by Kimberly Afe
“And when the odds are three against one,” continues McCoy, “no coyote is gonna take that on.” He rests a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “He was just curious. That’s all. Now if it was a pack of coyotes—that would be something to worry about.”
“What do you do if that happens?” asks Jake.
“Run.” McCoy doesn’t even hesitate when he says it.
I’m thanking the forces of nature that we’ve only seen one when I hear light steps behind me. A chill zips down my spine. “Stalker” might be an understatement. I think the coyote wants a meal.
I’m scared to turn my head around, but I know we need to scare off our curious pursuer. I slide off my pack, intending to use it just like McCoy did to send him packing. I whirl around, my plan in place, but instead of remembering to swing my pack, I scream.
A coyote collective with at least seven members stands behind us. They spring back a few feet at the sound of my scream, all except the largest one. The alpha. He advances, his mouth open, his beady eyes trained on me. This time I remember to swing the pack. He leaps back and immediately comes forward again while the others regroup behind their leader.
McCoy takes position on my left. “Jake, go find high ground! But don’t run!”
The coyotes scatter at the sound of his voice, then quickly regroup.
Jake gasps. “I thought you said to run!”
“Never mind what I said. Now go.”
That’s exactly what I was thinking. That running didn’t seem like a good idea. Although the animals are so skittish, I wonder if we couldn’t get away with it. “What do we do then?” I ask.
“Walk backwards; keep them at bay until we find high ground. Follow my lead.”
We step backwards, slowly, cautiously. McCoy starts growling and swinging his pack.
I look at him like he’s lost his head. “Don’t you think growling might antagonize them?”
The alpha male advances on me. I swing my pack at him. He doesn’t leap back though. He stands his ground. I’m thinking we may have to take him out when I trip on a rock and fall. My pack smacks my chest, taking my breath away and disrupting my ability to get up quickly. The alpha leaps at me. He snaps at my boot a couple of times, but I don’t give him the chance to take hold. I kick at him.
McCoy yanks me to my feet.
The coyotes pace from one side of the canyon wall to the other, like they’d be circling us if the space was there. A couple of them howl, but mostly they’re quiet which makes the whole situation more eerie.
Jake’s voice echoes over the wind.
I look at McCoy, hoping he understood what Jake said, because I didn’t. Until Jake says it again. “It’s a dead end!”
McCoy and I glance at each other.
“Shit,” McCoy mumbles under his breath. “Come back, then!”
Not a minute later, Jake returns. “It’s a dead end,” he says, out of breath. “There ain’t no where to go!”
“Okay. This is what we do,” says McCoy while he continues to swing his pack at the coyotes. “You and Avene gather up as many rocks as you can find. Stuff them in your pockets. Fill up your hands. We’ll use these to push them back to their den.”
Jake and I each go to opposite sides of the canyon and start collecting rocks. I take a handful of them to McCoy while he keeps the pack at bay, swinging his arms, kicking at them and every so often swearing and cursing. Jake and I join in, yelling and stomping and tossing rocks at the animals while we turn the tables and advance on them.
This alarms the entire collective.
“Cut some of these small bushes,” says McCoy. “We’ll set a fire at their den entrance once we get them back inside.”
We continue being loud, screaming at them, tossing rocks, pushing them forward, and every so often Jake and I stop to cut down a sapling or a shrub and stuff the branches inside McCoy’s pack. Finally we near the den entrance.
“There it is,” yells Jake.
I pull the branches out while McCoy and Jake continue to push them forward. Some naturally dart back into their den while others scatter off to the sides. It takes some wrangling but we finally get them all where they belong. McCoy continues to holler and toss rocks while Jake and I quickly set the branches across the path to their den. We place a few large rocks on either side of the fire pit to help keep them in.
There’s a light breeze so it takes several tries to get it lit, but once the fire is burning hot, we race down the path the way we came, keeping our eyes open for the trail markers. I look over my shoulder constantly, to see if we’re being followed.
Nearly an hour passes before we reach the spot where the canyon wall has collapsed. Jake and I scurry across the rocks to the other side of the trail. I’m tired and can’t keep my breathing under control, but I don’t want to rest yet. Not until we find the marker and get on the right path.
“Hold up,” says McCoy.
“We can’t stop! We’ve lost too much time already.” I say.
“I think this is the way we need to go,” he hollers back.
The first thing that comes to mind is that it figures this is where the marker is. And no wonder we didn’t see it before. I climb back over to the other side.
“Here’s the marker,” he says, pointing to a spot almost totally hidden by fallen rock. The circle with the dot in the middle is there, plain as day, if you knew it was underneath all the debris.
“We’ve got to go up and over,” says McCoy, pointing skyward.
We get right to climbing. Jake goes first, then me, with McCoy bringing up the rear. It’s slow going. Rocks slip and we slide. I dodge a couple as they tumble toward my face. Eventually I make it to the top and rest for a minute next to Jake. But when I try to adjust my position so I can get a drink of water, the rock I’m holding on to slips. I slide down the rocks on my belly, reaching for something to stop me, using my feet to try and gain leverage. Trying not to think about the sting from the boulders slicing into me, into my palms, over my stomach.
McCoy reaches a hand around my back. The impact of his arm slamming against my ribs is painful, like someone slammed a brick into me, but I’m grateful for the save.
“You okay?”
I’m still trying to catch my breath when I answer. “Yeah.”
I work my way up again. This time McCoy sticks close. We work our way down the other side, which turns out to be more difficult since it’s almost a sheer drop. There’s no way the coyote collective can follow us over this.
Now that we’re on the right trail, we take a few minutes to rest and rehydrate. After that, we move fast. The turns come quick, just like Boom said. We take a different path almost as soon as we enter a new one. After a while it starts to get dizzying. I’m completely confused, turned around, and beside myself at the number of directional changes we’ve made. I finally understand why Boom called this region The Maze.
Using the sun, I judge the time to be nine or so when the desert labyrinth finally ends. I’m relieved, until we find ourselves on the edge of a plateau looking down at an expanse of flatland.
“There’s Millers Creek,” says McCoy, pointing southward into the middle of nothing but more desert.
I spot the town of Millers Creek, a cluster of dots in a haze of dust with a sliver of bright green running through the middle of it. The lush trail of vegetation means the town is well supplied with water. This makes me happy since I just finished off the last drop in my canteen.
McCoy scans the plateau and finds a path off to our left. “This way. Boom said it should only take us twenty minutes to get there once we can see it.”
We follow the trail down the hillside, slipping and stumbling on the loose rocks. The padding around my collar shifts, the metal scraping against my skin. I need both hands to get down so I wait until we reach the bottom before I readjust my collar.
In no time we arrive at the outskirts of Millers Creek. The sight of it is unexpected to say the least. The town is surrounded by a towering brick wall.
It’s at least as tall as a two-story building. Spikes jut horizontally from poles high on the roof and a couple of men pace on top as if assigned as lookouts.
Jake looks at me with raised brows. I shrug and we both look to McCoy.
“My guess is it’s used to keep out the cannibals,” he says.
Oh, yeah. How can I forget the cannibals? But I’m certain he’s right. We walk the perimeter until we find the entrance. Two guards, one on either side, nod us in, no questions asked. I guess we pass the “we’re not cannibals” test.
We walk down the main center. Buildings made of clay brick line a wide street. The town is practically deserted, which I find odd. Water Junction would be a bustling Mecca by this time of day. We pass several shops with unusual names: Dusty Duds, Wasteland Vittles, and a place called The Gambling Studio. Finally, we find a man sweeping the porch in front of a shop called The Devil’s Lair.
“Morning, sir,” says McCoy. “Can you direct us to the barbershop?”
The man stops sweeping and eyes each one of us with suspicion. He scratches his neck and then points down the road. “Racers, huh?” he says, grinning.
The way he says it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I reach for my collar, wondering if we should conceal them.
The man continues. “Turn left after the tattoo parlor. It’ll be the second shop on the right.”
“Where is everyone?” Jake asks.
The man grunts like we’re stupid and we should know. “Sleeping off last night.”
They must’ve had some kind of celebration. The man goes back to sweeping while we make our way down the street. Several minutes later, we’re standing in front of the barbershop, reading a sign that says they won’t open till noon which is a couple of hours from now.
“We don’t have time to wait until noon to start asking questions,” I say.
McCoy’s jaw flexes as he shakes his head. “We don’t have a choice.” McCoy sits on the stoop and pulls out his canteen. “I don’t have a good feeling about this town.”
I know what he means; it’s like we walked right into the middle of an ambush and there won’t be any way out. This town is too quiet for me and a little creepy.
Jake walks across the street and peers inside a shop. “Cafe,” he yells excitedly.
I just smile because we don’t have the right currency to purchase in Millers Creek. Actually, we have no currency. I look at McCoy. “Do you have money?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. Not until we get inside Boom’s apartment.”
Jake will have to wait to eat a decent meal. Instead of wasting time sitting around, we spend the next couple of hours familiarizing ourselves with the town’s layout. We find a sign that tells us the population in Millers Creek is sixteen hundred and thirty. That’s a lot of criminals and only about a thousand less than the population in Water Junction.
We search for the town’s newspaper but find nothing. I start to wonder if they have a newspaper. If they don’t, I hope Boom has enough Millers Creek currency for us all. Each of us needs proof that we’ve been here. Well, all of us need proof except one. I glance at McCoy, remembering the prize for my head.
By noon we’re back at the barbershop. The sign still shows that it’s closed and I see no one inside. I pace in front of the stoop, my irritation bubbling higher while McCoy and Jake discuss the return trip. I refuse to think about the trek back to Water Junction until I have Gavin.
Finally, I hear the clink of keys inside the lock and the glass door rattles as the shop is opened. I scurry up the steps. McCoy puts a hand out to stop Jake and me from going farther. “I think it’s best if I go alone. Boom gave me private information in case Mr. Cooper doesn’t want to cooperate.”
I swallow down my annoyance, wondering if that’s really the reason he doesn’t want us to go in or if there’s more to it. I come up empty when I contemplate what more there could be. “Fine.”
Jake and I wait next door. Slowly, the townspeople come out of their dark holes and the streets fill up with the sounds of greetings and shouts and arguments and barking dogs. Two men on the main street punch each other in an all-out brawl while onlookers gather. Another fight breaks out in front of the cafe between two men and three teens and once again it becomes clear why they call it Criminal City.
McCoy returns and nods us toward the building next to the barbershop. “Mr. Cooper was no trouble at all.” McCoy takes us inside and up two flights of stairs, halting in front of an iron door with the letters B. King painted in white on the front.
Boom King? Is that his name? My mind starts whirring but I can’t think clearly and I’m trying to control the panic rising in my chest. I face McCoy. “Is Boom related to Governor King?” I demand.
McCoy unlocks the door.
Jake practically tumbles inside, like he knows well enough to get clear. “I need to use the facilities,” he says and dashes down the tiny hallway.
I stand my ground in the hall outside the apartment. “I said … is Boom related to Governor King?”
I see McCoy wince before he turns to me. “Yes.”
My eyes slip to the floor as I brush past McCoy into Boom’s apartment. I try to work out who Boom is, how he’s related to King. What McCoy is really up to. Why he lies so much.
“Avene,” McCoy barely says my name aloud.
I look at him, holding back tears.
McCoy looks away quickly, out the window.
“Boom is your uncle,” he says and pauses. “He heard about Gavin and the Headhunters Race. He came to Millers Creek to find Gavin and was only here a short time before his last trip to Water Junction. That’s why he has an apartment. His search for Gavin is also why Boom is in prison.”
I’m stunned. I didn’t know King had a brother. He never spoke of one. I wonder if Verla knew who Boom was and that’s why she didn’t tell me either. But there’s no way for me to know now. All Verla’s secrets died when she did. I have no idea how Boom fits into all of this. “I’m not sure what this means,” I say, going to the window.
McCoy steps behind me. “It doesn’t mean anything, Avene,” he whispers. “Except to know there’s someone else that despises King as much as you do.”
I didn’t think anyone hated King as much as I do.
“God! Oh, God! Oh, God!” screams Jake. “My collar just tightened! It’s too tight. It’s hard to breathe!”
I spin around to see Jake running from the bathroom, clutching at his collar. “Are you sure?” I ask, knowing how dramatic he gets. “It’s not time to tighten. It’s only been five days.”
He drops to his knees. “I’m sure! Get it off! I cain’t breathe!” he says, gulping for air, his voice ragged.
McCoy is at his side in two steps. “Calm down or you’ll make it worse.”
McCoy tries to pull Jake’s hands free from his collar. Jake gasps for air and I’m afraid he’s going to hyperventilate and pass out. “Jake,” I say, kneeling beside him. “I’m going to remove the cloth I wrapped around it the other day. That’ll help.”
If nothing else, it’ll ease his mind. I reach up to pull the cloth out, but it doesn’t yield to my efforts. It’s tight against his skin. I keep tugging, pulling. Nothing happens. I glance at McCoy, panic finding its way inside my throat so that I can’t speak. I’m not sure what I’d say anyway that wouldn’t alarm Jake any more than he already is.
Jake labors for air. He goes limp and falls back against me. I’m thinking this might be easier for him to fill his lungs when his breaths begin to sound more like hisses. His eyes close. “Jake!” I scream his name.
McCoy lays him flat and tips his head back. Before my eyes, Jake’s face transforms to a chilling color of blue. At first I think I’m imagining it. “Avene, get the cloth off!”
I pinch the cloth between my fingers and tug but it’s wedged between his skin and collar so tight there is not even the slightest shift. “I can’t!”
McCoy rolls Jake onto his side and attempts to yank it
out himself. But I see that it’s hopeless. The collar is depressed too far into his neck, even if we were able to remove the cloth, it wouldn’t do any good. Realization hits McCoy at the same moment. He flips Jake onto his back again, removes one of his knives from the sheath at his waist, and starts prying at the lock, not giving up.
Tears fill my eyes. I reach for Jake’s hand. I squeeze three times. “This means I … love … you.” My mother taught it to me when I was a little girl. I’m not sure he hears me so I repeat it, saying each word with each press of my hand. “I … love … you.”
Jake nods, barely, his mouth open like he wants to speak, but he only makes a gurgling sound.
“Dammit!” yells McCoy, but he doesn’t quit. “Come on, Jake! Stay with us!”
“Hold on, Jake,” I say. “Please.” I can’t stop the tears. “Remember your sister. She’s waiting for you.”
Jake squeezes my hand twice, with long, deliberate caresses, and I smile with hope. “Yes, that’s it,” I say. “You’ve got it.” But when he begins the third, his fingers release unexpectedly.
I gasp. “Jake! No!” I shake him. His body wobbles at my touch, but there are no more breaths. I lose all control, sobbing, panicking, and screaming for him to breathe while McCoy desperately tries to break open the lock, jamming the knife at the seam of the collar. Pounding it with the butt of his blade. Shaking it, cursing it. Several minutes pass and McCoy doesn’t let up.
I rest my hand over his, to stop him. He looks at me and I see pain in the tears welling in his eyes. He surrenders his knife, letting it drop to the floor. McCoy takes my arm, pulling me to my feet. To him, his warmth and strength comforting me, and me him. “You did everything you could,” I whisper. The tears take turns surging and crashing down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I don’t want to. I push my head into the crook of his arm, my body convulsing with uncontrollable sorrow.
We stand there for a long while, each of us mourning. Not saying anything. Each of us swallowed up in our own grief.