Stranded

by Melinda Braun

  “But now she doesn’t have anything for her ankle.” He sounded confused, as if he couldn’t understand how someone would make a choice like that.

  “I guess we’ll improvise.” I pointed my knife at a cut-up piece of elastic fabric. “Women’s lingerie can save your life, remember?” I didn’t mention the fact that it was us (two girls) who actually did. But as it turned out, I didn’t need to.

  “Thanks,” Isaac said, low, and I knew this was as much as I was going to get. Strangely, it was enough.

  I nodded, picked up another stick to whittle, not looking up until I heard him leave. A growing part of me understood that I wouldn’t have saved his life. Not if he’d been alone. I did it because of Oscar. I would have watched Isaac fall; I was certain. Watched him fall and done nothing. Maybe I would have even pushed him. I bit my lip, so hot and flustered with the sudden knowledge that I had to stop whittling. I closed the blade and pressed the knife between my hands until they ached.

  But the reality was Isaac hadn’t let Oscar fall. Despite everything, he’d held on. So what, in the end, did that make him? Not a coward, but maybe not a hero, either. And I guess not a total psychopath. He was someone who would succeed where others would fail. He actually could save someone’s life.

  Something I had failed to do.

  So what does that make me?

  Day 9

  Morning

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  I scraped at my tongue with my toothbrush and grunted back. He’s still acting like nothing’s wrong. Like he did nothing wrong. Unbelievable.

  “I guess you’re not a morning person, huh?” Isaac was eating one of the little brick food packets from Chloe’s e-kit. I had eaten mine yesterday, as soon as Chloe handed me the packet, and it was hard to believe that Isaac had had enough restraint to wait until this morning. I could smell the peanut butter from here, and I wondered how much food he had left. Probably nothing.

  I pulled out my toothbrush and spat. “I’m a morning person as long as coffee is involved.”

  “I prefer Mountain Dew. But this isn’t bad.”

  “I could go for a donut right now. Chocolate.”

  “Ah, donuts.” Isaac crumpled his wrapper—the sound made me drool a bit. What did I have left to eat? My packets of oatmeal. A toy-size box of cereal. No, wait. I ate the cereal two days ago. Maybe I should start looking for food. What grew out here besides berries and mushrooms?

  A mosquito hummed in my ear. Barely morning but they were having their breakfast. Me.

  “Do you think they’ll come today?” I don’t know why I asked—maybe just for something to say. I didn’t think they were coming today. Whoever they were. Firefighters? Rangers? Police? Volunteers?

  “Nope.” Isaac dug a hole in the dirt, stuck in the wrapper, and buried it, smoothing the ground into a gravelike mound.

  “Maybe a plane tomorrow.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Well, when then, you think? Three days? Five?”

  Isaac glared at the trees. “How about never.”

  “Why?”

  He stood up and crossed his arms. He was combative as usual, but there was something else. His eyes glittered wet. “Because, Dodd. They’re not coming.”

  “I don’t believe you.” But a growing part of me did, every single word. They think we’re dead. They think we died in the fire. They looked. They found the campsite.

  “Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. The sooner you realize you’re on your own, the better off you’ll be.”

  “But we’re not on our own,” I argued. “They’re looking for us. They haven’t given up on us. There’s been a plane.” My mind leaped to my parents. What would they do? What could they do? Were they out there, looking for me? Would they give up? And how do you do that, even? How does a person let go? How does a person lose all their children? It would be like losing your future. Every dream and every wish you ever had. It was losing hope. How could you stand that? How could anyone?

  But Isaac was already packing up his stuff. “Take it from one who knows, Dodd. They can give up on us. They already have.” He zipped his pack shut and glanced up through the treetops. Another blue-sky morning, but I did the math in my head. Chris said the storm was coming in—what? A week. And today was day nine, which meant . . . shit. The storm could hit at any moment. It was always there, in the back of our minds, running down like a doomsday clock. “Better wake them up, because we’re leaving in five minutes. And it’s gonna be a long walk.”

  * * *

  “How much longer?”

  “Ten klicks.”

  “Come again?”

  Isaac sighed. “We still got a ways.”

  “Ten klicks is ten kilometers,” I said, leaning up against a sapling without trying to look like I was. I had no intention of letting him think I was exhausted. “Ten kilometers is over six miles,” I added, trying not to sound like a total smart-ass.

  I failed. Isaac smirked at me in delight. “Maybe you should join the army, Dodd.”

  I uncapped my canteen and took a swig. “We need to get out of here first, I think.”

  Isaac glanced back to the wispy trail we had made, waiting for Chloe and Oscar. “Which is why we need to keep going.” He tapped his own (empty) canteen against his fist. “The storm, remember? We’ll be in deep shit if it turns into a blizzard up here.”

  I desperately wanted to drain the last quarter of my canteen but somehow restrained myself. My tongue felt twice as thick as normal, and it hurt to swallow. “At least we’ll have something to drink then.”

  “We’ll freeze to death first.” Isaac wiped the sweat from his forehead; he was wearing a thin T-shirt, and the backs of his arms were speckled with bright pink dots.

  “That doesn’t look good.” I pointed at them, and upon closer inspection they looked more like welts than mosquito bites. “You should probably use more bug spray.”

  He dropped his arms, eyes suddenly wide. “What?”

  “Bug bites,” I said slowly, realizing that I had seen that type of mark before. Even before I finished speaking, I knew they weren’t bug bites. They looked like burn marks from a cigarette. My friend Shelly had burned herself once with a lit cigarette, laughing because she was drunk. And it had left a similar scar. And they were on the backs of his arm, in such a position that I knew he hadn’t put them there himself. Someone else had. My throat seemed to swell shut with this knowledge, and I had to turn my face away.

  “Right, okay.” Isaac zipped open his pack and busied himself with finding a can.

  The crack of pine needles behind me let me know Chloe and Oscar had caught up. Oscar walked through the small hole in the brush, then held the branches back for Chloe, who was moving very slowly, stepping somewhat gingerly on her bad foot. And although her limp was barely noticeable, I knew if she overdid it, we’d be right back where we started. But this time, I highly doubted Oscar would be able to carry her.

  “How you doing?” I asked.

  “Okay.” Chloe smiled weakly. “Just thirsty.”

  Oscar shrugged, looking past me without answering. The whole morning had been like that, and I wasn’t very good at tolerating the silent treatment. I knew he was pissed, at Isaac mainly, but also at me, and I knew I should tell him what Isaac had done. What he really had done.

  But then what would happen? I couldn’t take the risk of another fight between them, but I also knew I had to fix it. Somehow. “We’ll go until we find some water,” I said, ignoring the look Isaac gave me. “And then we’ll rest.” I adjusted my pack, tightening up the strap against my stomach, hoping the pressure would dull the ache inside.

  “Lead on, Kemosabe,” Isaac said. “Since, unlike some of us, you’re not so directionally challenged.”

  I couldn’t tell if that was an insult or a compliment but figured the best thing to do was ignore it completely. Just walk, I thought. Just keep moving. If we keep going, eventually we’ll hit something; eventually we’ll find Lake Sup
erior. We have to.

  Day 9

  Evening

  We walked for what seemed like hours in silence. No planes. No helicopters. No chain saws. Only the sound of shrieking birds in the trees and, finally, the soothing trickle of a shallow creek, something we had stumbled on (literally) when Chloe spied a dark ravine from a hilly rise. We scrambled down the hill quick as we dared, found a narrow animal trail through the trees, which led to a pebbly creek bed that fed into a tiny pond. The pond itself was scuzzy, coated with algae and weedy plants, but it was water, and it was where we would camp for the night.

  Since there was no food left (and nothing found on the hike), that meant a meal of oatmeal. The Last Supper. We combined all our packets into the pot with boiling water, then added more water to thin it out to a souplike consistency. Banana-strawberry-blueberry-peach gruel. Oscar found a stick the exact size and shape of a wooden spoon, and we almost burned our mouths because it tasted so good.

  But it didn’t go far. It was just the right amount of food to make us want more. A lot more, but there was nothing left. Completely gone. I still felt okay (despite a near-constant headache), but my stomach had definitely shrunk. My skin seemed looser, like a partially deflated balloon. If I pinched the skin on my hand, it didn’t snap and flatten back immediately. It stayed in a white crease, like an old person. Or maybe that was a sign of dehydration. Probably both. But still, I wasn’t suffering as much as everyone else. Isaac looked like he’d shrunk a few inches, and both Chloe and Oscar had shaded hollows under their eyes. Then again, I hadn’t looked in a mirror in a week. Maybe I looked worse.

  When we finished taking turns scraping the bottom of the pot, we sat quietly, listening to the fire.

  “So, no fish in that pond, huh?” Chloe’s question was innocent enough, but it could only be interpreted as an accusation.

  Isaac scraped a bit of oatmeal from the pot and set it down. “Nope.”

  “How about the snares?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, maybe tomorrow.” Chloe poked her stick in the fire, trying to sound optimistic.

  “Yeah,” Isaac said darkly. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  A depression like smoke descended around us.

  “Do we need more bait?” I asked.

  “Are you volunteering, Dodd?”

  “I guess,” I said. “Yes. I’m volunteering.”

  “Well, good luck with that. I found three night crawlers, a fat grub, and some ugly beetle,” he said. “And I only caught a box turtle, but it slipped off the hook before I could reel him in.” He sniffed and rolled his eyes, as if daring me to do better.

  “Oh.” I stubbed my stick at the fire, careful to keep my eyes down, knowing all through the course of dinner I had become increasingly aware of Oscar’s glances. His hand held the stick-spoon longer when he passed it to me. His eyes kept landing on mine, full of only one question. He even sat closer, angling himself toward me. I did nothing.

  The fire climbed and fell, and finally I yawned and excused myself. There was nothing more to eat, so I grabbed the empty cook pot.

  “Where you going?” Chloe asked.

  “To wash it. The oatmeal will stick on like cement.” I glanced down—the pot was spotless, not an oat left. “Well, usually it sticks. I guess I’ll go rinse it out and get more water.”

  I was halfway down the trail when I heard Oscar say, “I’m going to bed.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Isaac called back.

  I crouched down at the water’s edge and submerged the pot, swirling it clean before I refilled it.

  Footsteps behind me, crunching on pebbles, turned my head.

  “Hey.” Oscar sat down, but this time he looked directly at me, obviously waiting for me to say something. Or maybe do something. His gaze was unnerving. He wanted an explanation.

  “Hey.” I filled the pot to the brim.

  It was quiet, but not really, not when I really stopped to listen. Peeping frogs, twittering birds, leaves rustling in the wind, and below all that the constant hum of insects. Even with all the sounds I could still hear Isaac and Chloe talking. Their words were unintelligible, but it sounded more like a conversation, less like a brewing fight. I cocked my head in their direction. “That’s a first.”

  “Wonder how long it will last.”

  “Five minutes, maybe.”

  “Wonder what they’re talking about.”

  “I don’t know.” I made a face at the water, the flash of Isaac pressing me up against the tree made me drop the pot. Just like that he had changed, as unpredictable as a wild animal, maybe even more so. And I had never seen it coming. “I don’t know anything.” I kept filling and emptying the pot of water.

  “You know how to survive,” he said. “That’s something.”

  “That’s just dumb luck.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I started up to go back to the campfire. Oscar didn’t follow me. I didn’t expect him to. But when I passed, he grabbed my elbow, pulling back gently, like he was directing a kite on a string, and I couldn’t help but notice how different his touch felt on my skin than Isaac’s. “Don’t go.” I looked down at the top of his head, but he was only watching the creek. “Not now. Don’t go.”

  I didn’t want to go. “They want the water.” It was a stupid protest.

  “They can wait.” His voice was thick, heavy with something. His grip tightened.

  I sank down and dropped the pot, letting the water run in rivulets back to the source. Does it matter anymore what we do? Does anything matter?

  “Maybe,” Oscar answered, and I knew I had been thinking out loud again. “I think some things do matter.”

  “What Isaac said before,” I began, feeling shaky and embarrassed. “He saw me get out of the water when I took a bath. He wouldn’t give me my towel.” I swallowed with some difficulty, thinking about what to say next. No way was I going to tell him what had happened in the woods. Not now. Not ever. I couldn’t risk another fight. “That’s it. That’s all. He made it sound like something different.”

  “Oh.” I could see the lines of veins pulse in his throat.

  “He’s an asshole.”

  Oscar turned to me with a quiet smile. “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.” Without his glasses on, his eyes looked even darker, more black than brown. He exhaled slow and heavy; I could see his whole frame relax, tension sinking away.

  “I just wanted to explain.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Emma.”

  “I want to.”

  “I believe you, you know,” Oscar said. “It’s okay.”

  “Good.” I exhaled. “Just don’t get into any more fights, okay? It’s not worth it. It doesn’t matter what Isaac says.”

  “It matters to me.” His voice was hard, remembering.

  “But we need to stick together or we won’t make it. We need to get along.” It was a simple statement. An opinion. A fact. An undeniable truth. I shook my head. “We’ll all die out here.”

  “All the more reason then.” He pulled me to him, his mouth quieting mine, and that was good, because there really was nothing left to say. He was right. All the more reason.

  * * *

  We attacked each other like we were starving. Because we actually were. His fingers wound through my hair, and I gripped the back of his head, our noses and teeth clicking together when our lips collided. He tasted like dirt and sand and leaves, salty and sweet water, and it made me even hungrier. I rolled back down onto my shoulders, conscious of his wrist, and that one small gesture was all the invitation he needed. He slid his good arm underneath the small of my back, following me down with a soft sigh. My lips were numb, almost bruised, but his tongue was warm in my mouth, each kiss sending small electrical shocks through my veins until I was certain my blood was boiling. The roar of it echoed in my head, but all I could think was more. I wanted more. I needed more. I panted like I’d sprinted a mile but knew I could keep going. I definitely wanted to keep
going. I bit his lip gently, moved my hands down his chest, pressing myself closer. Oscar responded by running his hand up the inside of my thigh and cupping his palm firmly against me. I felt like I might go blind from the sensation. Seeing my reaction, Oscar proceeded to unbutton my shirt.

  “Hey, Dodd? Where’s the water?” Isaac yelled. “Are you doing a rain dance down there?”

  Oscar pulled back and looked down at me, his eyes a blur of anxiety and lust and bewilderment. I must have looked the same, because he immediately sat up and apologized.

  “I’m sorry.” He cradled his bad wrist against his chest, wincing.

  “For what?” I sat up and picked a leaf out of my hair.

  He exhaled a bit shakily, his mouth quivering with the words. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” I said, realizing it sounded exactly like something my psychiatrist would say. I decided to finish the line. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yeah, says me.” I couldn’t figure out why his mood had changed so abruptly. Then again, I often did the same thing. He almost seemed scared, not of me exactly, but of himself. I shook my head, letting the dirt sift out. That was just my crazy talking again.

  His fear made me brave, if only to reassure him. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” There, my therapist training is complete.

  He swiveled around to face me and swallowed hard. “That’s just it,” he said. “I do want to. I want to so badly I can’t even think of anything else.”

  Flattery was warm syrup in my blood, flushing me with pleasure. “And that’s so bad?”

  “Out here it is.” He nodded, serious. “Out here it can get us killed.”

  “It can get you killed anywhere.”