I rehook my bag over my chest, repeat that there’s no strange man, and walk toward my right. Before, I ran straight ahead. But now that I have the plan, I need to cut across the jungle and find the perimeter. I’m not sure how I’ll know when I’ve reached this so-called perimeter, but I’m guessing the foliage will be thinner. Yeah. I’m going with that.
As I march across the jungle, lifting my knees high to keep from stumbling, I begin to list just how many things can end my life. If I eat the wrong thing … death. If I don’t find water … death. If a saber-toothed tiger stumbles upon me on an empty stomach … death. Granted, I don’t think saber-toothed tigers actually exist anymore. But if they do, they live here.
Sound is everywhere. Some I recognize: birds calling and bugs buzzing. Others, I’m uncertain of. Like the rustle the ground makes when something is slithering beneath it, and the high-pitched scream of an animal I can’t name. Even the trees seem to whisper as creatures dive into their leaves. The smell of earth fills my nose, and everywhere I look, pops of color rest against green. There are flowers the color of ripe oranges growing along a thin, spiraling vine. Other flowers are purple and yellow, and there’s a robust spray of something blue that’s shaped like avocados. I want to touch everything and nothing at once.
I make it about a half mile before the sky splits open. There’s no lightning, no thunder. Just rain. I run for cover, certain I can find something to use for shelter. But everything I think can work looks terrifying to crawl beneath. There’s a wide plant that can do the trick if it weren’t decked with black needles. And another that shoots up and over like an umbrella that I’m certain shelters killer somethings or others. I imagine all sorts of insects and animals have the same idea I do — seek shelter — and I suddenly realize rain’s not so bad. Not in comparison anyway.
It seems there is less green growth near the base of some trees. I suspect that has to do with lack of sunlight. Whatever the reason, I crouch down and lean against a tree trunk, the wet bag heavy in my arms. Rain still pelts me, but it’s not as harsh here. I think about continuing to walk while it pours, but something tells me staying dry is important. Reaching my arms out, I gather some rain in my cupped palms and quench my thirst.
I sit for what feels like hours. The rain doesn’t cease. As best I can, I try to cover my bag with my body, shielding it from getting too wet. Already, it feels like the egg and device are my ticket to winning, and I can’t risk either getting damaged. When I can no longer handle the shaking in my arms — or the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me — I close my eyes. And despite all odds, I fall asleep.
When I wake, everything is blanketed in dark. It’s a dark like I’ve never experienced. I can’t see what’s five feet in front of me, but I can hear the rush of rain and smell thick, musty scents I don’t recognize. My head starts to pound. I didn’t think about this part of the race — the night.
I’ve never liked the dark. Not as a child, not now. And this … this is almost unbearable. Blood pulses in my ears, and I push my hands over them to stifle the sound of my own heart thumping. Within seconds, I’ve imagined every worst-case scenario. Most of which involves being eaten by something.
Once, when we still lived in Boston, my mom took me to hot yoga. It’s normal yoga, but for masochists. In it, they teach you to retain control of your mind and body in uncomfortable situations. This is as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been, so I swing my legs beneath me to sit cross-legged. Then I place my hands on my knees and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Something tells me this doesn’t work when you’re in the middle of a jungle at midnight.
An ear-piercing shriek penetrates the night. Though it sounds like it’s a mile away from where I sit, I imagine it’s only inches. Moments later, another shriek emanates from the opposite side of the jungle. The two animals call to each other. Back and forth, back and forth. If I were watching this on TV, I would find it awe inspiring. But here — sitting in my damp clothes on the forest floor, blind to what’s around me — it’s so overwhelming, it makes me cry.
I brush tears from my face and think of Mom. When Cody and I were little, she would sing to us. It was a special occasion, her singing. She’d only do it when we were sick. Not for a sore throat or a bruised knee, but for the bedridden times when even soup and hot tea and warm blankets didn’t help. I can’t count the number of times Cody or I feigned an illness to rope my mom into singing.
There’s nothing else I can think to do.
I pull my egg out of my bag and nestle it in my lap. There’s no telling what this thing holds, and part of me is afraid to find out. But for now I try to forget that and just imagine it’s something normal, like a chicken.
I draw in a big breath.
I’m not the world’s best singer, but I’m not the worst, either. And so I sing for my Pandora, blocking out the sounds of the jungle, forgetting why this may be a bad idea. I just run my hand gently over the dull shell — and I sing.
Because I can’t see anyway, I close my eyes and picture my family as I’m singing. I remember the time my parents brought home a blue parakeet, and Cody and I released it six days later. I almost laugh when I think about the face my Boston best friend, Hannah, made when I told her I loved the goth kid from biology class.
I lift up my Pandora so that my lips brush its shell. I sing every song I can remember the words to. And when I can’t sing any longer, I lie on my side, keeping my arms wrapped tightly around my egg. When I feel myself drifting off once again, I nuzzle my head against my egg and imagine how wonderful it will be when my Pandora hatches. How I won’t be alone anymore.
I don’t care what it will look like.
Or what it will do.
I just want it to be here, now.
“Good night, little Pandora,” I say. Then opening my eyes and looking straight at the smooth, fragile egg, I add, “Good night, Madox.”
I don’t so much sleep as drift in and out of consciousness. And when the sun finally creeps through the canopy of leaves overhead, I chalk it up as a job well done. I managed to live through a night in the jungle. How many people can say that?
My Pandora is in my arms when I wake. I rub my hands over him and stretch my legs.
“Ready to get moving, Madox?” I say.
I don’t feel ridiculous in the least speaking to my egg. I’ve gotten it in my head that if I’m nice to him, then maybe he’ll come out quicker. Or she. Or it. I wouldn’t judge. I place Madox into my bag, thinking I really like his name. Madox. I’m not sure where I got it from. Some movie or TV show, no doubt. Either way, I like the idea of him having an actual name. I mean, KD-8 is cool and all, but Madox sounds less like an alien species.
Running my tongue over my teeth, I cringe. What I wouldn’t give for a toothbrush and a shower … and a turn-of-the-century toilet. Turns out I never properly appreciated the awesomeness that is toilet paper. Next time my mom asks me to pick up a jumbo pack at the store, I will hold my head high.
“I think if we only stop once to rest,” I continue, “we might make it to the jungle’s perimeter by nightfall.” I have no idea if this is accurate, but I’m trying to make Madox feel better. As if he understands. “Want me to sing to you again?” I pause and imagine him/her/it skipping around and nodding. “All right, already. Calm yourself.”
As I walk, I begin to repeat all the songs from last night. My clothes are still drenched from yesterday’s shower, but I’m certain they’ll dry as I move. It’s amazing how optimistic I feel this morning. This race lasts only three months, I reason. If I can make it one night, I can make it two. Et cetera, et cetera.
When my stomach growls, I’m not surprised. The last thing I ate was a PB&J yesterday morning. The more I think about it, the hungrier I get, until at some point, my brain is pounding against my temples.
As I’m walking from plant to plant — wondering which will kill me fastest if I consume it — I hear a muffled, snapping sound. For the last eighteen hours, I’ve heard mo
re coinciding sounds than I could have thought possible. They never stop.
But this one is close.
I wrap my arm around Madox, mentally telling him that everything is going to be okay. It’s amazing how fast I’ve become attached to my Pandora. One night alone, and I’m more afraid of losing him than I am of starving. But I guess whoever created this race knew this is exactly what would happen.
When the sound comes again, closer, I pull Madox onto my chest and protect him with both arms.
The noise is behind me now. I whip around to face it, shaking so hard, my teeth chatter. A sharp caw rips right above my head and I glance up. When I look back down — an enormous beast is staring right at me, hunger storming in its yellow eyes.
It lowers its head, touching a pink nose to the ground. A low growl builds in its throat. The animal stalks closer, eyes locked on my face. I try to stand perfectly still, but I’m hyperventilating and it makes holding myself together extremely difficult.
As the animal moves in, its shoulder blades rise and fall like waves in an ocean. I allow myself to believe for one fraction of a second that it’s only curious. It’ll see that I’m not a threat, that I’ll give it no chase, and will tire of me and leave.
But then the beast lifts its enormous head and releases a bloodcurdling roar only the king of a jungle can.
The lion rushes toward me in an instant, and all I can think about is how I once heard that lions don’t actually live in jungles. Today, I will die at the hands of a misconception.
My legs shake as the animal closes in, his muscles rippling as he moves. There’s too little time to dream of fleeing. No chance to react, to run for my life. I close my eyes and wait for the impact. But at the last minute, I can’t help but peek. It’s the wrong move. My eyes fall on the lion’s open mouth, on the dark shadows cast by his ivory teeth.
I choke on a scream as the lion leaps.
“M-4,” I hear a deep voice bark.
The lion touches down an inch away from me and stops cold. Then he glances over his shoulder.
From out of the brush, the serial-killer guy strides toward me. He slaps his thigh once. “Now.” The lion pads toward him and stops near the guy’s leg, turning to keep both bright yellow eyes trained on me. When the guy steps closer, I notice he has a scar cut through his right eyebrow and that the bottom of his left earlobe is mangled.
He’s wearing the same brown scrubs I am, but he also has two straps across his chest that attach to bags at his hips. When I see what’s in the bags, my stomach rumbles. They are both overflowing with some kind of fruit, and I even catch the scent of raw meat. I have no idea where he found food or how he knew what was safe to eat, but I consider taking on him and the lion for just a taste.
“What are you doing here?” The guy’s voice is as sharp as it is rough, and he steps toward me when he speaks. An intimidation factor, no doubt. His shirt pulls tight against his chest, and I realize just how easily this guy could kill me. Muscles bulge beneath the fabric, and thick veins run along his tanned, sculpted arms. I yank my eyes away from his shoulders to meet his gaze.
“What do you mean?” I clip. “I’m in the race, same as you.” The lion at his side stirs, licks his chops. “What is that thing?” I should be more afraid, but I’m still too weak from exhaustion and hunger to run, and it seems this guy has a handle on the animal. The answer hits me when I realize he’s not carrying his massive egg. His Pandora hatched. My brain stutters trying to comprehend this, that a lion was inside an egg. I glance at the animal and wonder at the possibility. He’s bigger than I ever imagined a lion would be in real life. For one small moment, I feel envy.
The guy’s got a good Pandora.
Shame fills my chest, and I absently stroke Madox’s egg inside my bag.
His eyes travel down the length of my body, and I recall that my wet scrubs still cling to my skin. His gaze finally lands on the feather in my hair, and his eyes narrow. Looking up, he jabs a finger at me. “Stay away from me.”
I plan to do just that, but when the guy turns to leave, I spot something in one of his bags. It’s electric blue cloth, and I know instantly what it is.
He’s found a flag.
“Wait.” I remember the deal I made with myself, that if I found another Contender, I’d suggest we search for base camp together. This isn’t exactly the kind of person I’d hoped to partner with, but it’s better than traveling alone.
“Wait,” I repeat, stumbling after him. “Maybe we can, you know, help each other.” The guy walks quicker, but I keep talking to his broad back. “I mean, when we get close, it’s every person for themselves, but in the meantime, why not have company?” I pause, trying to think of what skills I possess. “I can be funny. I mean, I used to make my best friend, Hannah, laugh so hard, she’d pee. I can entertain you while we walk.”
The guy flicks his hand and the lion at his side turns on me. He throws his head back and roars so loudly, I can feel it in my bones. I see every thick tooth in his mouth, and a bolt of fear twists my stomach.
I raise my hands slowly. “Okay.”
The guy moves away and the lion trots to catch up with his owner.
I’d like to yell how sorry he’ll be, how when my Pandora hatches, he’ll beat up his Pandora. I look into my bag and smell the sour odor. It’s getting stronger, and I wonder if Madox is already gone. If he never hatches, I’ll be alone. And as much as I hate to admit it, I fear isolation worse than the jungle itself.
The guy has food, but more important, he has a flag. Maybe he already knows the way to base camp. He certainly looks like the kind of guy who treks through jungles for fun. I remember once, in my Business Basics class at Ridgeline High, my teacher got on this rant about research and development. I don’t remember the details of his spiel — I was more concerned with the text Hannah had sent me about a jewelry sale at Forever 21 — but it was something about how McDonald’s puts all this time and resources into finding the absolute perfect location for a new store. They believe if they buy the right real estate, the burgers will sell themselves. The kicker was that other burger joints just watch to see where McDonald’s puts a store, then they plop a store nearby and save themselves a boatload of cash on all that blasted research.
At the time, this story seemed pretty shady; I mean, those other stores seemed like copycats, and that’s just lame.
But now I’m standing here in a jungle in the middle of God knows where, watching a convict and his lion tramp through creepy-looking plants and all I’m thinking is: Homeboy’s got a flag. He’s got the right real estate. So maybe all I need to do is follow his ass.
And so I do.
For two days, I follow this guy … and I learn that I have no business competing in this race. Not when Green Beret is here, sniffing out berries that I assume are safe to eat, or listening for strange sounds I don’t recognize, or finding safe places to sleep I never would have seen.
To give myself credit, I don’t think the guy knows I’m following him. I’ve stayed far enough behind that the jungle masks the sound of my footsteps. I eat what he eats (which is Disgusting with a capital D), I drink from the streams he stops at, and I sleep when he sleeps. Each morning, I wake up to the sound of him moving about. Though he’s quiet most of the day, in the morning, he’s louder than any alarm clock I’ve ever owned.
For the most part, following him is working out all right. The problem is the guy hasn’t found any more flags, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe finding the first one was a fluke.
Night falls quickly in the jungle, which isn’t good. I hate the night, the time when I feel utterly alone, even though Green Beret is only a few yards away. Plus, it gets cooler at night, and for some reason, my skin is doing something funky that worsens in the evening. It feels and looks thinner where the brown scrubs touch my body, and a pink rash covers my chest and back. It freaks me out to no end, but I can’t tell what the issue is. I think maybe I’m allergic to walking this much.
I
watch the guy find a place to rest. Last night, he slept in the trees, which I find wildly disturbing. But tonight, he pulls up plants by the fistful and lays bark and twigs onto the ground he cleared. Then he covers that with dead leaves. Finally, after he’s been working and inspecting the site for several minutes, he sits down. The lion pads toward him and leans back on his haunches. The guy rubs the lion under his chin, and a warm, rich purr erupts from the animal’s throat. A small ache twists through my chest. I’d do almost anything for that kind of companionship right now.
It fascinates me, watching this guy and his Pandora. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that we’re in this race and that we have these animals to help us through. Thinking about the other Contenders, I wonder if their Pandoras have hatched, too.
Am I the only one left with an egg?
I try not to think about it as I watch the guy move around, finding a comfortable position to sleep. He’s extremely tall — well over six feet — and it seems every inch of his frame is covered in muscle. I knew guys like him in school. The ones who spent every waking hour pumping iron so they could stare at their sweaty masses in the mirror. I do wonder about his disfigured ear, though, and the scar over his eye. And I wonder about other things, too: the way he circles his makeshift beds like the lion beside him, or the way he rubs his left elbow when he’s thinking. And, good Lord, how many times does one person need to crack his knuckles in a day? Only the knuckles over four fingers, though, never the thumb.
Crack your damn thumb, I think every time he does it. You’re forgetting your thumb!
Watching him has been my entertainment for over thirty-six hours, a distraction from a cruel realization — my Pandora may never hatch. At times, I imagine him seeing me in the distance and welcoming my company, but I know that won’t happen — not with this one.
Fire & Flood Page 6