by J. L. Esplin
“Just to see who’s out there, check out what they’ve got.”
“You mean steal from them,” she says.
“They stole from us,” I point out, thinking of Stew’s canteen, the gas can in the bed of Spike and Killer’s truck. She doesn’t say anything right away, so I add, “I’ve never stolen anything before in my life, but I don’t have a problem stealing food and water from a couple of thieves.”
“It’s not that, John. I mean, it does feel weird to steal stuff. But mostly, I’m worried about getting caught. Or what if they wake up tomorrow, find food and water missing, and come after us?”
“They won’t come after us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” I say, “I’m not just thinking of stealing food and water. If I get the opportunity, I’ll be committing grand theft auto.”
She stops in her tracks. I take a few more painful steps forward before turning to look at her, putting on a confident expression.
“You can drive?” she says.
I shrug. “Sure. When you live in a small town in the middle of nowhere, you can get away with things like driving your dad’s truck to the neighbor’s house to borrow a ladder. Stuff like that.”
Okay, that’s not exactly true. I mean, I did that one time on some back roads with my dad earlier this year.
But I say, assuring her, “I’ve driven with my dad before. And I know a lot about cars. Honestly, it’s not that much different from driving our riding lawn mower.”
“Okay. But what if we steal food and water, and you don’t get the opportunity to commit grand theft auto?” Cleverly says. “Then what?”
“Then I’ll slash their tires,” I say with another shrug. “Either way, I will be a wanted criminal, and they won’t be going anywhere.”
* * *
We get to where the road curves north, leading around to the west side of the reservoir, and I know we’re not too far out.
“If we stay on the road,” I tell Cleverly, “we’ll eventually reach the campsites at the reservoir. About two more miles. But we can also take a shortcut directly through there.” I point to the brush straight ahead.
That is what I would rather do. Cut through the brush. Just saying the words two more miles makes my feet throb, my calf muscles ache.
We stop at the edge of the brush where the road bends, and I can tell Cleverly is hesitant to walk through there. There’s less sagebrush out here; some yucca plants, with their thick, swordlike leaves; but it’s mostly cheatgrass. Ankle-high grass the color of wheat—not native to Nevada. Different from the slick, tall grass around the reservoir.
“It’ll save us a lot of walking,” I say. “We just need to be careful where we step.”
“Careful where we step?” Cleverly says.
Well, that was the wrong thing to say.
She aims the light so far out there, it disappears into the darkness. “What’s out there? Snakes? What else?”
I lower her hand holding the flashlight, until it’s shining on what looks like a footpath through the brush. A rough trail of packed dirt.
“A lot of dirt,” I say. “And a lot less distance.”
She still seems hesitant, so I say, “The worst thing out there is the cheatgrass. See those pokey seed pods that hang down from the top like a shepherd’s crook? They stick in your shoes and socks like Velcro. It’s really annoying.”
“All right,” she says with a groan. “I’ll walk through that snake-infested cheatgrass, but you have to make me a deal. We get water from the reservoir first. Before we check out the campsite. Just in case.”
She’s still unsure about our stealing. About our getting away with it. If it’s worth the risk of being caught. I’m not. But I don’t mind having a backup plan.
“Deal,” I say.
Before she can change her mind, I reach my hand into the dark space between us and find hers, and then lead us down the trail.
It’s gritty with dirt, sticky with dried sweat—our hands together, I mean, not the trail. But when the path opens up to where we can walk side by side, I don’t let go right away. I hold her hand for a little while longer for some reason. Just a little while longer. Just until it starts to get weird. Then I let go.
“Um, I should wind this up again,” Cleverly says quickly. We stop, and I shove my gritty hands into my pockets and breathe out a puff of air while she recharges the light. Which wasn’t that dim to begin with.
Then we walk again.
We’ll have to leave the path and head south soon, pick our way through the uneven terrain to reach the north end of the reservoir. I stretch my height, squinting ahead into the darkness as far as I can see. I think I can tell where the cheatgrass ends, where the brush gets darker.
“John,” Cleverly says.
She does that a lot. Just says my name out of the blue like that. It makes my heart do this weird little flutter every time.
“Do you ever swim in the reservoir?” she asks.
“Why? You wanna go swimming?” I joke.
“Sort of. I’m wondering if we have time for a quick washup.”
“Sure,” I say, suddenly positive that I smell funny.
I haven’t had a proper shower in weeks. Before our water supply was stolen, Stew and I would wipe ourselves down every day with wet washcloths and a little soap, use a few cups of water to wash our hair, but that’s about it. Now, after walking all day in the sun and the wind, my skin is tacky with dried sweat, and on top of that is a layer of grit and dust. Even the parts of me that were covered up are dusty. There’s no way to avoid dirt in a desert basin wind.
“I know washing up isn’t that important,” she says, “so if you think it’s a bad idea—”
“No, it’ll be fine,” I say. “We’re going to cut across south to the reservoir, all right? Just ahead there.”
She nods. When we get clear of the cheatgrass and turn off the trail, the brush is actually pretty sparse, easy to walk through, though the ground is rocky and uneven in places.
“This is way less creepy than walking through that grass,” Cleverly says.
“Yeah. Can I see the flashlight again?”
She hands it to me, and I start sweeping the ground with the light as we walk.
“What are you doing?” Cleverly asks in a low voice.
“I’m looking for a good yucca plant. Something small enough to dig up.”
“Why?”
“The reservoir water isn’t the best bathing water. It’s a fishing lake. It’s summer, so it won’t be nearly so bad as it gets in the winter, when the waterfowl make a mess along the banks. But whenever we swim at the reservoir, we usually go home and take a shower afterwards, or else smell like a lake.”
“And that’s the same water we’ve got to boil for drinking?”
“Yep,” I say, hoping the idea of our stealing drinking water is sounding a little less risky to her.
I spot the plant I’m looking for, small with green swordlike leaves shooting up from the dirt.
“Here, let me see the backpack,” I tell Cleverly, and she slides it off for me. I get my hunting knife, and then crouch down to dig it up, careful to pull up the whole thing.
“The root is a natural detergent,” I tell her. “You just beat it between a couple of rocks, add water, and you can get a fairly decent lather going.”
Standing, I hold up the entire yucca plant, gripping it where the waxy leaves meet the thick brown root. I shine my light on it and say, “There. I picked you some soap.”
“Looks fancy.”
“And it’s all natural. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
She holds the flashlight for me while I crouch down and cut off the top of the plant. Holding the root at an angle, I chop away the outer woody fibers, like I’m peeling a stubborn potato, until I reach the white inner fibers. Then I chop off two nice chunks of it—one bar of soap for each of us.
“You’re handy to have around in the desert,” she says as I pas
s her the pieces of root.
I wipe each side of my knife across my pant leg and put it away. “Nah, Stew is the one who knows all this stuff.”
She gives me a look because I sound like I’m trying to be humble, but it’s the truth.
“Seriously. I hike and camp a lot, but I bring my own soap from home. Stew’s the one who’s into surviving in the wild, and stuff like that. He’s the one who showed me this.”
“Really? I can’t picture Stew going to the trouble of digging up his own soap,” she says, and I feel my expression fall a little.
She’s right. I mean, the Stewart she knows is the one who chugged a canteen of water to get me to agree to walk to the reservoir. The one who passed out after taking a nap …
“He’s not himself lately,” I say, though I wish I could say more, find the words to explain how my brother changed after kneeling on our family room rug that night. I want her to know the Stew that I know.
She says, “Maybe when we come back with the water, and he gets a good night’s sleep, he’ll be more like himself.”
“Maybe,” I say, knowing that’s a long shot, to say the least.
I trade the pieces of root for the flashlight and we get on our way again. I can smell the dampness in the air now, see the trees around the reservoir and hear the strange, noisy buzz of cicadas in their branches. The volume is almost deafening. They sound like electricity, like a high-voltage electric fence.
Ironic, if you think about it.
The ground is clearer now, covered in short dry grass, and sort of slopes downward. I lead us to a spot between two trees, where a triangle of moonlight cuts through the branches, then get to one knee, motioning for Cleverly to do the same.
She keeps looking over her shoulder as she gives me the root and takes off the backpack. I don’t blame her. It’s pitch-black all around us beneath these trees.
“I’m trying not to freak out,” she says, squinting at the tall grass along the bank, “but I’m starting to think I can’t do this.”
“You can do it,” I say. “Just be careful—the bank can be slippery.” I slide my knife into the waistband of my pants, blade down.
“What lives in that grass?”
“Nothing,” I say, which is an obvious lie, so I add, “some harmless fish.” I explain what to do with the root, then say, “Use my hoodie to dry off with when you’re done. It’s thin enough, it’ll dry in a heartbeat out here.” She nods like she hears me, but I’m not sure she’s listening.
“Do I have to wade out through that grass?” she asks. “How deep is it?”
“Just stay close to the bank, you don’t have to get all the way in, but I am. Here, take the flashlight,” I say, handing it to her. “I’ll go about ten yards to your right.” I point out the area. “We’ll meet back here.”
“All right, I’m just gonna do it,” she says, but she’s mostly talking to herself, like she’s getting herself psyched up. Her focus is on the tall grass and the still, black water of the reservoir.
I take that as my cue to leave, grabbing my half of the yucca root. With the moonlight blocked out under these trees, it’s ridiculously dark. I might as well be blindfolded. Keeping my steps small and careful, I find a good place to stop along the bank. Then I sit and pull off my shoes and socks. I’m getting all the way in, so I stand up and strip down to my underwear, slip the knife into my waistband, the cool metal pressing against my hip.
There is something really eerie about walking into a dark lake in the middle of the night with only the moon for light. At least half a dozen horror movies start out this way.
The edge of the bank is abrupt along the north side. You have to step down into it. The water is colder than I remember it being, but it feels good. The grass is thick and sharp; the ground is hard and slimy. The noisy cicadas cancel out the sound of my legs dragging through the water. I push aside tall blades of grass, reach down and find two rocks about the size of my fist, and bring them to the edge of the bank. Then I use them to break up the root and get a lather going.
I make quick work of washing up, drawing the suds up my arms and shoulders, my neck and face, my chest and armpits and stomach. The tally marks, marking the miles we walked with Stew and Will today, fade from my forearm, leaving behind faint lines, but it’s all right. I’ll start fresh tomorrow.
At first I try to keep my underwear dry, but then realize it’s pointless. After some hesitation, I dunk my head, getting my hair wet, and then work the suds into it. Moving out farther into the water, I pick up big scoops of water with my hands and rinse, dunking my head again and then pushing the water and suds out of my hair, away from my face.
Maybe it’s standing water, and maybe it isn’t the cleanest, but I already feel better than I did before, more awake and alert, and I probably smell better too. I have to resist the urge to lick the cool water from my lips, resist the urge to scoop up a handful and take a nice long drink.
Once clean, I do what I had intended to do next: I wade out past the grass and try to catch sight of the campsite in the distance. The water is up to my stomach now. Hard and slimy things brush against my legs, and something drifts along my back. I cringe away and turn in place. It’s just a stick. I shove it away and wade out a little farther. The ground suddenly drops, the water going up to my chest, so I take a step back and instead move down the bank. There are still some trees blocking my view, but I catch the whiff of campfire.
I keep trudging along the edge of the grass until my view of the campsite starts to open up. I see the first shade enclosure. I see firelight reflected against metal. The cab of a silver truck. And a white truck parked next to it. And another truck parked beside a second shade enclosure. And a fourth truck.
And between the campsites, under one of the shade enclosures, I see all six of our fifty-five-gallon cylindrical water tanks.
13
I PLOD BACK to shore, and I know I should be quieter, but the sight of those water tanks has my pulse racing. Clayton Presley is here. Here at the reservoir.
This is why Spike cared what direction we were walking. Why he wanted us to go north for help instead of south. It had nothing to do with Brighton Ranch. But I don’t quite get it. Why are they here? And hadn’t Spike just come from our house with that empty gas can? Or was he also there with Clayton Presley the night we were robbed?
It takes me a while to find my clothes, not only because it’s dark but because I’m distracted. I eventually spot my crumpled-up white undershirt sitting on top of my shoes. I grab my long-sleeve shirt and use it to wipe down my face and chest, my arms and legs. I yank my jeans on over a pair of soaking wet boxer briefs.
“Ugh,” I groan, regretting now that I got my underwear wet.
I’ve been gone long enough, so I don’t bother putting on my socks or shoes. Just pull my undershirt over my head, and then carry everything else back to that triangle of moonlight.
“Finally,” Cleverly says. “What took you so long? Okay, that was freaky, walking into the water in the dark. Remind me never to do that again.” She stops talking and her light hits me in the face. “John, what’s wrong?”
I squint and shield my eyes from the flashlight. “Nothing.” I sit down and brush the dirt from my feet before putting on my socks and shoes.
“I can tell something’s wrong. Just tell me. You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s good news, actually,” I say without looking up at her. “We for sure won’t be boiling reservoir water tonight.”
“What do you mean?” She kneels down next to me, tucking a loose piece of damp hair behind her ear.
“I got a look at the campsite. It’s not just Spike and Killer. The people who robbed us are there—”
“You saw them?” she asks.
“I saw my dad’s water tanks. The ones they stole from us.” I grab the backpack and sling it over one shoulder. “You ready?”
She doesn’t get up. “Wait. What are we going to do? What’s the plan?”
&nb
sp; “That’s our water, Cleverly. And our food. I’m not just gonna let those jerks get away with taking everything from us.”
“Okay, but—” Her eyes move to my waistband, where the handle of my hunting knife is visible. “John, maybe we should wait a minute. Just calm down and think—”
“Why, because of this?” I say, gripping the handle of my knife. “It’s for tire slashing, Cleverly. Did you think I was gonna use it on the guys who robbed us?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, sounding overly defensive even to my own ears.
She stands up slowly, her eyes not leaving my face. “I think you’re not as calm as you’re pretending to be.”
I laugh like she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but I swear, my heart wants out of my rib cage. It’s pounding like a victim trapped in a closet, and it’s exhausting me, making me breathless. “I’m fine, really.” My voice sounds echoey, like it’s coming from far away. My jaw muscle is twitching, my skin is on fire …
“John, I think we should slow down and come up with a plan.”
“If you’re scared—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she says, eyes narrowed. “I just don’t want to go barging into the camp without being prepared with a plan!”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t talk to me about being prepared.”
Her eyes sort of tighten; her voice changes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if your grandparents had been a little more prepared, you wouldn’t be out here right now, would you?”
I’ve hurt her; I can see it in her eyes. But I keep going for some reason. “Not that you’re any better at being prepared. You left their house without even taking a jacket or anything to protect you from the sun and wind.” I stop and shake my head. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I just want to get to the campsite, okay?”
“It matters to me,” she says quietly.
“What?” I say in a tight voice.
“What you just said. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but it matters to me.” She takes my damp hoodie from where it’s tied around her waist and holds it out to me.