where are you?” he screamed into the sky. He stood in the canoe and screamed again.

  “Jake!” Izzy grabbed the sides of the canoe.

  The next wave nearly tipped them over. The sensation of falling broke him from his momentary loss of control. He thumped back down into his seat and hung his head.

  “Jake? You okay?” Izzy shifted backward in the canoe.

  “I want my dad.”

  “Maybe he’s up ahead.”

  “What if he’s not?”

  “What if he is?”

  “I can’t—I can’t keep going—I just want to stop. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I miss them. My mom. My dad. My grandpa. I miss them so much.”

  “I know. God, I know, Jake. But we can’t stop. Rick will find us. If we stop, he’ll kill us.”

  Jake looked behind them. There was no sign of Rick, either in a canoe or on the land.

  “You sure it was him?”

  He didn’t really need to ask. He knew Rick would follow them.

  She nodded. “Big print. Fresh. I don’t know how he got here ahead of us, but he did.”

  “We lost a day when we went the wrong way,” Jake replied.

  That was his fault. He should have paid more attention to time and distance when crossing the lake. It had been the best he could do under the circumstances. There had been no time to get a fix on their position, and so little time to take compass readings when the waves kept coming. They had made it across the lake alive, and that, at the start of the crossing, between Rick shooting at them and the weather, had been long odds indeed.

  He could do better now. He pushed his hair back from his face and pulled the map from his bag.

  Seventy kilometers to the west was the village of South Indian Lake. It might as well have been a thousand. Seventy kilometers of burned mud—sticky, heavy and impassable, with no cover, and little wildlife to hunt. The few roads that existed wound around the features of the landscape, so that the actual distance would have been closer to double. His eyes followed a blue line through the forest, across a few more lakes, up a few rivers, across another section of forest, and then down another watershed to a road. Once on that road, it was but a few kilometers to Thompson.

  He knew parts of the route, especially those closer to Thompson. His family had fished those rivers and lakes dozens of times. They had paddled the river and run its rapids. He had never done it without his father, but he knew the area.

  First, however, they needed food and clean water. And he needed sleep. A shiver rolled through him as the wind spun the canoe. A low-hanging cloud draped across the sky beyond Laroque. Jake watched it and noted its dark gray color. Another storm was brewing.

  Jake picked up his paddle.

  “Where are we going?” Izzy asked.

  “Home,” Jake replied.

  “How far?”

  “Does it matter?” Jake asked.

  “No. It really doesn’t,” Izzy replied.

  CHAPTER 36

  Izzy

  “God, I’m hungry. And this is not cutting it.” Izzy tossed a half-chewed cattail stem aside in disgust.

  “Catch another fish, and we can eat something else,” Jake said from behind her as they fought their way through the brush. “Or get that sling out again and show me what you can do with it. Until then, stop complaining. Doesn’t do any good.”

  Izzy didn’t bother to look back and didn’t bother to argue with him. The sling she had made with the twine and plastic was okay, but it wasn’t anything like the one she had built the previous winter. The rocks she fired with it refused to fly in a straight line. Jake had taken a brief interest in it when she had first put it together. Now it was a source of aggravation for her, and something he used to dig at her with when he was grumpy. He had been plenty grumpy these last few days.

  On the lakes, the fish had been easy to catch. In the thick bush, food was whatever plants they could find. They had left the last lake behind three days before, and they hadn’t had a solid meal since. The constant bushwhacking, chopping away at undergrowth with the machete, and fighting off the bugs sucked up Izzy’s energy like a sponge.

  Still, it was better than the alternative, she reminded herself. When she made this trek during the winter, there ha
dn’t even been cattails to eat. All there had been then was an unending, hip-deep layer of snow. At least that was gone now, replaced by hip-high stinging nettles and downed trees. They had tried to boil the roots of the nettles—Jake said his grandfather said they were edible. That meal had been a complete disaster and left them both sick to their stomachs.

  Izzy’s eyes focused on following the old trail. Jake had called it a portage, but this path hadn’t been used in years. Either that, or they had lost the trail—again. Twice in the past two days, they had been forced to turn around and backtrack a significant distance after finding themselves stuck deep in some swamp too wet to cross on foot, and too choked with weeds to paddle. Each time they had turned around, Jake had reminded her to pay more attention. He couldn’t—not with the canoe on his shoulders. She had, after all, told him that she was very good at orienteering.

  It wasn’t her fault that he believed her.

  They had given up on paddling the rivers. A constant rain had soaked them for over a week since leaving Laroque. The flows ran high and fast, and paddling into the current took ten times the effort it would have later in the year. Instead, Jake carried the canoe and his gun through the bush, while Izzy slogged the pack with the weight of all their gear. Her back hurt. Her feet had blistered in three spots from the ill-fitting shoes.

  But she knew it was even worse for Jake. He hadn’t been sleeping much. She had offered to let him use the tent, and she would sleep under the canoe. He had refused. Without food and without sleep, the boy carrying the canoe behind her should have been just inches away from death. Yet somehow, on a few cattails and pigweed leaves, he kept going.

  They reached the shore of the next big lake just as a torrential downpour dropped out of the sky. Izzy’s ragged poncho protected her somewhat, but as they pushed off into the lake, she wondered whether this leg of the trip would involve more time bailing out the canoe than paddling.