“I see. So who is in control?”
A raven swished overhead and it was like I could hear my own breath in its wings. “Dunno.”
“Who decides what kind of day you’re going to have?”
“Me, I guess.”
“So there you go. You are in control.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, feeling the throb of my gouged arm and crushed toe. Wounds inflicted on myself while running around like a crazy person.
You call that being in control?
Maybe it was my beasty side that William had warned me about. What Uncle Faustus would call el demonio dentro—the demon inside.
Little did I know that the real beast was waiting for me back in camp.
CIRCLE-UP
Woody slapped me on the back as Carrie and I stooped through the tipi door. Togo greeted me with a deranged show of teeth. “It’s his way of smiling,” Woody assured me.
We circled-up for a feelings check. The idea was you passed the talking stick around as everyone tossed out a one-liner on what kind of mood they were in after their solos. I feel anxious. I feel sad. Like that.
“I’m feeling lucky,” Wade said, boasting about his attempted escape. Halfway into his solo, he’d jumped his campsite and found the road. Trouble was, he ran the wrong way, toward camp, and Togo sniffed him out of the ditch before he could turn around. “You won’t fucking catch me next time,” he said as he winged the talking stick at Togo’s head.
Woody crouched over Togo, checking for wounds. The dog snarled at Wade. “Careful, Wade,” he said. “You don’t want to get on Togo’s wrong side.”
Woody picked up the talking stick and passed it to Obie, who managed four words, “I’m feeling really shitty.”
When it was Alyssa’s turn, she looked up, all bleary-eyed, like she hadn’t slept for days. “Why didn’t you just leave me there to die?”
Berna went over to her, whispered something, then they disappeared out the tipi door. Off to the infirmary to up her meds.
“Just give her time,” Woody said. “We send you out alone for three days to see if you enjoy the company. Sometimes it takes a while to get on friendly terms with yourself.”
Obie accidently jabbed my wounded arm while passing me the talking stick.
“Jesus!” I shouted.
Obie shrank away into himself.
“You found Jesus out there?” Woody asked with a fake smile.
“Uh ... sure.”
Woody was about to ask me something else when I heard the gate squeak and the van pull in. “Ah, at last,” he said, combing his ratty beard with his fingers. “The new intern.”
New intern? I was just getting used to these freaks.
Woody sprang through the door and we all piled out after him.
I squinted through the late afternoon sun and saw William, all smiles, taking the blindfold off a big guy beside him. The guy had William laughing even before it was off. The van windows were closed so I couldn’t hear his voice, but there was something about his form that made me grab the fence beside me. Of course, this triggered the alarm, and the whole camp was flooded in a shrill howl, like we were about to be bombed.
The passenger turned to see what was up and flashed me a movie star smile that instantly froze the blood in my veins.
Morris Kritch.
TRAIL BLAZING
I’d never seen a lock so big. You’d need a bazooka to blow it off the gate. Woody paused before he opened it. “As far as I know, none of you has a history as an axe murderer. Am I right?”
Silence. As usual, no one was in the mood for Woody’s sick humor.
What was funny was seeing everyone decked out in steel-toed boots, yellow safety vests, and orange hard hats. I felt like a well-outfitted slave.
William pulled up beside us with a wheelbarrow full of axes, bush saws, and machetes. I stared at the machetes, feeling a strange twinge of homesickness. I thought of how so many Guatemalans used machetes to prune banana trees, clear coffee plantations, or hack trails through the jungle. Some also liked to wave them in front of the people they were robbing, or worse.
Seeing Morris brush his thumb over a freshly sharpened machete blade did not make my day any brighter. I still couldn’t believe he was here. Woody even put us on the same work team, like we were old buds.
“When it comes to shaking out your junk, this kind of grunt work is way more fun than beating a tennis racquet on a pillow,” Woody told us. “And a lot more useful. Today you are going to clear a new trail out to a pretty little lake where we can all go for a swim.” He held up a painted sign with the word Connection. “The focus of this trail experience will be connecting. Connecting with the land, with each other, with your truest, bravest self.”
“Sounds good, sir.”
There goes Morris, already sucking up to Woody like he was one of the staff.
William was about to hand me an axe, then suddenly yanked it away. “Are you sure you’re not an axe murderer?”
I looked sideways at Morris who was looking sideways at me. “Not yet, at least.”
There was no smile on Morris’s face. No kidding around.
William gave a bush saw to Alyssa. He kept the chainsaw for himself. Once everyone had a tool, Woody pulled out a key from one of the fifty pockets in his bush pants and clicked the lock open. He gave one good push on the gate and we were free.
Sort of.
Between Woody, William, and Carrie, there were walkie-talkies popping off all around us as we cleared the trail. Togo circled us the whole time, occasionally nipping our heels if we strayed too far, like we were runaway cattle. And if we went into the woods to take a dump or something, we were ordered to count out loud or whistle or sing, so our jailers knew exactly where we were every moment. Embarrassing or what!
Halfway through the morning, Morris and I were working shoulder to shoulder on the trail, attacking a stubborn willow with machetes. William and Woody were bringing down some big shrubs with the chainsaw. Carrie was working with Alyssa, dumping brush in the woods. I was suddenly feeling unsupervised in a way I didn’t like. I mean, working with Morris, so close I could smell his BO, and the same sickly scent of hair gel hair that had made me cringe at school. Still did.
I straightened up to wave to William, and felt a sharp thunk against my steel-toed boot. I looked down at a two-inch gash. A sliver of steel shone through the rubber like exposed bone. “Jesus! Watch where you swing that thing!”
Morris gave me a blank face. That face I loved to hate. “Oops, sorry, Pedro,” he said without a trace of apology. “You keep out of my face or the next time it won’t be an accident.”
By lunchtime, I’d already grown and popped three blisters on my hands. It was hot, sweaty, scratchy work, and the bugs were getting thicker by the hour. We were less than halfway down the so-called trail.
Woody had led us to a grassy hill that stuck out of the forest to supposedly catch some breeze. But there wasn’t a breath of wind, and a cloud of bugs hovered above our small circle of addicts. Among the many life skills I was learning was how to eat a PB&J sandwich without smearing it all over the bug hat that covered my face.
“Remember, team,” Woody said, “Know pain, know gain! This is the pain part. But imagine how that swim’s going to feel once we cut our way to the lake. That’s the gain part.” He said all this while pacing around our circle, stopping now and then to gaze up at the mountains. In two weeks, I hadn’t seen the guy sit down once.
Like most of our meals, I wanted more at the end of lunch. One measly sandwich, one droopy carrot, and a couple of dried apricots. At Camp Lifeboat, they served up just enough food to stop our stomachs from grumbling and not a crumb more.
I think Woody used starvation as just another form of therapy. He told us as much in one of his sermons, declaring that “hunger is a good tool to build character.” No wonder the guy’s body was so skinny and his ego so fat.
“So, Ian, feeling connected?” William asked as he offered me so
me moose jerky.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing a piece. He made the stuff himself. Shot the moose. Cured and dried the meat. Made it sweet and salty. Mouth-watering, especially after such a skimpy lunch. “Connected? Hah, really. What I’d give for an Internet connection.”
“Lousy bandwidth. Besides, you’d miss all this.”
“All what?”
“This.”
“You mean the blood? The sweat?”
“And don’t forget the tears, eh?”
I lifted my bug hat a crack and fired the jerky in my mouth.
William laughed. “You’re getting good at that.” He plucked a piece of sweet-smelling sage and twirled it under his nose. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a bug hat.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“There’s no bugs around you.”
“Hmm. I’m a bug whisperer.”
“No shit.”
William waved a stick of jerky at me. “Actually, the trick is only bathing once a year.”
I chewed in silence, staring at my gashed work boot.
William followed my gaze. “Those machetes can be dangerous, eh?”
“Depends who’s swinging it,” I said, looking across at Morris, who sneered back.
William watched this exchange without a word. “Look,” he said, pointing down the valley.
“What?”
“That little meadow. See it? With the creek.”
“So?”
“Don’t recognize it?”
At first it was just another barren patch of wilderness. Then I got it. “My solo camp,” I said, and it suddenly came alive with memories.
I saw myself down there, a speck in that huge wild valley, crashing through the woods, going insane in the creek bed, sitting on a log, staring at the fire, scratching in my journal. It was like I’d left a piece of myself down there. Another piece in camp. More pieces along this trail. Like I was falling apart. Soon there’d be nothing left.
“Feel connected to that place?” William said, watching me closely.
“I remember baker’s chocolate. Got any more?”
William leaned toward me, holding one finger to his lips. “Don’t give me away,” he whispered. “I’m supposed to be reformed.”
I looked up and noticed Morris staring at me like I was a dog eating out of his bowl.
The gain part never came. After another few hours of slashing through the bush, Woody lost the trail of orange flagging tape we’d been following. We never did find the promised lake.
Or so he made it seem.
I decided he was faking it, that there never was a lake, and he’d set us up like that just to break us down. To “shake out our junk,” as he always said.
I plodded into camp feeling like a cow going to slaughter. My legs and arms were scratched all over and pockmarked with bug bites. My whole body ached. My throat and tongue were as dry as toast. The very thought of doing another circle-up with Morris, let alone eating with him or sleeping in the same dorm, made me retch.
I stopped cold, staring at Woody pulling on the giant chain-link gate. His bare hands were all over it as it creaked open.
No alarm.
Togo put his nose up against it.
No alarm.
I remembered on Day 1, when Alyssa went screaming out of the tipi and started shaking the gate like crazy.
No alarm.
On the way in, I gave the fence beside it a light smack to test my theory. It chirped like a car alarm.
Woody spun around and glared at me. “What’s the big idea?”
“Sorry. I tripped.”
At last I’d found a way out. And none too soon.
FLIGHT
The whole camp woke the next morning to find Togo brutally murdered.
Alyssa had stumbled on him behind the kitchen before breakfast. Somebody had slit Togo’s throat and stuck a machete through his ribs. We were all pretty used to Alyssa’s fits, but there was something in this scream that brought everyone running.
Everyone but me.
I’d been awake all night, thinking about that gate, going over the day’s routine in my head, trying to figure out the best time to break out. I ran barefoot out of the dorm when the screaming started, but held back when I saw everyone hunched over Togo’s body. It reminded me of Loba lying crumpled on the road, and I felt a stab of pain for the blind sled dog that had so freaked me out.
That place was a loony bin, run by an egomaniac slave driver. Random screaming in the night. Starving all the time. Morris threatening me with his machete.
And now this. A murderer in camp.
Who’s next in line for a machete through the ribs?
Woody’s back was to me but I could read vengeance all over it.
Another good reason to get the hell out of there.
How would he find the killer? Was it Morris? Wade? Obie? Maybe a disgruntled kitchen worker? Who?
God help you when you’re caught.
I truly felt for Woody, but his amazing dog couldn’t track me now.
I glanced back at the gate and saw it was hidden by the dining hall and dorms.
This is it, I thought.
The gate was taller than I’d thought, and I ripped my pajama bottoms wide open going over the top. Right in the ass. Both feet slipped off the chain-links as I started down the other side. I stopped my fall by grabbing a handful of pointy bits up top. I let out a yelp as something like a nail drove into my left palm.
I’m too young to be crucified!
Luckily Alyssa’s latest scream-fest drowned out my agony. Nobody came after me as I scrambled down the gate and hit the road running.
I ran as fast as I could down the middle of the road, feeling a mix of deathly fear and heavenly bliss.
Soon I’ll be back online!
I kept running until I heard the crunch of gravel from an approaching vehicle.
I lunged for the ditch.
Too late, they’d seen me!
A sixty-something couple driving an old Ford pickup. At the last second, I decided to play it cool and pretend I was just out for an early morning jog. I moved to the side of the road and trotted along, smooth and steady, like the jock I never was. I even waved and smiled as they passed.
They did the same.
Then it hit me that I was running barefoot in my plaid pajama bottoms with my ass hanging out for all to enjoy.
I looked back and saw their brake lights go on.
¡Jesucristo! It’s over.
Then off they went into the dust.
I ducked down a sandy side road into the woods. I needed to think.
I sat down behind a big pine tree and closed my eyes, like I was blindfolded all over again. I tried to remember the sequence of turns and textures on the road from Whitehorse. Left from the airport, one sharp right, another sharp right, smell of cinnamon rolls, pavement ends …
I became aware of a stabbing pain in my left hand. I opened my eyes and saw it was gouged and gory, covered with blood. “Vale la pena,” I said out loud—worth the pain—and tipped my head to the sky, laughing.
I was back on the road again, diving into the ditch whenever a vehicle kicked up a dust cloud. The pine forest thinned out and I ran past little hay farms, complete with cows, horses, chickens, the whole bit. I remembered smelling cow manure on the way in. I knew I’d hit pavement soon.
I kept running.
My feet were already fringed with blood but I didn’t care.
I was free. And getting closer to my World Wide friends.
Somebody had planted a little vegetable patch and stuck a classic scarecrow in the middle. I made a quick detour. Minutes later, I came out wearing a tattered flannel shirt, a pair of ripped jeans, a Blue Jays ball cap, and a beat-up pair of size thirteen rubber boots.
The boots saved my feet but slowed me way down. I decided to shadow the road, taking cover in the fields and forests.
The road squeezed between two high ridges, went past a
big beautiful lake—Annie Lake, according to the sign—and crossed a river where I dropped down to clean my wound and drink gallons of water.
Good thing, too.
Just as I lifted my lips from the river, I heard the familiar rattle of the Camp Lifeboat van, cruising slowly down the road. I flew into the woods and hunkered down into thick moss.
It cruised by.
I didn’t move.
Minutes later, a low-flying helicopter zoomed straight for me, its flight path following every curve of the Annie Lake road.
I didn’t breathe, hoping my red scarecrow shirt wouldn’t give me away.
It flew on.
I sat tight.
Then a police siren.
An RCMP cruiser whipped by, headed for camp, siren blasting, lights blazing.
Everybody was out looking for guess who.
And they were not going to find me.
Poor Togo. Amazing Togo. I was so glad he wasn’t on my tail.
Left from the airport, one sharp right, another sharp right … I was thinking the whole route through in reverse when I got to the cinnamon roll part.
Not in my head. In my nose.
I’d been shadowing the paved part of the road, when I saw an intersection up ahead and caught a whiff that got my stomach rumbling big time. I had no clue how long I’d been running. All I knew was I was “fungry,” as Wade would say, fucking hungry, and these smells were killing me.
I crossed an old railway line and snuck closer to the intersection. The delicious smells were leaking out of a log cafe that had a bunch of motorcycles and tourist RV’s parked out front. Ritchie’s Roadhouse.
I reached into my pockets. Both hands pushed through to my knees. Cheap scarecrow, I thought. But what would I have done with money, anyhow? The cops must have left a description of me at the cafe, like they would for any criminal on the loose.
Be on the lookout for a scrawny teenage Latino male, five foot six, black hair, brown eyes. Distinguishing features may include abnormally long fingernails on right hand and scars on both shins from repeated beatings. Suspect has a known history of addiction, lying, cheating, stealing.
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