Stranded

by Melinda Braun

  “More here, I think.”

  I sighed and stood up (still tingling). “We’ll see.” I refilled the pot of water and walked back to the fire.

  Day 10

  Morning

  We’re going to die. I scratched the sentence into the dirt with a stick, read it to myself several times, then stepped on it, smearing the words with my boot. I refilled the pot and grabbed my fresh stack of kindling.

  I settled the cook pot on the ring of rocks (a makeshift stovetop) and watched it until bubbles pricked up from the bottom.

  “What’s on the itinerary today, Dodd?” Isaac cut a fat worm into thirds, using a sharp rock. He smiled at me, obviously looking for dirt. I had no idea why he thought I would tell him anything, but it’s not like I could blame him. No TV. No Internet. No cards, no music, and the only other object of entertainment we had possessed we used to start a fire.

  “We need to find some food before we leave.”

  “No shit we do. What do you think you’re gonna find?”

  “Mushrooms. Berries. I don’t know.”

  “Wiener going with you?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Why not?” His grin was pure evil.

  “I think he went to find more wood for the fire.”

  Immediately I regretted my choice of words. Three, two, one . . .

  “More wood? I know what wood he’d like to give ya.”

  “You’re such a delicate flower, aren’t you?”

  “I try.” He stuck the hook through a chunk of worm, wrapping it around into a juicy knot, running it through the barb twice, making it impossible for a fish to remove. “Maybe I should go with you.”

  Hell no. “I think you should stick to fishing.” I picked up the empty oatmeal box, all thoughts turned to food. Even that worm was starting to look good.

  “Take the shirt strips if you’re going,” he commanded. “Take the whistle and don’t go far. We still need to do five miles today.”

  Since when do you care, you creep? “Check and check.” I tugged at the whistle around my neck.

  “Well, well.” Isaac smiled.

  “Well, well, what? What does that mean?”

  “Didn’t know girls could plan ahead.”

  “Since when?”

  His blue eyes were brittle in the morning light. “My old man used to say that women couldn’t be soldiers. Said they were too sensitive. Said they were too emotional. Would panic when the shit hit the fan.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Also said they would bleed five days a month and what do you do with someone like that?”

  “What’s your point?” I crossed my arms, waiting.

  “My point?” Isaac looked at me as though I was an idiot. “My point is that my old man didn’t want those bitches in combat. Thought they couldn’t do the job as well as a man.”

  “That’s not a point,” I said. “That’s an opinion. My opinion is that your dad sounds like an asshole.”

  “Actually, that’s a fact.” Isaac smiled, as though I got the joke. “My dad is an asshole.”

  I walked off clutching the box to my chest. “I don’t give two shits what your dad thinks.” Or you.

  * * *

  Mushrooms grew in shade. In damp places. On rotted, moss-covered logs.

  I didn’t know where to start. Everything looked shady and damp, so I just started walking, edging the pond with my eyes on the ground, looking for creamy white buttons in all the brown and green. After a while, I realized looking at the ground might be a good way to get lost, so I made sure to keep the water on my left side, staying close enough to always see it through the trees.

  My stomach burned as I walked, and I prayed Isaac would catch something. After I walked for thirty minutes or so, I came to a place where the trees thinned out. Against the blue sky I couldn’t see the trail of smoke from the campfire, which depressed me. I wasn’t that far. How could I expect a plane to see it? I walked a few more yards and sat down to rest. The breeze was stronger today. Fewer bugs. That was a plus. I was too tired. Lack of food will do that, I guess. I didn’t know how long I sat there until a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye. Animal movement, darting and weaving through the trees. I froze, not even daring to turn my head. What is it? What is it? Small, sleek, orange and black, splotches of gray and white. Oh my God. I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out my knife, flicking up the blade with trembling fingers. When I glanced up again, it was in front of me, five yards away, blinking curiously with bright gold eyes.

  A fox. And not just a fox. It carried a dead rabbit in its mouth.

  All I saw was breakfast.

  I jumped up, clutching my empty oatmeal box and canteen. “Gimme that,” I told the fox, which blinked and wheeled in the other direction, breaking into a lazy trot. I followed, sprinting quickly, my eyes on its tail. It wasn’t moving fast, and it clearly wasn’t afraid of me, but there was no way I was quick enough to catch up with it. What would happen if I did? The fox turned its head back, then darted sideways underneath a bush. Just drop it, I thought. If I got close enough, maybe it would get scared and abandon it. I pushed through the thicket in time for a glimpse of a white tail vanishing behind a rock. I took two giant steps before something caught my foot. I went down like a felled tree, and though normally I would have had the presence of mind to put my hands out, in the process of jumping up and running (on an empty stomach), all the blood from my brain had drained down as though a plug had been pulled from the base of my head. Splinters of light punctured the view in front of me, which was the image of a large rock, growing larger as it rushed up to my face. I didn’t even have time to wonder what was going to happen next, let alone put my hands up.

  Everything went black.

  * * *

  Rose-red light flickered behind my eyelids, and when I opened them, wispy clouds threaded through the solid blue sky above me. I pushed myself up slowly. My forehead throbbed in time with my pulse, and my fingers came away red and sticky when I touched the sore spot. I fumbled for my canteen. It was half empty, and I quickly drank the rest.

  What happened?

  I was looking for something. Mushrooms.

  The fox. The rabbit.

  I scrambled up, but everything went hazy, slanting sideways, so I exhaled slowly through my nose and sat back down. I needed to go slow, do everything slow. What happened to my shirt markers? I looked down; they were still tied to my pack. How long have I been here?

  Panic started like a virus, making me sweat. I didn’t have any idea how long I’d been unconscious, but the sun was already past the high point in the sky, so I’d been away for a few hours, at least. And no one found me. Did they even look?

  I staggered up, moving headlong through the trees in determination. Even though it was afternoon, it was gloomy in the shade, and I kept tripping over the uneven terrain. Wet, spongy ground under my boots made sucking sounds when I walked. Is this the way I came from? This doesn’t look familiar at all. I needed to go back, but which way was it? All the trees looked the same, flinging violet shadows on the ground, stretching out around me. They looked different here—thinner, stragglier.

  A pale glow at the base of a dark trunk grabbed my attention. When I got closer, I saw the base of the tree studded with them. Mushrooms. Before, I had never liked them, but I was so hungry, my stomach so pinched and hot, that I almost cried at the sight. I crouched down; I knew I had to be careful, and I picked one and held it up. Was it a morel? An oyster? A button? A puffball? Or was it something dangerous, like a toadstool? I closed my eyes, trying to remember the pictures I’d seen in the field guide. Toadstools were poisonous. What were the others? Destroying angel. Death cap. Ivory funnel. This kind looked like a morel, light tan with a pointed spongy honeycomb top, reminding me of a tiny brain. It smelled like wood and dirt, and something slightly meaty that made me drool. Do I? I shouldn’t, I knew that, but I was so hungry that a second later I rubbed it on my tongue. No real taste to it. Bland
. I popped it in my mouth and chewed. Firm. Chewy. Not bad. I swallowed it and grabbed another. Just one or two more. Before long I had eaten them all. But I was still hungry. Maybe there would be more on the next tree. I could harvest them and bring a bunch back.

  I took another step forward and my right foot sank, cold water bolting up my leg like an electrical shock. What? It was supposed to be trees and grass, but the ground gave way, revealing dark water. Was I going to sink? A loud burp in front of me almost made me pee my pants. Then again, I was too dehydrated.

  I blinked repeatedly, but the fat frog in front of me didn’t disappear. His bulbous eyes stared back, dull and unafraid. Had he ever seen a person before? He hopped toward me, and the ground quivered where he landed.

  Quicksand? No. Ridiculous. There is no sand here. The air vibrated with insects. Dragonflies flitted in iridescent flashes around me.

  The frog hopped again, now within my reach. Could I? Should I? I still had my box, but it was my stomach that decided for me. I’m gonna eat you. I stayed still—one leg in what I now realized was a bog. I read once that bogs had no end, no base, not like a lake or a river with a measureable depth. There were just layers and layers that became a bottomless pit.

  A chorus of burps echoed. More frogs, all singing in the swamp. The one near me was as large as my hand, and as he hopped forward once more, I bent down and scooped him up. He didn’t struggle, and before I even gave it another thought, I took him in one hand by the hind legs and snapped him like a whip, cracking his head against the log. I did it twice, then checked for any jerking. The frog was still. I put him in the oatmeal box.

  When I left a few minutes later, mainly because the box was full with eight big ones, I was speckled with mosquito bites. I turned in the opposite direction of the sun and walked until I found the edge of the ravine, my boots squishing out a rhythm that I hummed a rhyme to. I like frogs, on the logs, I find in bogs. A blister sprouted on my heel, and by the time I reached the campsite, it had swelled into a painful, fluid-filled cushion, ripe for popping.

  “Holy shit on a stick!” Isaac blurted as I strode into the campsite. “What happened to you?”

  I touched my forehead again; a nice lump had developed, but the blood must have dried, because it shed crusty red flakes on my fingers.

  “Saying you look like a hobo would be a compliment.” Isaac went back to baiting more hooks with worms. Apparently, he hadn’t caught anything. “Wiener’s been looking for you all damn morning,” he continued. “He looked like he was one step away from taking a ride to crazy town.” The thought made him smile. “I told him to settle down and said, ‘Dodd can take care of herself.’ Am I right?”

  I nodded, my throat a hard, gnarly knot that kept me silent.

  “Yeah, well, I thought Wiener was gonna knock my teeth out.”

  I set the box down just as Chloe and Oscar came around the corner. Even at this distance I could see their relief.

  “Oh, Emma!” Chloe said. “Where have you been?”

  Oscar didn’t say anything, his face impenetrable. He turned away with a quick gasp, and his shoulders heaved twice. He bent over and wiped his eyes, as if there were dust in them.

  “I’m okay,” I croaked, massaging the knot out of my throat with shaky fingers. “I was out looking for food. I fell. I think I fainted or something.” I didn’t want to tell them about the fox and the rabbit; I didn’t want them to know how close I’d come only to fail.

  “You fainted?” Chloe was worried. “Are you sure you’re okay? We’ve been calling and looking for hours. And you took the whistle.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “I must have low blood sugar.”

  “Well, thank God.” She swallowed nervously, then hugged me so hard my back cracked. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too. No big deal,” I said. “I was just looking for mushrooms and blueberries.”

  “Did you find any?” Oscar finally spoke, sounding breathless.

  “No,” I lied. I hadn’t found more, and I didn’t want to tell them I’d eaten all the mushrooms like a greedy pig. “I did find something though.” I nudged the oatmeal box with my toe.

  Chloe peered in. “What the?” She straightened back up, appalled. “Frogs?”

  “Frogs?” Isaac perked up. “How many?”

  “Eight,” I said, proud.

  Oscar lifted one from the box, palming it in his hand. It was as round as a baseball. “I think the French call them grenouilles. I guess they taste like chicken.”

  “Well, I call them lunch.” Isaac grabbed the box. “Surf or turf, I don’t care.”

  Chloe hesitated. “I don’t know if I can eat a frog.”

  “More for me then.” Isaac was already busy using a sharpened stick to remove the guts, and when he was done with that, he skewered them in one long row.

  Chloe did end up eating the frog. Actually, she ate two. We all did, nearly burning our mouths waiting for the crackling flesh to cool. And we licked our fingers after.

  They tasted better than chicken.

  * * *

  Oscar’s eyes followed me the rest of the afternoon. Warm brown eyes, attentive, questioning, patient, and eager at the same time. They were the kind of eyes you didn’t want to disappoint.

  So I stayed close to the campfire, sharpening the blade on my knife. “Where’s Chloe?”

  “Learning to fish,” I think.

  “Really?” I couldn’t imagine spending any free time with Isaac. “I hope she catches something. A whole wad would be nice.”

  Oscar laughed. “A wad?”

  “Or is it called a mess.”

  “A pod maybe?”

  “That’s dolphins.”

  “How about a murder.”

  “That’s crows.” It became a game, to see who knew the most.

  “A herd.”

  “A pride.”

  “A flock.”

  “A parliament.”

  “Parliament?” Oscar stared at me. “You made that up.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “What animal is that, then?”

  “Owls.”

  “Serious?”

  “Uh-huh.” I dragged the blade of the knife at a forty-five-degree angle against a piece of rock, pulling it up sharply. I liked the sound it made, and after a few strokes I held it up to the light to check my work. The steel looked brighter, at least. I pushed it against my palm—definitely sharper. “Here.” I handed it to him. “This should work better now. In case we need to gut any more frogs.”

  “Thanks.” He held my hand a few seconds longer than necessary.

  “No problem.” He kept holding it. Was he going to pull me forward? Kiss me again? I couldn’t tell by the look on his face, undecided. I wanted him to decide.

  “I mean it,” he said, low. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For you. For them.” He titled his head back and examined another cloudless blue sky. “For not being out here alone.”

  I thought about that. He was right—we wouldn’t stand a chance out here by ourselves. Not for this long, anyway. I needed him. We needed each other. I squeezed the slim knife against his grip. “Me too,” I said, meaning it. I was alive. I was here. And for the first time in over a year I wanted to keep it that way.

  Day 10

  Night

  My head spun. Waves of heat crashed against my face, then bursts of cold. My neck and chest dripped with sweat, and I struggled to push the covers off. The ceiling pressed down, suffocating me. No. Not again. I can’t do this again.

  I bolted upright, making blood pound painfully behind my eyes, and for a moment I was blind. I heard the creek—wet lapping noises like a thirsty dog slopping water out of a bowl. I was thirsty. So thirsty. My throat burned. Something buzzed near my ear, an electric static hum. I needed something. Something. I had to get out of here. Where was I? I crawled forward, feeling with my hands, inching forward on my knees. A cold breeze hit the back of my n
eck. It was dark out here. Too dark. I pressed my face down. The dirt was cold, so nice and cold against my skin. In comparison I was so sticky, my clothes clinging to my body in sweaty wads of fabric. But my mouth was bone dry. The nausea came back, and I rolled over, pressing my fist into the pit of my stomach. Not again. What did I eat this time? It couldn’t be the frogs. We cooked that meat to a crisp. No, I had never felt like this before; this was something else. Oh my God, the mushrooms! I crawled forward on my hands and knees, but my elbows buckled after a few feet, and I retched a volcano of vomit onto the ground, mouthfuls of liquid, gagging until there was nothing left in my stomach. Still, it wouldn’t stop, and eventually something sour and burning came up, stinging my nostrils. I still couldn’t see; as soon as I tried to get up the pounding came back, a vibrating chisel of pressure trying to force its way out of my temples. I collapsed back down in the dirt.

  Just lie here and it’ll go away. Eventually, it has to go away. Or maybe I will. I’m gone. This is it. Finally. I’m too sick to care anymore. Let it come.

  * * *

  Bright blue. Green. White. Orange. Eyes. A face. The eyes turned into moth wings and fluttered away. Bees buzzed in my ears, then the crunch of cracking ice echoed. Mumbled words rose and fell at different speeds, like waves in a storm. No rhythm. I couldn’t understand it. Here, a voice said. Drink this.

  No, I muttered. Leave me alone.

  But my head was propped up anyway, something warm pressed against my lips. You have to drink it. It was bitter on my tongue, but I swallowed it down.

  More, said the voice.

  But I was already gone again.

  * * *

  I shivered and my teeth clicked together. I couldn’t stay still—the ice-cracking noise was back. Is that my teeth? It was dark again. Something growled, far away in the distance, growing like a siren until it was screaming at me. Like it was right in front of my face. I screamed back.

  * * *

  Voices. Two soft. One hard. Or was it the other way around? What do we do? What can we do? This is what we can do. Will she die? Don’t say that! But what do we do if she does?