Foreverland Is Dead

by Tony Bertauski

  “Why doesn’t yours work?”

  Miranda rubs her neck. “Like I said, maybe I passed a test and they turned it off. It doesn’t say.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just don’t let her see the book.”

  “She can’t get to you, Miranda. You’re safe in there.”

  “I’m not worried about me. She starts reading that, and who knows what she’ll do. Maybe she’ll start stealing food right in front of you.”

  Miranda doesn’t look away this time. She wants to see a reaction. Cyn doesn’t blink.

  “I’ll keep it safe. Let me know if you find anything else.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ve searched the rest of the house, right?”

  Miranda sniffs, doesn’t answer.

  “Because we’re cold and hungry, Miranda. You’re warm and full and clean. The least you can do is open all the doors. I don’t want to be out here for months and find out a phone is behind a big, scary door.”

  Miranda turns without another word. She makes it to the porch, flapping the water off of the umbrella. Her hand is on the doorknob.

  “Thanks for the clothes,” Cyn says. “I’m exploring tomorrow, no matter what. The coats and stuff will make all the difference.”

  Miranda looks at Cyn’s rotten boots. There’s nothing she can do about that. She kicks off her boots and goes inside, where the air is warm and dry.

  Bach’s Toccata and Fugue plays ominously. She kneels down, taps the stereo to skip that song. The foreboding pipe organ cuts off, leading into the soothing sounds of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. She basks in the uplifting tones, imagining lakes of glass and open fields with laughing children.

  19

  Cyn hoists the backpack off the bed. Her back sags under the weight of clothing, tent, and sleeping bag. Her knife is stashed near the bottom, next to a leather-bound journal.

  “You sure about this?” Jen helps Cyn adjust the straps.

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “What if it’s raining?”

  “Then it’s raining.”

  The backpack is surprisingly balanced. Cyn walks around the bunkhouse, her bare feet slapping the boards. She bends over to pick up a wet sock that’s fallen off a chair near the stove, just to see how it feels.

  She locks her thumbs beneath the straps.

  “Here.” Jen twists wires around the buckle, a slim strip of dangling aluminum. “I made it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Good luck.”

  “I’m heading straight south, uphill to find a vantage point. I figure I’ll be able to see into the valley in all directions after a half-day hike. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “You’re taking a lot of food for a day hike,” Roc mutters from bed.

  “Something goes wrong, I may have to camp.”

  “We should vote on it.”

  “You can come.” Cyn pulls her arms out, lets the backpack bounce on her bed. “I can pack enough for two.”

  “You don’t know what’s out there.” Kat sits backward in a chair, leaning toward the stove. “You should be taking one of the horses.”

  “I don’t know how to ride.”

  “I can teach you.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “It’s a bad idea, Cyn.”

  “Surviving isn’t enough.”

  Roc pops her head out of the covers. “I thought that was the whole point of starving ourselves—to survive long enough for someone to find us.”

  Cyn points at the marks on the wall. “I got tired of that.”

  “So now you’re rushing out to die?”

  “Who says we’re not an experiment, that maybe we’ll wake up again and not remember anything, like it’s the first day?” She yanks the bed away from the wall, exposing all the marks. “Maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow and the whole wall will be filled because all we’re doing is lying in bed and waiting.”

  “I hope so. Then I won’t remember how miserable I am now.”

  “You’ll still be miserable.”

  “I won’t remember it,” Roc says.

  “I don’t want to fill the wall, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Maybe you need to run these things by us, stop making all the decisions on your own.”

  The windows are dark. Night has descended. Cyn already feels the weight on her eyes. The girls do, too, making their way to bed. Kat throws a few more logs on the fire before crawling under the covers.

  Cyn strips off her pants and socks, stuffs them beneath the covers where they’ll be warm in the morning. She takes the keycard from around her neck, crosses the room, and presses it into Mad’s hand.

  “Take care of that,” she whispers.

  Mad puts it around her neck, tucks it inside her shirt. Cyn pats her shoulder. She should have the keycard, especially if Cyn doesn’t return.

  Soft snores are already drifting up from the bunks.

  Cyn pulls the blankets over her shoulder, snuggles into her pillow. She begins to drift off, carrying a guilty weight with her. She’ll be leaving the girls alone with Roc. But she’ll be back. She won’t abandon them. Even if the Miranda’s journal is real, Roc is more interested in sleeping and eating.

  The girls won’t get in the way of that.

  20

  The last cracker.

  Miranda shakes out the crumbs, licks them off her palm. It’s past midnight and she’s still hungry. The food for the girls is almost loaded and ready, just a few more items to think about. She’s got to be careful. Can’t give away too much.

  The photos from the bedroom are scattered on the coffee table. She pushes them around like playing cards, endless tropical scenes that make her feel colder.

  Hell.

  That’s what the woman wrote in the leather-bound journal about this place, like she didn’t want to be here. Why did she come here? She’s got all those boats and houses and she comes out here until the end?

  Miranda’s stomach whines. She takes the binoculars to the window. It’s something to do, help her forget about food. There’s not much to see at this hour, but there’s nothing else to do. The day is a better time for spying. She spotted Jen inside the dinner house, picking her nose and wiping it under the table.

  She scans the horizon, looking for a wolf or a marauding grizzly bear. Maybe she’ll spot a truck or an airplane—wouldn’t that be nice? She’d be the one to save them, laugh right in the Dagger Queen’s face.

  Sometimes she catches Roc sneaking into the kitchen when the others aren’t around. She hasn’t seen her at night, though. Not yet. What’s she going to do if she does see her? Tell the others? They already know and do nothing. How long will it be before Roc just steals right in front of them?

  If Miranda had a gun, she could make things right. Problems go away in a hurry when someone has a bigger stick. Miranda would do it, too. Why not? She’s the runt. A gun would level the playing field.

  Time for a little payback.

  Something moves.

  Miranda’s heart thumps. “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name…”

  The prayer leaps to her lips like a talisman. She aims the binoculars at the garden. The kitchen is open!

  There’s no light, but the door is clearly open. The shelves are easy to see in the moonlight. She turns the knob, watching the open doorway— Someone comes out.

  Cyn’s skin is bluish-white. Her legs are bare from her pointy hips down to her naked feet. She’s wearing panties and a t-shirt and it’s freezing. She must be carrying the keycard. Cyn closes the door and heads around the back of the dinner house.

  Miranda keeps the binoculars trained on her.

  Cyn doesn’t turn toward the bunkhouse. Miranda fumbles the binoculars, loses sight of her. She presses them against her eyes, refocusing, scanning. Where’d she go?

  There. Right there near the trees.

  Miranda races to the kitchen for a better vantage point. Her pale skin flashes in
the shadows.

  She almost drops the binoculars this time.

  “Our Father…”

  Cyn just went down the dead body path.

  21

  Where once there was floating,

  Now there is ground.

  Where once there was nowhere

  Now there is land.

  The rooster.

  Cyn rises from sleep, her head still in the clouds, listening to wind harvesters thump and the rain patter. She hooks the clothes at the bottom of the bed with her foot and dresses without breaking the warm seal of the blankets. Her feet are sore.

  She sits up, inspects the scratches on the soles and the dirt around her ankles. Doesn’t notice the smell anymore. Mud flakes on the floor. She doubles up on socks.

  The sole is breaking away on one of her leather boots. It won’t last ten more miles. The old boots probably can’t make it to the chicken coop and back. She could duct tape it, but a new pair of L.L. Bean duck boots is under her bed.

  Cyn shoves her feet inside, laces up. The soles rap the wood planks. They’re damn snug, but dry. She rolls the pant legs over them and tosses the old leather boots under the bed.

  The knife is already packed so she uses the edge of her candleholder to make a thin scratch on the wall. The girls snore on.

  Outside, the sky is a colorless tarp. Rain taps the hood of her coat. The windows in the brick house are lit. Cyn fantasizes Miranda will wave from the front porch, tell her she found something, anything, so she doesn’t have to hike.

  False hope brings false suffering.

  She takes her first step. Due south.

  Her feet already ache.

  There was a dense stretch of forest at about the half-mile mark, but it didn’t last long. It’s hard climbing after that, mostly hills with boulders and grassy clumps in between conifers. There’s easier ground if she goes around, but she stays on a southern course. It’ll be easier to map, and she won’t get lost.

  The sun is a hazy circle. Cyn unzips her coat, lets in the cool air. She doesn’t want to break a sweat. Too late for that.

  She takes a swallow of water. If she can reach the next summit, she’ll have a look around, stop for a snack. She hoists the backpack and grinds ahead.

  She hasn’t been at it long and her legs are weak. Hopefully, she’ll find a second wind by noon when she turns back. Maybe she’ll glimpse a column of smoke before that, or a road or town. Something.

  So far, nothing but God’s country.

  The back of her right foot is on fire. She limps along, takes easier paths that puts her slightly off course. She stops often to correct her path. Her breathing falls into rhythm with her stride, head down. One step at a time.

  One after another.

  Her head feels light. There’s a buzziness behind her eyes. She’s breathing heavily, maybe the air is thinning. She can’t dehydrate, not out here.

  There’s a large boulder at the summit next to a dead tree. If she can make that, she’ll rest. She’ll eat. She’s been hiking for an hour, maybe longer. Each step forward is another step back.

  She figures she’s about a mile out from the cabins when she reaches the top. Cyn throws the bag down, collapsing against the stone. The aluminum strip dances around. She’s winded, can’t catch her breath. So dizzy. So thin. The sensation is sort of like a fence, but slightly different. Not so much in the neck, more in the gut.

  She chews a bite of jerky and leans her head against the boulder. The tree, its gnarly trunk long dead, the bark flaked off and blown away, exposing the smooth weathered grain beneath, is wedged inside a fracture, as if it broke the stone but couldn’t survive.

  To her right, far to the west, is a large lake. The water is glassy and blue. It looks like a day or two away. Where there’s water, there are animals. People, too. To the East, open valley.

  She peels off her right boot. The heel of her sock is soaked red, a hole worn through the outer sock. She strips them off. The skin is stripped off her Achilles. What was she thinking, hiking in brand new boots?

  Stupid. Head back before things get worse.

  She leans her head back, working on the last strip of jerky, staring down the slope. It’d be nice if the rest of the trail were that easy. The grassy hill goes down a mile or so to a line of trees. May as well go back, there’s nothing but grass and rocks, a scraggly tree here and there. Unless there’s someone in a hole, she’s not going to find anything.

  She washes the jerky down with a swallow of water, chases that with the yams. A nap would be nice. Kick the boots off and rest an hour or two. She’d still be back by lunch.

  Even though she already ate it.

  The aluminum strip rattles against the backpack. Her eyes get heavy, but she’s not going to do it. There’s work to be done back at the cabin. And she’ll need to treat the sores on the backs of her feet.

  She hoists the backpack.

  At the bottom of the slope, there’s an opening. A peculiar one. All these trees and just a blank opening. If she had binoculars, she could see if it’s anything. It would take half an hour to get down there.

  But it’s so cleanly open. So clear-cut.

  Cyn drops the backpack by the rock. It’ll go faster without the weight, and she’ll return to get it, anyway. It’ll be easier on her feet. She considers hoofing it barefoot, but forces her boot back on, wincing.

  Cyn half-steps her way down the slope, focused more on the topography than the destination. The buzzy, good feeling in her stomach dissipates as she descends, replaced with fatigue. She stops halfway, shades her eyes.

  Looks like an opening.

  A bit farther down the hill, and she sees a pair of depressions coming out of the trees and fading into the patchy grass. Tracks.

  She hobbles along a little too quickly for comfort but she’s going downhill. The impact on her heels burns; she’s paying no attention to the increasing lightness in her head.

  The buzzing in her neck.

  The numbness in her fingers.

  Cyn trots to the opening, more sure than ever that those are tracks. Someone drives through here! Maybe they deliver supplies along this route. Maybe someone lives nearby, or this is a hunting road.

  It’s something.

  Has to be.

  Cyn reaches the shade of the tall spruce when darkness falls on her. She leans back but her momentum carries her forward.

  She can’t stop.

  She tumbles into the clearing, recognizing the warning too late, remembering the sensation rattling along her neck, reaching around her face.

  Dragging her into darkness.

  Two miles from the cabins, Cyn passes through another fence.

  22

  Cyn stares down. She’s looking at something, seems like she should know what they are.

  Ah, yes. My feet.

  She wiggles her toes, scratching at the bed of pine needles. Pine needles that are gray and grainy.

  The world is gray.

  No black.

  No white.

  Just every shade of gray in a pixelated world.

  The air is heavy, pressing all around. Her arm moves in a strangely slow manner, like animation trying to catch up with real time. She wiggles her fingers, dirt packed under her nails, as close to black as anything around her.

  She’s breathing sand.

  I’m in the dream. In the gray.

  She doesn’t recall the needles below her feet, though. Not in the dream. She reaches out, runs her fingers through the branches that suddenly appear from the fog, prickly, short needles that poke her numbly.

  She doesn’t remember how she got here, only sees the light ahead. She follows the path. Trees on both sides, branches criss-crossing overhead. The dense light is closer.

  An opening.

  Her hands out, she quickly steps ahead, almost running, as if there’s something on the other side—

  She skids to a halt. Her foot slips, hangs over the edge where the ground ends.

  A sheer drop
off. No bottom. Just fog.

  Never ending gray.

  The trees continue to her left and right, growing up to the ledge, where they, too, fade into the gray. Do they go on forever? Or does the gray consume them?

  Cyn kicks a rock, watches it silently evaporate into the mist.

  Gone.

  The distant nowhere of homogenous gray swirls.

  Voices are distant.

  Too distant to understand. Close enough to recognize.

  Like children on playgrounds.

  She reaches out, as if fairies will poke their heads out. The particles of gray begin to shimmer. A low thrumming bass rattles somewhere out there like thunder, reaching inside to shake her intestines. She feels something.

  Something coming.

  Stalking her.

  It’s coming!

  She turns, steps—

  Like a wave swelling from the deepest part of the ocean, something curls over her, drives her to the ground—

  Color.

  The world lights up with color.

  There are paisley flowers on the walls and a soft comforter beneath her arms. The sun shines brightly in her eyes. She covers her face, recognizes the bare light bulb in the ceiling fixture.

  “You’re a bad girl.”

  He’s heavyset, standing in a doorway. His head is closely shaved. Black and white whiskers cover his face.

  He unbuckles his belt, slides it from the loops. Cyn pushes back on the bed, grabs a pillow. The man folds the belt over and snaps it. She squeals.

  He grins. “You deserve this.”

  The belt stings the tops of her toes. She crawls back, hiding behind the pillow. He snatches her foot before she can yank it away. Grips her ankle like a vise.

  She hears the zipper.

  Feels the full weight of the man. His chest in her face. The smell of his armpit. He uses his knees to open her legs. She feels so small.

  So young.

  She feels the pressure as he pushes inside her. Like a pipe.