White Space

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Not so fast, kid.” Bode reached for Casey’s arm, but a single black glare from the younger boy, and Bode thrust his hand into a jacket pocket. “I know you’re hot to trot, and I don’t blame you. But we got to think this through. Remember: other characters … other people, have been here before,” Bode said, grimly. “Things haven’t turned out so great for them. If we’re walking into a fight, we need more and better weapons than the crap we’ve found so far.”

  Crap was right. While the boys had been dismantling kitchen chairs for clubs, Emma had unearthed three flashlights, a lighter, and a packet of birthday candles (blue, of course). Toss in the box of fireplace matches and Eric’s Glock, and that was it for weapons. All the long guns—Bode’s rifle and shotgun, the shotgun Casey had retrieved from that church—were gone, left behind in the doomed truck. Not that it would’ve mattered, anyway, because they had no ammunition.

  Emma watched as Eric stepped to the edge of the porch and looked down to where his snowmobile ought to be. A thoughtful expression drifted over his face. “What?” she asked.

  “Got an idea. Wait a second.” Darting back into the house, he returned a few moments later with a can of Swiss Miss in one hand and the lacy curtains that had hung from the kitchen window bunched in the other.

  “Hey, you want to kill someone,” Bode said, “you go for the Nestlé Quik.”

  “Ha-ha.” But Eric was grinning.

  “What’s the can for?” Casey asked.

  “Gas,” Eric said. “There’s a siphon and an empty can in the rumble seat of the Skandic. Big Earl used to …” He stopped, his jaw hardening. “We always carry them, just in case. And there’s a whole quart of oil, too.”

  “So what?”

  “So we fill up this Swiss Miss can and maybe a couple more. The gas might come in handy.”

  “Well, you and Emma are kind of walking gas tanks already,” Bode observed. “But yeah, I see where you’re going.”

  “I don’t,” Casey said.

  She did. “Fire. Bombs.”

  “Bombs?” Casey gaped. “You mean, like Molotov cocktails?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Eric said. “We don’t have the right bottles.”

  “What about the peanut butter?” Emma said. “We could empty the jars.”

  “For a Molotov?” Bode made a face. “Might work, but the mouths are really wide and you have to score the glass to get it to blow up right. We don’t have that kind of time anyway.”

  “How do you guys know these things?” Casey asked.

  “Books,” Eric and Emma said together.

  “ ’Nam,” Bode said.

  “Gas burns and so does oil.” Eric cocked his head back at the house. “Grab a couple sheets from the beds upstairs, tear some into strips to wind around these chair legs, soak ’em in oil, and then we have torches.”

  “But we can’t see the snowmobile,” Bode pointed out. “The same thing you’re worried about with the barn could happen here. Get yourself turned around, might not find your way back.” He paused. “Or it could be like what went down in the truck.”

  “The fog swallowing and then taking me somewhere? Possible, but I have a feeling this is the end of the line. Anyway, we know where the snowmobile was.” Eric held up the curtains. “Tie these together, make ourselves a rope, I’m good to go.”

  “Not alone, you’re not. I’m coming with you.” When Eric opened his mouth to protest, Emma put up a warning hand. “Don’t even start. We’ve already seen what the fog can throw at us. There’s no telling what could come out of it. You can’t siphon and watch your back at the same time.”

  “Emma, the chances of anything bad happening to me are small,” Eric argued. “I’m not trying to leave. I only want another weapon.”

  “Which it may not want you to have.”

  “You popping off shots in a whiteout—”

  “Is a terrible idea,” she finished for him. “Promise, I won’t do that.”

  “But I thought you didn’t like guns,” Bode said.

  “And I still don’t.” She hefted a chair leg. “Let’s go.”

  2

  “KEEP TALKING.” ERIC was looping a last knot of lacy curtain around his middle. “It’ll keep me oriented. If I don’t answer, give me a chance to tug or something. If you don’t get anything, then you guys pull us back. Whatever you do”—he gave the knot a final yank—“for God’s sake, don’t let go.”

  Bode tightened his grip on the very end of the makeshift rope. “We’re on it.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Casey said, paying out lacy curtain from the coils in his hands.

  “I don’t care.” Eric shuffled to the first step with Emma, one hand hooked into his waistband, a half step behind. “Sing. Tell jokes. Whatever.”

  “La-la-la-la,” Bode droned.

  “Something with a beat would be nice,” Eric said.

  “Row, row, row your boat …” Bode might be a decent soldier, but his voice made Emma’s brain hurt.

  “Oh, that’s much better,” she said.

  “MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY,” Bode boomed. “Life is but a—”

  “Shut up.” Casey’s skin was white as salt. “Just shut the hell up. This isn’t funny.”

  “Easy, Case,” Eric said.

  “You shut up, too,” Casey said. “If it was Emma, you’d be the same way.”

  Despite everything, her neck heated and she was grateful that Eric didn’t look her way. After a small silence, Bode said, “I’m sorry, kid. I was just blowing off some steam.”

  “Yeah.” Doubling up on the makeshift rope, Casey set his feet and lifted his chin at Eric. “Go. And be careful.” He looked at Emma. “Don’t let anything happen to him.”

  She only nodded, then looked to Eric, who stood to her left, and raised her eyebrows. “Ready?”

  “Uh-huh.” Eric’s mouth had set in a determined line. “You stay close.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Her fist tightened around the chair leg. “Any closer, I’ll be on your left.”

  At the edge of the porch, Eric hesitated, then put out a gloved hand. Emma watched the fog swirl and then cinch down around Eric’s wrist as if Eric had stuck his hand into a vat of whipped cream. “What’s it feel like?” she asked. “Is it cold?”

  “Not really.” Eric’s eyebrows tented in a bemused frown. “Kind of thick, though. Almost … molten.”

  “Can’t see your hand from here, man. It’s like it got amputated,” Bode said, passing Emma a flashlight. “I don’t think the light’s going to do you any good. That stuff’s too soupy and the light will scatter. But I’m curious how far you can go before we lose it.”

  The answer was about five feet. On the first step, Emma could still look back and see two hazy shadows. By the second step, Casey and Bode had disappeared.

  “It’s totally weird.” Casey’s voice was flatter than paper and as insubstantial as mist. “We see the rope, but it looks like it’s holding itself up.”

  With Eric’s left hand wrapped tightly around the porch railing, they eased to the third step and then the fourth; at their feet, the fresh-fallen snow humped and sifted. Yet the snow made absolutely no sound at all. The air was still and silent. Eric was right, too; she felt the fog as something turgid, like tepid Jell-O just beginning to set.

  Or blood on the verge of clotting. The hairs on her neck prickled; a scrape of fear dragged over her chest. What are you doing? Annoyed, she clamped her jaws until the small muscles complained. Stop it, you nut.

  “Guys.” Casey’s voice reached them from what sounded like very far away: “Found it yet?”

  “Not yet,” Eric said.

  “Eric?” A beat, and then they heard Casey call again: “Eric?”

  “I said, not yet!” Eric called.

  Bode: “Barely hear you, man. You guys sure you’re still by the house?”

  “About as sure as I can be.” Eric stretched his right hand, groped through the white muck, and shouted: “I f
eel the hedges. The sled’s got to be maybe ten feet in front of me.”

  “What if it’s not here?” She thought she saw something flit past to her right, but when she darted a look, there was nothing but the fog. Weird. She was certain she’d seen a figure. A man? Rima?

  No. She reined in on the images that tried forming right behind her eyes. Don’t do that. Don’t think of a specific person or try to pull meaning out of this stuff. That’s what it wants. Remember what happened to Rima and Casey.

  “It’s here. I know it’s right …” Eric let out a sudden grunt and hitched up so fast Emma piled into him. Gasping, she tripped, lost her grip on the club, and stumbled just as Eric twisted and made a grab.

  “Gotcha,” he said, reeling her into a bear hug. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, a little breathless. Their faces were inches apart, so close her eyes nearly crossed. “Guess we found the snowmobile.”

  “Yup.” His arms tightened, just a tad. “This is kind of nice. You realize they can’t see us.”

  Or hear them, probably. Her heart gave a little kick. “I should get the club.”

  “It’s not going anywhere, and …” His sapphire-colored eyes fixed on hers. “Things have been so crazy, happened so fast, I want five seconds. Just five seconds where I’m not running or fighting or worrying and freaking out.”

  She felt her body relaxing into him, just a smidge. “You never seem freaked out.”

  “I am, though, all the time. About Casey, mainly. Learned how to hide it early, though, on account of my dad.” His shoulders moved in a small shrug. “Don’t show a bully how scared you are because it only makes him want to hurt you more.” His eyes drifted to the fresh bandage she’d put over her forehead. “I wouldn’t have hurt you, you know.”

  It took her a second to realize what he meant. “Oh. You mean, after the crash?” From the tingle, she knew her cheeks must be red. “I know. I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you help. It’s just that I …” She hesitated, then thought, Oh, just tell him. “I have these metal plates. You know, screwed into my skull, into the bone? They’re actually pretty easy to feel, and I guess I’m kind of self-conscious about them.”

  “Plates?” His eyebrows crimped. “Like for a skull fracture?”

  “Yes. I mean, that’s another thing they can use them for. The plates are small, but … yeah.”

  “Do they hurt?”

  It was not the question she’d expected. No one at school knew, but a couple clueless security guards and TSA people wanted to know: Hey, how’d you get those? She hated their eyes most of all, the curiosity, the kind of greed for a good story about somebody else’s bad luck: So I met this kid …

  “Sometimes. Mainly, the one right here.” She touched the bandage. “I get headaches. Anyway, I didn’t want you to feel them and”—think I was a freak—“get weirded out.”

  “I wouldn’t have, and I’m not weirded out now. Can I feel it?” He read her hesitation and said, “Will it hurt? I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She’d never allowed anyone to touch her face. Not that there’d been guys lined up, waiting their turn. “Give me your hand.” She guided his fingers. “There. That circle?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled in a small breath. “Is it metal?”

  “Titanium. That one’s got this lacy pattern, kind of steampunk, actually. And there’s another one”—she pulled his fingers to the back of her head—“right here.”

  “Hmm.” His hand buried itself in her hair, and she could feel him probing. The pressure was … nice. “Hard to feel that one through the muscle.”

  “There are new plates, ones that will absorb into the bone, but I don’t want any more operations.”

  “Is it because of scars?” She saw how his eyes sharpened a bit as his fingers found a thin, firm ridge of scar. “You don’t have that many.”

  “Yes, I do—tons—but they’re up here.” She pressed his hand to the crown of her head. From his expression, she knew when he found the fleshy seams. Like Lizzie’s crazy quilt. “It’s weird. They’re hidden, but I always see them anyway.”

  “I don’t see anything but you.” His dark blue eyes searched hers. His hand moved to cup the back of her head. “Emma, do you … do you think that when this is over and we get out of here, we could …”

  “Yes.” Her heart was a fist knocking against her ribs. This should be a dream, but it’s not. She thought of his mouth on her neck, his hands in her hair. This is like a dream I’ve been waiting to have my entire life. “I’d like—”

  Their rope of linked curtains suddenly jerked hard, once, twice, three times. They jumped and looked at one another, but neither made a move to pull away. Eric gave an answering yank and turned a grin. “They probably think we’re dead.”

  “Maybe we better get that gas,” she said.

  “In a second. I think …” Eric brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Yeah, I think I definitely need to kiss you now.”

  “Yes,” she said, but he was already pulling her mouth to his before she got the word out. His lips were very warm and full and as soft as she’d imagined. They were perfect and so was he. He was everything she had ever wanted or dreamed of. Her skin was electric; her eyes closed as his tongue traced her lips. There was a fluttering in her chest that had nothing to do with fear but was, instead, a sweet ache, a longing; and then she was sighing into his mouth, and they breathed into one another, moving together, her body fitting to his so perfectly that there was no space at all between them and only this moment: in the fog, on the snow, with him.

  “God,” he whispered, breaking the kiss, leaning back just far enough to look into her eyes. His cheeks were stained with color. His breathing was ragged. “I’ve wanted that for … God, forever, from the first moment. When I saw you, I felt this sense of …”

  “Finding.” She was close enough to see his pulse bounding in his neck. “Of finally finding something.”

  “Someone.” His hands framed her face. “This is like one of those stupid books, you know? Teenage insta-love. But this is so different. It’s like I was born for you, for this. When you talk, your voice is already in my head, and I’m thinking the end of the sentence with you. Isn’t that weird?”

  “No,” And then her mouth was on his throat, and she tasted the salt of his skin, heard his gasp as her lips moved on his neck, felt the hum of his blood against her tongue. Then he was saying her name and covering her mouth with his, and they were kissing again, drinking in each other.

  Don’t ruin this. Emma felt her whole body give something close to a sigh, and then it was just the two of them, cupped in fog as time stilled. If she ever found a way to encase a universe within glass, this was the perfect one, the only world and moment she wished to inhabit. Right here, right now, hang on to him and remember this. Remember how he feels, his taste, his arms, his mouth. Remember this.

  Remember him.

  3

  THERE WAS ENOUGH oil for three torches. As Casey filled the Swiss Miss can and two empty peanut butter jars, Bode and Eric tore the sheet from Lizzie’s bed into strips. “This way,” Eric said, as he knotted and cinched a strip into a belt around Emma’s middle, then slid in the chair-leg club, “our hands are free … No, you take that,” Eric said as Bode held out the Glock. “I have nothing against guns, but I never liked that thing.”

  “Whatever works for you, Devil Dog,” Bode said, tucking the pistol into the small of his back. “We still got a problem, though.” Bode slipped a gurgling jar and the gas-filled Swiss Miss can into a pillowcase that he knotted to a belt loop. “There’s no way we’re gonna find enough sheets and blankets to get us through that fog and into the barn.”

  “There’s got to be a way,” Casey said, tucking a pair of blunt-edged child’s scissors Bode had used to hack sheets into a hip pocket.

  “There is.” Eric looked down at Emma. “Pull us through. Use the cynosure the way you did before.”

  “That was different,” she said, running her
hands over the beads and glass of Lizzie’s memory quilt. “I was on the other side. I knew where I was and where I wanted you to be. I was pulling you, not throwing us inside a place I’ve never been. I don’t know if it will even work in the same world,” she said, thinking, I can’t believe I just said that. “Lizzie talked me through it.”

  “What did you do before?” Eric asked.

  Her fingers ghosted over the beads that spelled his name. “Concentrated on all of you.” She felt the flush creeping through her cheeks and dropped her eyes to the quilt. “It was weird. You think you remember what someone looks like, but all you’ve got are outlines, a fuzzy snapshot. I just kept concentrating on filling you in, but it was really hard.” She looked up to find Eric’s eyes, intent, on her face. “Even with the cynosure, I’m not sure it would’ve worked if you hadn’t …” She slicked her lips. “If you hadn’t called me.” If you hadn’t told me to feel you. She remembered that moment so well: groping around in the dark with her mind, trying to conjure up his face or Rima’s. Then, that indescribable sensation of something flooding her brain—Eric’s voice, his … energy?—and then it was like something out of that unfinished painting of Dickens surrounded by the ill-defined outlines of his characters. Eric faded in: first a suggestion, then an outline, and finally him.

  “When you did that, and I got a sense of you,” she said, “I gave you color, and then there you were.”

  “So do that again,” Casey said. “Give Rima and Lizzie color.”

  “But that was to bring you guys to me,” she said. “This would be going somewhere and trying to take you along.” Without dropping you on the way.

  “Our only other alternative is walking into that fog, either one at a time or all together,” Bode said.

  “And we know that won’t cut it,” Eric said.

  “I could get us all killed.” Her hand closed over the Eric beads. “I should do this alone. If something happens, then you guys figure out something else.”

  “Not a chance.” Eric cupped the back of her hand in both of his. “She brought us in combinations for a reason. We stick together.”