Nowhere Wild

by Joe Beernink

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He slowly moved to the right of one of the rocks for a better look at Rick, who popped two spent shells from the broken-open shotgun. He stood in plain sight on the bank, one leg slightly ahead of the other, his jacket hitched on the knife sheath on his right hip. Even in the distance, he loomed large and frightening.

  Jake removed the loop of strap holding his gun to his shoulder and checked the weapon for damage. A piece of shot had pitted the stock. He winced and ran his finger over the chipped wood. The shock of being a target passed, and then anger overwhelmed him. He hadn’t been hit, but his prized possession had. The only thing he had left that his father had given him.

  Jake slid farther forward until a small gap in the rocks allowed him to aim his gun.

  “Ready?” he asked Izzy.

  “Yes.” She paused. “Are you going to kill him?”

  Until that moment, Jake hadn’t decided. If you leave a bear wounded, it only comes back angry. And an angry bear does a lot more damage than a dead one. His father’s words held true, even in this case.

  Jake nodded. “Go.”

  Rick caught sight of Izzy’s movement in the trees and lifted his gun. Jake raised his own to his shoulder, lining up Rick’s chest in the crosshairs—and pressed the trigger.

  CHAPTER 46

  Jake

  Nothing happened. The trigger would not budge.

  Rick snapped his barrel into place. Jake’s eyes widened. He pulled his head back from his gun. It took him a moment to realize why it hadn’t fired. He hadn’t disengaged the safety. He watched in horror as Rick raised his gun into the firing position. Jake released his safety at the same time. He put his shoulder back against the butt plate of the stock just as the shotgun reached Rick’s shoulder. The shots were simultaneous, and both off-target.

  Jake cringed as more buckshot flew over his head and pinged off the rocks around him. Leaves sputtered off branches and dropped onto his neck. The retort of his own gun roared in his ears, drowning out the sound of the river. He checked down the path. Izzy had disappeared from sight. Rick had vanished as well. Jake crawled forward. Little cover protected Rick’s side of the river—just a few flat rocks, an old stump, and the silver canoe. Jake ejected the spent cartridge from the chamber and slid another one into place. There were only two places Rick could have hidden, if he had not already fled back down the trail. If he was behind the stump, anything short of a .50 caliber round wouldn’t punch through it, and Jake wasn’t about to wait for him to poke his head back out. However, there was another way to slow him down. Jake lined up the gunsight on the keel of the canoe.

  “Let’s see you keep up with us now,” Jake said with a grimace.

  Jake fired. The canoe shuddered and jerked. A large hole, about the size of a golf ball, appeared where the bullet pierced the aluminum. Jake ratcheted back the bolt and put another hole through the bottom. Four seconds later, he added a third one for good measure, slightly forward on the bow. Rick did not return fire.

  Jake waited thirty seconds, cranked his bolt back, and slid another round into the breach. With his eyes still on the opposite bank, he moved toward his canoe. His pack, his tent, and their food were all still in there. Hidden by the rocks, he crawled back, stopping every few seconds to check for Rick. Only the holed bottom of the canoe looked out of place. The last shot had cracked the center of the keel, and any weight at all would cause it to fully collapse. Rick’s canoe was out of commission. Jake hoped Bill’s had fared better.

  There weren’t three holes in Bill’s canoe. There were a dozen pinpoints of light coming through its port side, and half a dozen deep scratches from ricochets along the side as well. Jake crawled from cover to cover to grab his pack. He tossed it down the trail without drawing more fire, scrambled closer to grab the food canister, and rolled it down the trail as well. Still nothing moved on the opposite bank. Jake repositioned his body parallel to the overturned boat.

  With no way to right the boat without exposing himself to fire from Rick, Jake weighed the pros and cons. Ten kilometers of bushwhacking versus ten klicks in a leaky boat. He slowly raised his hand to the top of the keel near the bow. He kept as low as he could, lifted up onto his knees, and yanked on the keel with his right hand while holding the gunwale steady against the ground with his left hand. He rocked it twice before it began to slowly tip over.

  The shot ripped into the bow as the boat hung on the verge of completing the roll. Pellets smashed into the bottom of the boat. A random pattern of dots emerged in the fiberglass. A steel ball the size of a BB lodged into the heel of Jake’s boot. His arm had already been coming down to let the boat complete its rotation, saving Jake from serious injury. Shards of rock ripped into Jake’s clothing. Pinpricks of blood, like nicks from a dull razor, marked his cheek. Jake dropped back down behind the canoe and the shelf of rocks. A second shot ripped into the canoe right where he had been just a few seconds earlier. His feet drove him into a low running position, knowing it would take Rick a few seconds to reload. He didn’t stop to return fire. He grabbed the pack and the canister and ran after Izzy as fast as his legs could carry him down the trail.

  They would have to make it out on foot. Rick was on the southern side of the river—the side they would have to reach for safety. Jake knew of only one spot to cross over, and if Jake knew it, he was sure someone like Rick knew it, too. It would be an all-out sprint to that spot.

  They couldn’t afford to lose this race.

  CHAPTER 47

  Izzy

  Izzy ran down the trail, flinching with each shot, counting her steps until she figured she had gone far enough. An outcrop of granite blocked her view of the river. Two shots, almost simultaneous, reached her ears. The woods went silent, as if every bird and animal were watching, waiting to see what would happen next. The rock she leaned against hummed with the vibration of the falls, but the falls no longer seemed to make noise.

  She wanted to call out to Jake, to see if he was all right. She opened her mouth to speak. Another blast cut her off. More shots followed in quick succession. The shots blended into a single volley. The last time she had heard so many shots, her sister had been killed. Now she feared the same for Jake.

  A crashing noise on the trail broke her from her memory. She grabbed for a stick, ready to fight Rick off with her bare hands if he had somehow crossed the river. Instead, she released a huge sigh of relief and dropped the stick as Jake appeared, coming for her at a dead run. He skidded to a stop next to her. He adjusted his pack and secured the canister to the top of the pack frame.

  “Is he dead?”

  Jake shook his head. “We’ve got to go, and go fast. We’ve got to get to the bridge at the Narrows before Rick does.”

  “How far?” she asked.

  “Ten klicks, maybe twelve. We’ll follow the river, but we gotta stay far enough away that Rick can’t see us.”

  “I heard a lot of shots.” She looked at his face. “Are you hurt?” She wiped some blood from next to his right eye. He pushed her hand away and wiped the back of his hand across his face. It came away smeared with blood.

  “I’m fine.”

  She looked back toward the falls.

  “Don’t worry about that. Just watch where you’re going. We’ll go as long as we can tonight. Keep the river on your right. Stay away from the edge. Let me know if you have trouble keeping up.” He looked at her shoes. She reached down and pulled them off. She handed them to him.

  “Barefoot? You sure?”

  She wasn’t sure, but the blisters on her feet from the shoes were only going to get worse if she continued to wear them. Her feet had toughened considerably in the last year. She flexed her toes in the soft dirt of the forest while he stowed the shoes. The cool soil almost felt welcoming—healing. “I’ll manage. Wish I had my mocs, though.”

  Jake stuffed the shoes into the pack, then led them past the falls and into the f
orest.

  She had no trouble keeping up. Jake had trouble staying ahead of her. He carried the pack with the canister strapped to the top and the gun in his hand. He struggled as the pack slid from side to side, forcing him to grab trees to keep his balance. After a few minutes of running, she spoke up.

  “Slow down,” she said.

  “You tired already?” He wiped his hand across his brow.

  “No, you’re going to run yourself into the ground before we get halfway there. Trust me, I’m a runner. Slow the pace. We’ll make it farther and faster,” she said, remembering the advice her mother had given her when she had first started training.

  “I’m fine,” he growled.

  Izzy shook her head. He didn’t want to show weakness, and she understood that. He started off again, running. After ten minutes, he stopped and took a sip from his canteen.

  “Another couple of hours and we’ll bed down for the night.” Jake stood with his hands on his knees, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

  “Sure.” Izzy’s hands rested on her hips.

  “You used to run?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah. I won the city cross-country meet for my age right before the flu. Mom and I used to run half marathons twice a year.”

  “You’re only fourteen.”

  “I’ll be fifteen in November,” she said, annoyed. “I’ve always been small for my age. We started running 5Ks when I was six. I’ve run the Manitoba Half-Marathon three times. We were going to do the full marathon this year.” She paused. “So when I talk about pacing yourself, you should probably listen to me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh.”

  “Running barefoot isn’t quite the same, though.” She pointed to her feet. “And I’m not in great shape anymore, so slowing down a bit wouldn’t be a bad thing for me either.”

  “Sure.” He rubbed his side. “We’ll slow a bit.”

  “Thanks.” She shook her head as he turned back to the east.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  Jake slowed their pace to a fast walk and kept it up for almost three full hours with just a short break for water. Darkness engulfed the forest. With a thick layer of low clouds and no moon, they wouldn’t be able to see well enough in the night to make any time once the sun completely disappeared.

  Their only consolation? Rick likely wouldn’t be able to travel then either.

  CHAPTER 48

  Jake

  Sleep that night consisted of a series of alternating short naps interspersed with moments of sheer panic. Jake jumped at every sound during his watch. Every wind-caused rustle of leaves put his hands on his rifle. During Izzy’s shifts, every creak of a branch had her tapping him to warn of Rick’s impending approach. Up well before dawn, they moved swiftly as the first glow in the eastern sky brightened their patch of the woods. They snacked on pieces of venison roasted during the night, and they jogged through the gloom. They talked little.

  Sometime around noon, they stumbled through a shallow, water-filled ditch and clambered up the side of a rutted winter road, heading in roughly their desired direction. They reached the bridge an hour later. They paused before making the final run across.

  “Do you see him?”

  “No.” Jake removed the lens covers from his rifle scope and meticulously scanned the opposite shore. Weeds covered the aging box girder bridge. Spots of peeling olive-green paint remained on the steel, but brown rust overwhelmed the structure. Steam rose off the river, filling the area the locals called the Narrows with mist. Overhead, the clouds fled the scene. The next night, Jake guessed, would be cold.

  “Do we go?”

  “Give me a minute.” They hid behind a downed tree that neatly blocked the road two hundred meters from the river. The far side of the river, another fifty or seventy-five meters away, disappeared and reemerged from a veil of mist as if someone were towing a train of clouds down the river. Jake completed two more scans, then nodded. “Let’s go.”

  He clamped the butt of the rifle against his shoulder as they moved out from their hiding spot. He hoped that they had made better time than Rick. The distance was about equal. Jake and Izzy had used every minute of daylight to gain an advantage. Rick probably did the same, Jake thought. He didn’t say it aloud.

  They walked as quickly as their aching feet would allow. Extended time walking had forced Jake to make more room in his cramped boots for his toes so as to avoid blisters of his own. By the light of the campfire, he had finally cut the toe caps off his boots with his knife. Now, instead of being blistered, his toes were wet, cold, and numb. His boots filled with water and mud from puddles, streams, and creeks too numerous to count. On the other side of the bridge, they still had a few more kilometers to hike to the outskirts of town. He hoped his feet wouldn’t fall off from trench foot before then.

  The road rose to the broken concrete approach to the bridge. At one time, logging trucks had rolled over this one-lane structure on an hourly basis. Spring floods had left the framework under the roadbed impaled by dozens of broken trees. High water had slammed the footings and washed out large sections of the embankment. It was just a matter of time before all support was lost and the bridge fell into the churning rapids below. Jake couldn’t help but notice that no one had come out to repair the damage.

  Every step they took put them farther into the open. Jake measured the distance to the first steel girder. His grip on the gun relaxed. His eyes searched the opposite shore for any signs of movement. At fifty meters from the bridge, he shouted a quick order to Izzy: “Run, Izzy! Run!”

  They sprinted toward the steel frame and slid in behind it. The forty-meter-long bridge hung over the water on trestles that appeared ready to fail at any moment. Long sections of rusted rebar poked through the fractured concrete deck. The sides of the bridge would protect them from shots from upriver or downriver, but if Rick were close enough to appear at the far end of the bridge before they finished the crossing, he could fill the roadway with shotgun pellets. Jake’s heart drummed in his chest, only partially from exertion.

  “Okay, let’s go, fast as you can. Watch for the potholes. If you see Rick, duck behind one of the girders. When we get all the way across, get into the trees on the left as fast as you can, okay?”

  “Yep.”

  Jake led the way, gun pinned to his shoulder. The safety was off this time; he had checked it three times before they started the initial run, and verified again at the last stop. He weaved around a large hole in the deck that fell straight through to the water. He counted the distance in his head. Fifty meters. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. A movement to his right caught his attention. He slowed slightly, turned the gun toward the motion, and fired. His finger flew off the trigger as his arm reached behind him. Izzy ran hard, right on his heels. Her tunic hit his hand. He grabbed at it. His left foot slid on loose pebbles. His hand redirected Izzy’s momentum down and to the concrete curb. She tripped and slid to a jarring stop. The blast of Rick’s gun echoed through the trestle as the ping of shotgun pellets rang off the steel beams. Jake spun as he dropped to the deck. The gun slid from his grip as he protected his face from impact with the ground. His chin slammed into the rubble. Stars danced in his eyes.

  The feeling of liquid running across his back broke him from the impact-induced fog. He arched his back and searched with his hand to determine where he had been hit. After searching fruitlessly for three or four seconds, he pulled his hand back and checked it for blood. It took a moment for him to realize that the liquid was not warm; it was cold. A pellet had punctured one of the water bottles strapped to his pack. He almost let out a laugh, but the ache in his chin squelched it short. There was blood there, and plenty of it.

  “Izzy?”

  Izzy groaned.

  She lay wedged into the gap between the curb and the bottom of the bridge railing. Jake pulled her down into the gutter and crawled forward on the deck until he was even with her. Her eyes were closed. A large scrape crossed
her forehead and terminated near her right eye. A circular knot there had already swelled to the size of a Ping-Pong ball. Blood gushed from a laceration along her temple. She tried to raise her head, but Jake held it down.

  Approaching footsteps forced Jake to delay any further inspection of her condition. He brought his rifle forward, cranked the bolt, and shoved a new round into the chamber. With his finger on the trigger, he assumed a prone firing position, raising his head barely above the gutter’s edge.

  Jake slowly lifted the gun over the concrete lip to locate his target. Rick had been hiding behind a thick pile of stumps to the right of the road for his first shot. He now closed the distance to the bridge at a full run. Jake aimed between the bridge supports, caught a brief glimpse of Rick’s legs, and fired. With a quick pull on the bolt, he slid another round home. He had had six rounds in the clip when he started. Four remained. He fired again. Three.

  The footsteps slowed and hesitated. Jake had a bad angle on Rick through a thin slot in the ironwork. He lined up another shot and took it. The bullet grazed one of Rick’s legs. The response was a howl of pain and anger, and a vengeful return volley from the shotgun. Two. Jake ducked below the curb as he cranked another bullet into the chamber. He popped his head up and fired another shot as Rick retreated back to his pile of stumps. One.

  “You ain’t getting off that bridge alive, boy!” Rick taunted as soon as he reached cover, a slight hint of pain in his voice. Jake slid the last bullet into the chamber. He checked Izzy’s head and rubbed her face.

  “Izzy? Izzy, you okay?”

  Izzy’s hand came up to her forehead, gently touching the swelling lump. She groaned again, and coughed.

  “It hurts.” She curled into a ball, both hands clasped to her head, knees pulled to her chest.