by Amy Fecteau
“Matheus!”
“All right, all right.”
Kneeling on the floor, Matheus stuck his arm though the hole, straining to hold his face as far away as possible. Quin’s hand felt slick and sticky from things Matheus did not want to think about. Goop squeezed through his fingers, dripping off in thick globs.
“This is repulsive,” he groaned. Quin’s weight pulled against him, threatening full-scale biceps apocalypse. Art historians weren’t generally known for their weight-lifting abilities.
“You think it’s repulsive,” said Quin with a grunt. “I spent all day down there.” A hand waved over the top of the hole, feeling for the edge of the bench. Bit by bit, Quin climbed out of the hole. He worked out one arm, forcing Matheus to act as a brace while he wiggled his other shoulder through. After that, he lifted himself upward until his butt rested on the edge of the seat. He drew up his legs, the left, then the right.
Matheus pressed his back against the door, the handle digging into him. Partially to give Quin room to work, but mostly as a self-defense maneuver against the dripping horror before him. Matheus didn’t feel quite so bad about his own clothes now.
Quin wiped the goop out of his eyes, throwing it onto the floor with a thick splatter.
Matheus offered him the roll of toilet paper. He’d already cleaned his hand, draining the entire bottle of sanitizer.
The thin sheets stuck to Quin’s fingers and tore, leaving him covered into tiny tufts of cheap cotton. Worst shave ever, Matheus thought. Each time the paper broke, Quin swore a little louder as he spun off more paper. Soon he had half a roll wadded up in one hand.
Matheus had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. Watching Quin attempt to clean himself off with discount tissue paper entertained him far more than he expected.
“How did you fit through there?” Matheus asked.
“I’m very flexible,” said Quin. His face mostly clear, he tossed the remnants of the toilet paper into the hole.
“Quin, some advice? Don’t flirt when you’re covered in shit.” Matheus peeked around the door, checking if Emphysema Man had stepped out for another fix.
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Were too.”
Outside, Matheus inhaled deeply. The air smelled of damp earth, cigarette smoke, and diesel. Not the best combination, but Matheus was ready to bottle it as a new perfume. He edged away from Quin, closer to the cabin.
“I wasn’t,” said Quin, following Matheus. His shoes squelched, leaving messy footprints on the grass.
“Right.” Matheus looked over his shoulder, making sure Quin saw him rolling his eyes. “‘I’m very flexible, wink-wink.’ Not flirting at—”
“Hey!”
Matheus snapped his head around. He got a brief glimpse of the smoker, cigarette dangling precariously from his gaping mouth, before Quin grabbed his arm and ran full tilt into the woods. Behind them, the hunter shouted, calling the others out of the cabin. Matheus heard the rain of boots over the porch, then the wind swallowed the sound as Quin zigzagged through the trees. He do-si-doed Matheus around a massive stump, then lost his grip as he skidded down a small ravine.
Matheus waved Quin off as he tried to grab him again, doggedly running up the other side of the ravine on his own. The ground started to slope downhill, helping Matheus put on another burst of speed. He was not a runner. He didn’t know how to use his body; arms and legs moved in competition, not concert. Yet after a few seconds, he found an odd sort of rhythm. I’m doing it, he thought, as the trees turned into a greenish-brown blur. He felt like he had Pop Rocks in his blood, the jittery, overwhelming feeling of glee rising up over his memories of the last fortnight. Quin raced in front, but Matheus kept him in sight. Twigs and leaves whipped over his skin like razors; Matheus didn’t care. He went fast, so fast, faster and faster and—
Smack!
Matheus landed flat on the ground, a blinding pain exploding across his face. He’d underestimated the need for maneuverability as well as speed. An ancient oak tree loomed over Matheus, sedate in its victory.
“Fuck,” Matheus moaned, feeling along the bridge of his nose. The cartilage had a kink that hadn’t been there before. He prodded the pulpy flesh, grimacing at the pain, but unable to stop.
Ferns whispered together as Quin returned. He joined the oak tree in its looming, clearly a traitor in the stationary/ambulatory battle for supremacy.
“Hit a tree, did you?” Quin asked, as though Matheus might have decided to take a power nap.
Matheus bit back the automatic sarcasm and nodded.
“I think my nose is broken,” he said indistinctly.
“You think so.” Quin tilted his head to the side.
Matheus glowered at him. Quin would end up with a broken nose of his own if he kept up with the sardonic superiority. As if Quin had never run into a tree. Seventeen hundred years old? He must have run into a tree at some point.
Quin knelt, pushing Matheus down as he tried to stand.
“You should brace yourself,” Quin said. He placed a thumb on either side of Matheus’ nose. “This is going to hurt.”
“Wait, don’t—Motherfucker!” Matheus yelled, as Quin snapped his nose straight with a sickening crack. “What the fuck was that?”
“Quiet.” Quin slapped a hand over Matheus’ mouth, looking off toward the direction they had come. Matheus waved his arms frantically as muffled protests slipped out of his mouth. He hadn’t forgotten where Quin’s hands had just been.
“Vae,” Quin whispered, yanking Matheus to his feet.
A second later, Matheus heard why, as a long, echoing howl rose up like a beacon.
“They have dogs? That’s cheating!”
“Dogs are used for hunting,” Quin said. “Come on.”
He started to the east, but Matheus stopped him. He recognized the outcropping of rocks from his trip to the cabin.
“No, this way,” he said. The howling got closer, the different animals interlacing together into a pattern of sound.
“Why?”
“There’s a river. I passed it on my way here. Dogs can’t follow through water, right?”
“That’s a myth,” said Quin.
“You have a better idea? You’re covered in excrement. Might as well lay out a trail with neon signs and fireworks.”
Quin glanced in the direction of the howls. He looked as though he wanted an excuse to argue with Matheus, but failed to find one.
“Fine,” he said. “Lead the way.”
The sound of dogs drove Matheus faster, around the rocky outcropping, moving steadily downhill. The ground cover thinned, turning into thick, dark mud that clung to Matheus’ shoes like cement. Quin kept pace behind him. Trees crashed at their backs as the pack careened after them, barking excitedly at the chase. Matheus imagined the hunters running with the dogs, crossbows ready to fire at the first sight of their quarry.
“Where is it?” Quin asked.
“Close,” said Matheus. At least, he hoped. How different did rocks look, really? Trees didn’t have handy street signs posted on them. River, .8 mi. “It’s right up he—aah!”
Matheus half-skidded, half-fell down a six-foot embankment. Knee-deep water flowed sluggishly around him, its surface masked with leaves and twigs.
“Son of a bitch.” Matheus cursed. He slipped on the slick bottom as he righted himself. The water left a thin layer of debris on his clothes. Green slime coated the palms of his hands where he had braced himself on the algae-covered stones. Bottled water companies liked to boast about their natural spring water, but Matheus had begun to think that none of their executives had actually seen a natural spring. No one wanted to drink this water, especially at two dollars a pop.
“Well, you found it,” said Quin, a barely repressed smirk on his face. He jumped down carefully, splashing Matheus with the rank water.
“This is not a river,” he said.
“It’s moving water, isn’t it?” Matheus slogged forward without waiti
ng for Quin’s response.
“It’s barely a stream.”
“Shut up and run,” said Matheus.
Leaves created a thick layer of sludge on the bottom. Mud turned Matheus’ sneakers into blocks of lead, each step into a game of Russian roulette. Rocks dotted the length of the stream, hiding underneath the muck. Stepping on one of those guaranteed a tumble. Even Quin’s athletic grace didn’t save him. The first time he fell, Matheus laughed. By the fifth, he just hauled him upright and kept moving.
“Is it just me, or are the dogs getting closer?” Matheus asked.
“It’s not you,” Quin said.
“I hate dogs. I hate their slobber. Their fur getting all over the place. The way they jump all over you with their stupid tails wagging, and the owner just coos, ‘aw, he likes you!’” Matheus slipped, grabbing Quin’s arm in a desperate attempt to remain upright. With a great splash, they both went over.
“Is there anything you like?” Quin asked, shaking the water out of his face. He had a leaf plastered to his cheek.
Matheus peeled off the leaf and flicked it away.
“Lemurs,” he said.
“Lemurs?”
“I like their tails,” said Matheus. “Stripey.” He pushed through the water. The level rose as he walked; the current picked up speed. Leaves swept past, catching on the occasional fallen tree or boulder. His momentum slowed. Despite the current, the effort of running through the water exhausted Matheus. The increased width allowed them to run side by side, but as the stream widened and deepened, the level of the embankment lowered, removing any cover they might have had.
“Stripy?” Quin said.
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” Matheus asked.
“What about a dog with stripes?”
“No.”
“Do you like zebras? Tigers?”
“Just lemurs.”
“Can you keep a lemur as a pet?”
“I don’t know!” Matheus snapped. “What is wrong with you? Did the fumes get to your head?”
“Just making conversation,” said Quin, holding his hands above the surface. The water swirled just above his waist, a small, rippling wake trailing behind him.
“Well, stop. This is hard enough as it is.” Matheus’ calves and thighs ached, a dull burn that sapped at his strength.
“It was your brilliant idea.”
“I—”
The water around them exploded with a bang that knocked out Matheus’ eardrums and nearly restarted his heart. Matheus screamed, throwing his arms up over his head. The river rained down around them, peppered with shards of rock and metal.
“Grenades!” Matheus shouted. “That is definitely cheating!”
“Dive!” Quin shoved him down as another grenade flew toward them.
A hunter stood at the top of the bank, about to pull the pin on a third.
Matheus kicked through the murky water, using his arms to pull himself forward in long thrusts. He opened his eyes, but saw only blurry silt. The explosion had agitated the sediment lodged on the bottom, turning the already mucky water opaque. Matheus swam blindly, struggling to remain underwater.
Another grenade created a shockwave that lifted him up and sent him flying through the water. Matheus flailed as he spun, all sense of equilibrium lost. He knocked against the bottom of the river, arms and legs breaching the surface as he fought to regain control. His brain urged him to breath. Automatically, he inhaled, the thick, fetid water clogging his nostrils and filling his lungs. He found purchase on the river floor and pushed himself upright. The water surged around his shoulders. He choked out lungfuls of water, submerging with a yelp as crossbow bolts shattered the surface.
Something brushed over his leg. Matheus kicked frantically, as someone dragged him upward by a fistful of his hair.
“Stop that, it’s me,” said Quin. “Look.”
He pointed farther ahead. The hunters had started to gather around a bend in the stream, the best place to cut off Matheus and Quin before the stream joined the main river. A few of the dogs splashed into the water, heading toward them. Matheus glanced behind them.
Another group of hunters blocked their retreat.
“Stay deep,” Quin said, diving as a bolt whistled past his ear.
Matheus skimmed along the bottom, aiming for the middle of the river. The water deepened after the stream flowed into the river, but the amount of boulders increased. Another grenade sent waves rocketing through the water, and the bolts didn’t let up. Shouts filtered through, distorted beyond understanding, but Matheus guessed what they said. Occasionally, Quin bumped against Matheus, although with the level of murk, Matheus couldn’t differentiate between Quin and a big fish.
Catfish grew to over four hundred pounds in the wild. Maybe not this far north, but rationality had taken a backseat at this point.
Eventually, the blasts and shouts faded as the current drove Matheus and Quin farther downriver. They stayed underwater until gills sprouted in Matheus’ neck. While the ability to go without air had its uses, Matheus felt ready to embrace the world of oxygen and nitrogen once more.
The first set of rapids only made him more ready. The waterfall convinced him Quin just prolonged things to torment him. An hour passed. Two more sets of rapids. Matheus’ bruises combined and formed continents. His body was the Pangaea of bruises. When Quin tugged on his arm, Matheus took that as the signal to rise.
“Did we lose them?” he asked, shaking water out of his eyes.
To his right rose a small cliff face, dotted with dark hollows. The gray wall sloped downward, with an ambling path leading to the rocky beach at the cliff’s base.
“For now.” Quin nodded to the beach.
“I’m never going to get dry,” Matheus said, splashing out of the river, round pebbles crunching beneath his feet. He wrung two liters of water out of his shirt. “I’m going to be perpetually soggy forever. Everyone will know I’m coming by my squish-squish.”
“At least we’re clean,” said Quin. He carefully unbuttoned his shirt, shaking off the river debris before squeezing out the water, section by section. Scars crisscrossed his chest. Several ran lengthwise along his back, while others overlapped until the individual injuries joined in an indistinguishable mass. One, the width of Matheus’ wrist, ran along Quin’s abdomen, as though someone had tried to cut him in two.
“You call this clean?” Matheus asked, looking away. “I’m got river slime in my hair.”
“It looks very fetching,” Quin said. “Like a porno version of the Swamp Thing.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. It raises all sorts of images I don’t want to think about.”
Quin grinned at him. He slipped on his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. With one hand, he smoothed down his hair, although Matheus didn’t know why he bothered. He doubted the paparazzi planned to make an appearance.
“There’s some caves farther up,” Quin said, pointing at the dark hollows in the cliffface. “I think we should camp out there for the rest of the night. The current took us pretty far. It’ll take a while for the hunters to catch up.”
“Are you sure? They have dogs and grenades. Maybe they have boats, too.”
“Maybe,” said Quin. “But it’d be awkward to carry them through the forest.”
“Kayaks. Those wildlife types like those.”
“We’ll risk it.” Quin’s snaggletooth caught on his lower lip. Clearly, he did not take Matheus’ kayak suggestion seriously.
“Fine.” Matheus looked down at his feet and sighed.
“I lost my shoes,” he said.
“Tragedy affects us all, Sunshine,” Quin said.
The caves were damp, the air chilled far below the outside temperature. Luckily, one fissure went deep enough to provide cover for the day. Centuries ago, a tributary carved caverns out of the soft limestone, but shifting water levels left behind nothing but a few mushrooms. Matheus poked one, the springy, sticky flesh bouncing from his
touch. He shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest, settling back against the rough wall. If he stood, his head banged against the low roof. They’d had to crawl in. At best, Matheus shuffled around in his best Quasimodo impression. A large tear decorated Matheus’ jeans, just one more vent to let in the cold air.
“I don’t suppose you know how to start a fire with two sticks,” he said.
“I’ve done it before, but we can’t,” Quin said. “It might attract attention.”
“We’re in a cave.”
“Where do you think the smoke is going to go? The hunters will be able to smell it if they get close.”
Matheus tried to pull the ends of his pants over his bare feet. He’d lost his shoes going over the waterfall, but his socks’ disappearance remained a mystery. His toes curled away from the icy floor. Matheus expected his clothes to be wet when he woke up; he had no body heat to help them along.
“Why do I still feel cold?” Matheus asked. “And pain.”
“I don’t know,” said Quin.
“But what is this? Is it a virus?”
“I don’t know.” Quin’s knees bumped against Matheus’. Only a couple of inches taller than Matheus, Quin’s height consisted mostly of leg. In the last ten minutes, he’d gone through more poses than a yoga textbook.
“It shouldn’t be possible,” Matheus said.
“Why?” Quin stretched out his legs and braced his feet on the opposite wall.
“How can something be alive and dead at the same time? What is it about blood? Wouldn’t it make more sense if we had to inject it? It doesn’t really get digested. Those systems don’t work anymore.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sunshine. There are theories, but it’s not an area of science a lot of people spend time on.” Quin swung his legs around, laying on his back the length of the tiny cave, with his head propped up awkwardly on a bit of rock that jutted out of the wall. The narrow width of the cave meant Quin covered Matheus’ feet, no matter what..
“Aren’t you curious?” Matheus asked.
“Not really,” said Quin. “I am what I am. Knowing the mechanics won’t change that.”
“But maybe if we knew, then we could fix it.”