It’s my turn to facepalm. “Who would you even use them on?”
“Everyone!” He covers our tracks and heads back to the mud and loose gravel of the road. “If I still had a cell phone, it’d be my voicemail.”
“You are a sick puppy.”
Vincent shrugs for the millionth time since I’ve met him, content with his newfound knowledge. There’s seriously a spring in his step now, like he knows my dirty secret. It’s sad and funny at the same time.
“So, you carry?” he asks, nodding toward my back.
“I used to.”
“Well, that does you a lot of good.”
“Oregon doesn’t have reciprocity with Washington!” It’s a defensive outburst, but not one made in anger. Honestly, it feels more like the sort of goofy back-and-forth you’d have with a friend. Typically one you’d have known more than a day.
“I meant back in Seattle,” he clarifies, without missing a beat.
“Oh.” I think back to when Brent and I started dating and he found out I was carrying. He’d gotten so freaked out, insisting I leave it in the safe next time. Apparently, I was acting paranoid and violent—never mind the fact that I lived alone in a new city, where creepy dudes followed me around on my walks. “My boyfriend didn’t like it.”
“So?”
“So I had to respect his wishes. He wasn’t comfortable with me having a gun.”
“Why?”
Now who’s the one prying? I want to ask, but I’m actually enjoying his interest. “I don’t know. He thought I was some closeted vigilante, waiting for any opportunity to brandish my weapon.”
“What a prick,” he spits out, shaking his head. “No offense, but really, you want to talk about compensating? He had to disarm his woman to feel comfortable in his role as protector. He should’ve been the one going to the range with you, training to lay down suppressive fire when you have to reload. That’s such bullshit. And you ended up marrying him?”
He’s looking at my ring again.
I wave my hands to ward off his assumptions. “No, no. We were engaged, but he actually left right before I came here. Apparently”—I swallow—”I’m not attractive to him anymore.”
“He actually said that?” The little veins in Vincent’s neck bulge. “What the hell? Who does that? He better hope the quake killed his blind ass before we get up there, or so help me, I’ll be tempted to finish the job.”
My jaw drops. Not at the language or the outburst, but the fact that he just inadvertently called me attractive. Didn’t he? I mean, he did say Brent was blind. Suddenly, I wish I didn’t look like a disheveled, half-drowned rat.
“I-I, uh… appreciate that,” I finally manage. “If we’re cannibals by then, maybe we can hide the evidence.”
He laughs out loud, visibly defused. “Now there’s an idea.”
❇ ❇ ❇
We make good time down to highway 26—or so Vincent claims, since he’s the one with the watch.
The forest is nice, but I’m beyond relieved to see a shred of civilization. Unfortunately, shred also sums up the pavement’s current condition. Like the streets we ran in Seaside, there are buckles, breaks, and every other kind of jagged obstacle going on here.
Normally, the daunting path would deter me, but near-death experiences give you new perspective. So long as there’s not an angry wall of water and debris chasing me, I’m A-okay with these conditions.
“How are Naveen’s shoes working out for you?”
“He’s got tiny feet.” I look down at the worn sneakers. “So, good.”
“Maybe avoid saying that when we get to Bend.”
“Good call.”
He surveys the road with crossed arms. “Okay, hopscotch with the highway, or pick over fallen logs along the tree line?”
I press my lips together and make a duck face, because apparently that’s how I think now. “I vote tree line. I’d rather trip onto damp pine needles than broken asphalt.”
“Sold.”
We move up into the shade, and my sweat tingles into a cool dampness. Since I’m past the point of caring, I swipe my jacket up under my boobs and move on.
Abandoned cars line the highway like a creepy museum exhibit. None of the lights are on, but I suspect that’s because most of the batteries have run down. Now I’m just hoping no one got trapped.
Vincent clears his throat. “Keep an eye out for survivors or things we can use.”
“Things we can use?” I knit my brow. “Are we looters now?”
“Hey, when these folks left their cars behind, there wasn’t a tsunami on their heels. They took what they needed and fled elsewhere.”
“But—”
“Insurance will replace parts, but it’s sure as hell not going to replace our lives. Sometimes you need to commandeer equipment in the case of an emergency.”
I mutter to myself as he trots toward an old out-of-town beater with its door ajar. He reaches in, pops the hood, and then props it up with a rod. “Case in point, this ancient distributor cap.”
“Yay,” I add in a dull voice, as I walk toward him. “We’re saved.”
“They used to make these things with magnesium.” He unclips something in the jumble of parts and starts to pull out what looks like a bomb. Or some kind of socketed robot squid. “We might be able to shave this later for a firestarter.”
“Car trouble?” a raspy voice calls from down the road.
A chill shoots up my spine as I peer around the hood. “Sorry?”
The man looks and sounds like a pack-a-day Pavarotti, dressed in a sharp suit and tie. “I hate to tell you kids, but it’s impassable for miles. Did you two spend the night in your car?”
Vincent drops the cap and slams the hood shut, looping an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, we were supposed to go hiking.”
“Well, at least you’re better prepared than I am.” He pulls out a silver handkerchief and wipes his forehead. “I was headed to Gearhart to meet my first grandchild.”
This must activate Vincent’s inner Boy Scout, because he straightens to help. “If you think you can manage another few hours of walking, hang a right in the middle of Klootchy Creek Park. There are logging roads up in the forest. Follow that one as far north as you can, and then keep going until you hit the Thompson Creek, Lewis and Clark Road area. There’ll be people around there. They should be able to direct you to one of the assembly areas.”
Pack-a-Day’s eyes widen as he takes in the rush of information and nods like a bobble head. “Okay… I can do that.”
“Do you have water or anything?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Take mine, then.” Vincent hands over his bottle from breakfast. His only bottle, that I know of. “You’re going to need it. If you get too hot, take a break. Douse your tie in a creek and wrap it around the back of your neck.”
“Yes, all right.” He’s nodding again. “Thank you. I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Say hi to your grandkid for us.”
“Of course.” Pack-a-Day backs up and nearly trips over a rip in the pavement. “Good luck on your hike!”
Vincent waves over his shoulder and edges around the car with me in tow, forgoing his prize.
Once we’re out of earshot, his arm slips down, and I lean over. “What happened to your scavenging being morally acceptable?”
“I didn’t think we’d run into anyone so soon.”
“Uh-huh. Now how are we going to start a fire?”
“Oh, I’ve got a ferrocerium rod.”
I stop mid-stride. “Then why were we stripping that car?”
“It was a valuable life lesson.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, it was.” He hikes up his bag a little higher. “Last time I try to impress you. Damn…”
“What?”
“We’re losing daylight,” he declares with an urgency that doesn’t make sense before noon. “Let’s focus on getting a few more miles in before lunch.”
/>
As confused as I am, and as daunting as that sounds, I agree. Every step is a step closer to home, a step further from the water that engulfs me every time I close my eyes. With one last sigh, I gesture before us. “After you, MacGyver.”
CHAPTER 12
No more.
My body cannot take another oh-so-symbolic step. After walking all morning, stopping just long enough to eat my banana and pudding, and then walking all afternoon, I can barely stand on my own two feet. Forget trying to impress Vincent. I’m ready to collapse.
Speak of the devil, he’s back from gathering wood for the fire. Apparently the fallen log I found wasn’t good enough. Or dry enough. Like I know these things.
“We’re going to put a few hardwoods on the bottom, get some air moving under the stack,” he tells me, crouching down.
“As opposed to… soft wood?”
“Yeah.” He’s not even looking at me.
At first, I picture a spongy, fake log. Then I picture a certain part of the male anatomy, because… reasons. So, now I’m standing here, looking up through the canopy, praying my face isn’t as red as it feels. All because I have the mind of a deviant twelve-year-old.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Of course, he’s looking at me this time.
“Mhmm.”
“Okay.” Vincent goes back to what he was doing. “Like I said, we’ll put this maple down first, because it’s eventually going to give us a nice bed of embers for the night. Then we’ll throw some sticks across the other way, kinda like Lincoln Logs, to make a platform. Now I need some bigger pieces to make a barrier around here…”
He’s talking more to himself than me at this point, but I nod anyway.
“Your job is going to be gathering up pine cones, pine needles, pine resin… detecting a pattern here?”
My first reaction is to balk at the order, but again, I have to remind myself it’s not personal. He’s used to being direct and getting things done. “Would a please kill you?”
Huh.
I guess it came out anyway. My bottled up resentment erupts at the most inconvenient times.
Vincent looks up at me, crouched on the ground, without tilting his chin in my direction. “Will you please help me keep your ass warm tonight?”
Point made. I flash him a quick smile and shuffle into the densely packed Christmas trees. (In my mind, all pine trees are Christmas trees.) First things first, I’ll scoop up the needles. That ought to be easy enough—except it’s getting dark, and the mammoth greenery around us is throwing shade of the literal variety. Does he expect me to feel around on the ground? It’s still damp from last night’s rain, and God only knows what’s lurking under there.
“There’s a flashlight clipped to my pack,” Vincent calls out from behind me, mind reading again. “Grab the pencil sharpener, too, while you’re over there. You can shave sticks, if it pleases your highness.”
Hmmph.
I wander over to the bursting backpack, unclip the carabineer flashlight, and unzip the largest compartment. Just as I expected, it’s controlled chaos, a clusterfluff of containers and baggies dividing everything. Since we’re going to be living out of this thing for the next week, I figure I better use the opportunity to do a little investigating.
He’s got some flexible packages crammed inside a stainless steel pot. Looks like a couple of ponchos, a few Mylar blankets, and a tightly folded tarp. There’s a metal thermos, too, with a cup fitted over the top. It has a spork and a scrubber pad rubber banded around the base, so he’s somewhat domesticated.
I push aside duct tape, foil, and some kind of pegs, but the elusive sharpener is still nowhere in sight. There’s a first aid kit, a mesh square, a bar of soap, and the aforementioned ferrocerium rod. Another flap holds trash bags, purification packets, and some protein bars. Seriously. It’s going to be the last thing I find.
An old Altoids tin holds some kind of fancy matches, three cigarettes, a few condoms, and—aha!—the pencil sharpener. I pocket it and try to take an inconspicuous inventory of everything else as I pack away. There’s paracord, a tattered book, a map, a wad of red-tinged cash, a few boxes of ammuni—
Wait. Is that… ?
I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder and finger through the bloodied bills. There’s got to be at least five hundred bucks here. What the hell, dude? Another stolen look tells me he’s not crouched beside his wood stack anymore. My heart trips, and I jerk my head side to side, scanning the clearing,
“Hey.”
“Gah!” I pivot on my heel to find him standing in my blind spot, so close he makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. “W-What?”
“You okay?”
“Pfft… yeah…” I sneak a quick, gasping breath, drop the cash, and cover my pounding heart with my hand. “I mean, aside from the whole doom and gloom situation. It’s getting hot out here. Are you hot? I might take my jacket off.”
“I thought you were cold?”
“Right. Yeah, I mean, I was—I am. I guess it was just a hot flash. Not that I’m menopausal! I’m still fertile as hell. Probably.”
Vincent takes a step back, eyeing my descent into madness. “That’s… good to know. I was just going to say the sharpener is in the tin.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” One more look before he goes back to his task, one more moment of absolute mortification, and then he’s gone.
I zip the backpack up so fast I almost pull the zipper off its track, and then I hightail it back to the trees. This time, I grope the carpet of pine needles, filling a pouch formed from my stretched shirt. He made his situation sound so desperate earlier. It didn’t occur to me he could be avoiding help because theft is the least of his crimes. Maybe he’s an underground circuit fighter or… an enforcer for the mob! I’m not hallucinating again, am I? I toss in a few pinecones.
It feels like everything that’s been said or experienced in the past twenty-four hours is still whirling around me in a blur. I can’t think straight. I can’t even breathe right. Every time I stop long enough to remember, it hits me like a—
Knock, knock, knock, knock!
I jump and look back, only to find Vincent wedging his knife through one log by beating it with another. “What?”
“Is… this enough?”
He spares me a glance and raises his eyebrows. “Should be. Thanks.”
I force another smile and dump my stash onto the stack between us. “Sure thing.”
Before I can turn to hunt down pencil-sized sticks, he clears his throat. “Just so you know, you look like you’re being held hostage.”
“What?”
“You’re doing this.” Vincent contorts his expression into a mix of deer-in-the-headlights and a Joker-induced grin. “And while we’re on the subject, never play poker.”
Crap. “I’m just thinking.”
“About being held hostage?”
“Yes, Vincent. I like to comfort myself during times of crisis by pretending I’m in another life-or-death situation.” Ugh.
For years, Brent’s fragile ego kept me from responding to anything like that. You never knew what would make him blow up or leave. But now it’s like the snark dam has broken… and I already know it takes more than a little water to scare Vincent off.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and he goes back to playing lumberjack as if he’s been doing it his whole life, as if we’re camping instead of trying to escape inland. His t-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he splits the logs into halves and thirds, his intense gaze focused solely on the task at hand. The man is so freakishly coordinated, the act almost looks graceful.
Too bad he’s hiding something.
“You’re welcome to watch,” he addresses the log as he speaks to me, “but could you do it while you’re getting shavings? We’re going to need those in a minute.”
A blush burns my cheeks, but I stomp back to the trees anyway. “Did we forget the magic word?”
“Hypothermia.”
/>
Of course.
We each do our parts, and miraculously, the fire takes despite the damp air. It licks at the darkening sky, and I hold my hands out to capture its comforting warmth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine—just for a moment—that I’m back in my house. I’m on my soft gray carpet, sitting in front of the electric fireplace, drinking coffee…
“Here.”
I blink as Vincent shoves a bundle of pegs over my shoulder.
“Ram these into the ground over there, will ya? I’m going to fill the thermos up with water to filter and boil.”
“Don’t you have purification tablets?”
“We might not always be able to have a fire.”
“Ah.”
He hands me the little square of mesh next. “This goes on top.”
I set to work creating his little grill. This time, I don’t hassle him about being polite, because I know he’s thirsty. After giving his water bottle away this morning, he’s only accepted a single swig of mine. “So, did you learn all of this in the Army?”
“Some of it. Some of it on YouTube.”
My jaw drops. “But—”
“You know, they do have computers in the library. Even those of us between residences are allowed to use them.”
“Right. No, of course. I was just shocked that you could pick up that level of skill from a video.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice.” And with that, he disappears into the trees.
There’s been some kind of river-ish creek running alongside the highway, so he’s probably just gone across the road. We weren’t allowed to set up camp there, because apparently we’d be overrun with mosquitoes and tsunami flashbacks. Another thing my citified brain hadn’t considered.
I’d love to get Vincent up to Seattle. Then I could be the Sherpa, guiding him through the streets. Don’t dress like a tourist. Don’t try to jaywalk. Hey, don’t step in that goose poop!
I snicker to myself, and soon, it turns into full-blown laughter. Tears brim and spill from my eyes, but I can’t stop. It’s not funny. Nothing is funny. I just can’t get over it. What the hell am I doing here?
As We Know It Page 10