Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  He quickens his pace even more, his heart tightening into a ball. The farther he gets from the camp, the thicker the trees and brush become, and the narrower and more obscure the trail gets. It’s like a web of dead branches all around him, scratching at his arms and legs.

  His mind races, wondering if this is how Rock and the others escaped—if they did it early in the morning when everybody was still asleep, if they waited until Mason and Clay weren’t around. He sees the barbed wire fence that surrounds the camp property up ahead, making his heart pump extra hard. His mind jumbles even more. He wonders if he could scale the fence, if he could make it without getting caught up in the wire—if he could escape this place once and for all.

  But how could he abandon Brick?

  Shell lets out a sputter of a breath, wanting to scream out of mere frustration. He begins back in the direction of the camp, veering slightly off the path this time. He passes a thicket of dead bushes, doing his best to shield his face so he doesn’t get scratched.

  That’s when he finally sees them—in a clearing up ahead. There are lanterns hanging from tree branches, highlighting their movement. Brick is crouched on the ground, his back facing Clay. Shell hurries toward them, noticing that Clay is holding a gun, pointing it toward the back of Brick’s neck.

  “Stop!” Shell shouts, just a few feet away now. “Drop the gun!”

  Clay pauses and looks back, a grin crawling up his face. Shell tries to catch his breath, assessing the situation and what to do. Brick peeks back at him, a trickle of blood running down the side of his face.

  “Are you all right?” Shell asks him.

  Clay turns back, meeting Brick’s eye. “I told you!” Clay shouts at Brick. “Don’t move! Not unless I give you permission.”

  Brick swivels quickly back around and Shell notices how blood is running from his ear.

  “Let him go!” Shell shouts.

  Clay shakes his head. “He needs to be punished! He’s betrayed our mission here.”

  “By catching you?” Shell asks. “You’re the one who’s been stealing.”

  “Maybe you need to be punished as well.”

  Shell ignores the threat, crouching down beside Brick to help him up.

  “I told you not to move!” Clay shouts at Brick. Brick squats back down, clearly terrified by Clay’s threat. “Move away from him!” Clay orders, pointing the gun at Shell. He pushes the barrel deep into Shell’s throat, making him choke. A sputter sound escapes his mouth. Shell takes a couple steps back and raises his arms, as though to surrender.

  “Turn around,” Clay tells him, cocking the gun.

  Shell motions to turn but, instead, grabs the gun and tries to pry it out of Clay’s hands. He twists Clay’s wrist, hearing a popping sound, almost able to snag the gun away. Clay recoils slightly, letting out a pant. His fingers loosen from the barrel but he won’t let go. A second later, a shot goes off—in the direction of Brick—causing Shell to lose focus. His grip on the gun slips.

  Panting, Clay gains his footing. The gun pressed firmly in his hand, he uses its weight to pistol-whip Shell. Shell goes reeling to the ground, landing flat on his back, and Clay pounces down on him. He pushes the gun into Shell’s neck, pinning Shell in place.

  Shell chokes, his mouth agape.

  “Think you can beat me, don’t you?” Clay breathes. “You want to take my place, don’t you? You want to get on Mason’s good side and take over—and take Lily.”

  Shell wants to deny it, but he can barely manage more than a gasp. His mind whirls, wondering what to do—how he can fight back. He goes to raise his arms up slightly, but Clay only pushes the barrel in deeper.

  “No!” he hears Brick shout. Brick is standing now, just a few feet away. More blood runs down his face. His eye is blood red as well.

  “Back!” Clay shouts, looking slightly over his shoulder—one eye on Brick, the other still on Shell. “Get back and sit down, or your friend here is dead. You’ll be right after him.”

  Brick obeys and Clay focuses back on Shell. “Ready to surrender now?” Clay asks him.

  Shell nods, his mind still scrambling, unable to give up. He wants to tell Clay that he has no interest in Lily—to remind him that it was Mason’s idea for the two of them to get together. But he can’t speak. Clay bears the gun deep into his throat.

  Clay releases the barrel a bit from Shell’s neck and scoots back. Shell gasps, grasping around his neck and trying to breathe—to get enough air.

  “Turn around,” Clay tells him. “And don’t move.”

  Dragging himself up to a crouched position, Shell obliges, wishing his guardian angel were here to save him now.

  We drive away from the camp, taking a side road that enables us to follow the barbed-wire fence. I rest my foot on the accelerator, tapping it just enough to keep us moving forward, trying to go as slowly as possible so that Porsha is able to keep a careful watch for the opening she saw in her dream.

  “It’s going to be hard,” she says, reminding me how the opening was covered by brush, how the fence appeared to have been cut, the metal torn away for someone to crawl through.

  I shine the high beams, but it’s still hard to see. The road is narrow and the trees—some of them at least thirty or forty feet in height—are only a few yards away, towering over us, the fence tucked just inside, with brush and overgrowth all around it.

  After a few minutes, the road comes to a dead end but the fence continues, stretching through what appears to be salt marshes. I park the van and switch off the lights.

  “What now?” Porsha asks.

  “What do you think?”

  Porsha nods and we exit the van, continuing to follow the fence on foot. The ground is frozen, allowing us to traipse fairly easily through the marshes, instead of sinking into what would otherwise be thick and sopping mud. After several minutes, Porsha’s pace starts to lag a bit.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, looking back at her.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  I turn around to face her, my breath visible from the cold. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean, it’s freezing. I’m tired. There’s got to be at least another half-mile of fencing.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, I don’t know,” she repeats. “What if this is all just a big fat waste of time? What if my nightmare didn’t predict correctly? What if there is no opening in the fence?”

  “You need to have more confidence in your dreams than that.”

  Porsha nods, letting out a sigh. She adjusts the onyx bracelet around her wrist and then reaches for the crystal in her pocket.

  We continue on, trying to work fast before the sun breaks. I run my fingers over the links of the fence, trying to sense something. That’s when I feel it. It’s like my whole hand has warmed over; the skin at my fingertips tingles, radiating up my arm.

  “What is it?” Porsha asks, obviously noticing how I’m shaking all over.

  “We’re close,” I whisper, the anxiety mounting in my chest.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” I feel it—there’s something in this forest that I need to see—to find. “The opening’s around here somewhere.”

  Together, Porsha and I scour the individual sections of fence, pushing at the brush and overgrowth to get a better look. Porsha lets out a frustrated sigh but continues to follow my lead. Several sections later, both hands now tingling with warmth, I find it. “Here!” I shout.

  We push away the brush that surrounds the hole—a rusted tear in the fence where the metal has clearly been cut away—and crawl through. A loud bang fires in the distance. Porsha and I exchange a look, probably wondering the same thing—if it was a gunshot.

  If we’re already too late.

 
At the same moment, the sun pokes its way up through the trees, signalling that it is too late.

  “No!” Porsha shouts.

  My chest constricts. My head feels suddenly dizzy. I remove the knitted scarf from around Porsha’s neck and tie it to the fence, just above the hole, so we’re able to find our way out. “We can’t stop now,” I say.

  There’s a ringing in my ears that grows more piercing with each step. I hold my fingers over the sound and stumble along, following a narrow dirt path that leads us through the woods. The sun’s light slices across the dried out trees and brush, making it easy to see. I pause a moment to look back at Porsha, trying to keep pace with me. Her mouth is moving, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. The high-pitched ringing in my ears is blocking everything else out, making my head feel even dizzier.

  I turn back, trying to keep stable, trying to avoid the branches that stick out in my path. After only a couple minutes, I see movement up ahead—a group of boys, I think. One of them is pointing something—his arm’s extended—and so I’m guessing it’s a gun. I move closer, just a short distance away from them now.

  That’s when I see him.

  Kneeling on the ground, he turns to look in our direction—at me. I shake my head and look harder, feeling my skin tingle. It can’t be him.

  But it is. I know it is.

  My mouth trembles. My body turns limp. He looks away like I don’t even matter.

  The ringing screeches in my ears and my head spins. I think I scream. I think my legs begin to wobble. Colors swirl in front of my eyes. I want to look at him again, but I can’t—I feel sick. My body feels limp. A haze of hands—Porsha’s, I think—swoops around me. But it’s too late. I’ve already hit the ground. All the lights have gone out.

  Still crouched on the ground with his back to Clay, Shell hears movement behind him in the woods. He turns to look. There are a couple girls heading toward them. One of them stares at him, her body swaying from side to side, like she’s going to pass out.

  Shell shifts his focus to Clay, who’s glaring at the girls, the gun dropping slightly in his grip. Shell plunges into Clay’s middle, fists first, sending Clay reeling to the ground. The gun flies from Clay’s grip, into a throng of bushes. Brick runs to retrieve it.

  Meanwhile, Clay is able to roll himself out from under Shell. Clay struggles to his feet; Shell manages to stay in a kneeling position. Clay goes to kick Shell in the face, but Shell intercepts, grabbing Clay’s foot and throwing him off balance. Shell springs up just as Clay falls backward. His head slams down hard against a rock slab. Shell pins him to the ground, a stick pressed into Clay’s neck, but it appears as though Clay is unconscious.

  Shell glances over at the girl who fainted. She’s positioned on the ground away from him, her dark hair spilling out over a patch of snow. “Is she okay?” he asks her friend.

  The blond girl nods, waving a hand over the fainted girl’s face and unzipping her coat, trying to revive her. “She’s starting to come around.”

  Empty-handed, Brick moves from the bushes to stand over Clay. “He isn’t moving,” Brick says. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Dead?” Shell asks. He crouches down farther, so that his cheek hovers just above Clay’s mouth and nose. “No, he’s still breathing. He’s just unconscious. He hit the rock pretty hard.”

  “Maybe he’s faking,” Brick says.

  Shell doesn’t think so, but he checks anyway. He jams the point of the stick into Clay’s palm a few times, but Clay doesn’t so much as flinch. “Let’s get out of here . . . before he wakes up.”

  “We have a van,” the blond girl says.

  “Where?” Shell gets up.

  The blond girl points behind them, toward the dirt trail. “There’s a hole in the fence back there,” she says.

  Shell nods and moves to help them up. “Give me a hand,” he tells Brick. He goes to lift the fainted girl. That’s when he notices—when he’s close enough to see how familiar she looks. He recognizes her from his dreams—the girl on the beach.

  His soul mate.

  Shell lifts the girl into his arms while her friend leads them to the fence, out of the forest.

  “Jacob,” the girl whispers. Her eyes are still closed, as though only half-conscious. “Am I dreaming?”

  Shell doesn’t know what to say and so he just focuses forward, trying to move quickly, noticing the bright yellow scarf tied to the fence, just above a hole. The girl unties the scarf, wrapping it around her neck and scooting through the hole feet-first. “Now you,” she says, pointing to Brick. “We can help pull her through.”

  Brick crawls through the hole and Shell kneels down, sliding the girl toward the opening. A moment later, he hears a shifting sound in the brush behind him.

  “Hold it!” Clay shouts.

  Shell looks back. Clay is still a distance away but charging at him at full force.

  Shell works hard, pushing the girl through the hole, while Brick and her friend pull from the other side.

  Finally through, Shell stands back up. Clay is there, a long, thick branch held high above his head. He moves to pound it down on Shell’s head, but Shell ducks and dives into Clay’s middle, knocking him to the ground. The branch flies from Clay’s grip. Shell straddles Clay, slugging him across the jaw a couple times.

  By the time Brick has scurried back through the hole to help Shell, Clay is already down, knocked unconscious again. Brick and Shell dive through the hole and jump into the van, the doors already open, the motor already running. No sooner do they close the doors back up than the van peels out and they’re gone: finally free.

  The van jolts from left to right as the blond girl tries to steer backwards through the gravel on the dead-end street. When she gets to the end, she backs into a clearing, the tires spinning as she shifts into drive, stepping down on the accelerator. “Where should we go?” she asks.

  No one answers. Shell tries to catch his breath, figuring that Brick is probably doing the same, probably just as confused and relieved as he is.

  “Maybe we should go to the hospital,” the girl continues. “You guys look pretty banged up.”

  “No way,” Brick says. He’s sitting beside her in the front seat.

  Shell knows it’s because Brick’s a minor that he doesn’t want to go; the hospital would surely ask about his parents and find out soon enough that he’s a runaway.

  “Then where?” the girl asks. “I mean, I know this probably sounds totally random right now, but I don’t exactly have my license yet and—”

  “Who are you?” Brick asks, interrupting her. “I mean, where did you come from? Why were you in those woods?”

  The girl shrugs. “It’s sort of a long story.”

  “Do I know you?” Brick asks, shifting in his seat. “Because I kind of feel like I do.”

  “It’s Trevor, right?” she asks.

  His mouth falls open. “How do you know my real name?”

  “Your real name?”

  “Nobody’s called me Trevor in years.”

  “Well, I’ve been dreaming about you,” the girl says. She reaches into the glove compartment for a couple Wet Naps. She tosses one to him—for his face—and another to Shell. “My name’s Porsha, by the way.”

  Brick nods, ignoring the wipe, as though completely rapt by this girl—this girl who’s been dreaming about him.

  Shell remembers the dream Brick told him—how a girl’s voice came to him in the middle of the night. The girl knew his real name and asked him where he was. A shiver runs down the back of Shell’s neck. He’s sure now that there was more to that dream, that somehow Porsha and Brick have a connection—maybe sort of like the connection he has to the girl sitting beside him.

  He glances at her just as her eyes flutter open. “How are you feeling?” he asks. Instead of answeri
ng, she slides in closer and embraces him. He can feel her tears dripping down his neck.

  After several moments, she breaks the embrace, perhaps sensing how distant he seems. He takes the opportunity to study her—her long dark hair, her golden brown eyes, the X on her neck. “I know you,” he whispers.

  The girl is trembling. She clasps her hands over her mouth, more tears streaming down her face.

  Shell doesn’t know how to respond. “What’s your name?” he asks, noticing how he’s trembling as well, how Porsha is watching them in the rearview mirror.

  The girl looks confused; her eyebrows furrow and her mouth forms a tiny frown.

  “What’s your name?” he repeats.

  The girl shakes her head, her lips puckering up like she’s going to be sick.

  “Are you okay?” Shell asks.

  “It’s Stacey,” she whispers. “Don’t you know me?”

  “I dreamt about you,” he explains, wiping her tears with his thumb.

  “Jacob,” she whimpers, pulling him closer, resting her forehead against his chest.

  Shell pauses at the name, knowing somehow that it’s his.

  “Jacob?” Porsha gasps. She turns to look back at him, the van swerving to the right. She has to grab the wheel to regain control.

  Stacey kisses his cheeks and whispers into his ear—how much she loves him and misses him, and how he’s never to leave her again.

  He allows her to continue for several more minutes before finally pulling away. “I remember some things,” he whispers.

  The girl nods, beginning to understand maybe. She reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a crystal rock. She places it into his palm. “Do you remember this?”

  He clenches it, reminded of his pentacle rock. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe. I’m feeling a bit of déjà vu, I guess.”