96 Miles

by J. L. Esplin

  I shake my head, confused. “I don’t want it.”

  She gives me a hard look. “I guess that makes two of us.” She drops it in the dirt.

  I don’t pick it up. “That’s not what I meant—”

  “First of all, John,” she says, her voice shaking. “My grandparents are generous people. Maybe too generous. The reason we started running out of food and water is because from the very first day, they shared everything they had with neighbors who were less prepared than them.”

  My eyes drop, unable to meet hers.

  “Chickens, vegetables, dry food storage, water, gas. They shared everything. My grandma said that’s how it’s done out here. That’s the point of being self-reliant. It’s not so you can keep everything for yourself. It’s so you can help yourself and others. Both.”

  A new rush of warmth washes through me. Dad would do both.

  “And second of all,” she says, “not that I owe an explanation to some judgmental boy with a backpack full of empty canteens, but I didn’t leave without a hoodie. My little brother is wearing it.”

  Will’s oversized hoodie.

  I look up, my cheeks flushed with heat. “Listen, I’m sorry I said—”

  “Go by yourself,” she says, cutting me off. She thrusts the flashlight into my hands. “Since you Lockwoods know everything, I’m sure you’ll be fine rushing into a camp of armed robbers without a plan. I’ll wait here with my fingers crossed that you come back alive.”

  She sits in the triangle of moonlight, arms folded on her knees. “Though don’t expect me to care if you don’t.”

  Some of that anger comes flaring back. “Fine,” I bite out. I turn and leave without her. If she’s not going to accept my apology, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not going to beg her to forgive me.

  The cicadas are buzzing in full force, a piercing electric current, and I feel the vibration in my eardrums.

  I know what her problem is. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get why I’m so angry. She doesn’t know what it feels like to kneel next to your brother and feel his shoulders shake. Hear him cry, when he never cries—not even when he broke his wrist in gym class last year. She doesn’t understand that Clayton Presley may not have pulled the trigger that night, but he might as well have.

  Before I know it, my breathing has become rapid, labored like I’ve been running for miles even though I’ve barely walked the length of two basketball courts. I know I need to slow down my heart rate, force these thoughts from my mind before I reach the point of no return. I fill my lungs with as much air as they can take, letting it out through my nose until my chest deflates. I shut my eyes and just keep doing it over and over.

  It smells like yucca and summer campouts with Stew and my dad at the reservoir.

  My dad. What would he say if he were here now? What would he say about my leaving Cleverly behind like that, to fend for herself in the dark with no flashlight? Knowing she’s probably freaked out about snakes right now. What would he say about the things I said to her?

  I’ve already stopped walking, gripping the flashlight so tightly it hurts. I know exactly what Dad would say. I know what he’d say to me. And I know what he’d say about Cleverly and her grandparents.

  It takes me only a few minutes to get back to her, to hunker down in front of her.

  “Hey,” I say, and it comes out kind of breathless. Her eyes narrow at me, so I talk fast. “I don’t know why I said that stuff. It was mean, and you didn’t deserve any of it. I know your grandparents, and you’re right. They are generous people. They didn’t deserve what I said about them either.”

  She’s still kind of giving me that look, but her eyes have softened.

  “Also, I should have told you this earlier, but your grandpa skipping meals so you and Will can eat? And you and Will leaving so he won’t have to? That is what it means to be Battle Born.”

  Her cheeks are pink in the moonlight.

  She stands and dusts the dry grass from her palms, and I stand up in front of her.

  “Apology accepted, John,” she says, holding out her hand. I start to take it, but she says, “Flashlight, please.”

  I smile another apology and hand it to her. “I won’t leave you in the dark again.”

  “It did give me a minute to think about something,” Cleverly says. “When I was trying not to imagine being surrounded by snakes in the dark.” She shudders a little, shines the light on the ground around us until she spots my discarded hoodie, grabs it, and ties it back around her waist—much to my relief. Then she asks, “If you were to commit grand theft auto, how would you go about getting the truck started?”

  “Keys would be nice,” I say.

  She frowns. “That’s what I thought. The odds of us finding keys lying around aren’t very good.”

  “I said keys would be nice. But not necessary.”

  “Are you telling me you can start a car without keys?”

  “Yeah. I watched a video online—”

  She sighs and starts off in the direction I just came from, heading toward the campsites.

  “It was a video about hot-wiring cars,” I say, walking beside her. “Anyway, it’s a long story, but I can do it.”

  “I guess we can try to look for keys,” she says to herself, as if she didn’t hear anything I just said.

  “My dad drives this old truck that you can literally start up with a screwdriver,” I explain, “or just about anything else you can shove into the ignition—”

  “So your plan is to find a screwdriver and shove it in the ignition?”

  “Cleverly?”

  “What?”

  “Will you just let me tell the whole story without interrupting?”

  “All right, sorry,” she says, stopping to face me, her arms crossed, the beam of light hitting the wild grass at our feet.

  “The ignition switch in my dad’s truck is broken. That’s the only reason you can start it up with a screwdriver. A friend of my dad’s thinks it’s hilarious to play this prank on him. He likes to jump in my dad’s truck after he’s parked it, and move it to another parking spot, so my dad can’t find it and has to hunt it down.”

  The corner of her mouth tugs up, like she appreciates the prank. But she doesn’t interrupt.

  “Anyway, this one time, we’d gone up to Stew’s basketball tournament in Ely, and when we went out to the parking lot after the game, the truck was gone. It took us over an hour to find it, because Davis Yardley—that’s my dad’s friend—had driven it half a mile down the road and parked it at the McDonald’s. We had to get him back. So we looked up ‘how to hot-wire a car’ on the internet. It took Mr. Yardley two days to find his piece-of-crap Corolla.”

  The smile on Cleverly’s face is so wide, I somehow don’t think it has much to do with our pranking Mr. Yardley back, epic as it was.

  “You can hot-wire a car,” she says as if I hadn’t told her that already. “That changes things.”

  “Changes what things?”

  “The plan!” she says, her excitement contagious, though I’m still not sure what has changed. “We forget about the food, forget about the water tanks.”

  My smile fades a little, and I start to say something, but she speaks before me.

  “If you can steal a truck, then nothing else matters. A truck changes everything, John. Who cares about the water when we can pick up our brothers and drive to Brighton Ranch in less than an hour.”

  * * *

  We get to the place where the trees end, and Cleverly turns off the flashlight. It’s got to be late, nearing 1:00 A.M. by my guess. Everyone at the campsite might be asleep by now, but that’s doubtful. We can smell the campfire.

  For another fifty yards, we walk in the open, with only the darkness of the night for cover. Moving slow and careful through the dry grass. Hoping it’s dark enough. Hoping we’re far enough away that we can’t be seen. Then I see the short gravel access road ahead that leads to the campsite.

  It’s easy t
o spot because the gravel is white, reflecting an unfortunate amount of moonlight.

  My heart is pounding again. But this time, it’s adrenaline. We’ve got one goal: steal a truck. Leave the water tanks untouched. A trade. Six water tanks for one truck. That’s how I’ll think of it. That’s how I’ll let my dad’s stolen water tanks go.

  On the side of the road closest to us is a huge flat rock, about waist high, engraved with two mallard ducks taking flight from a lake, and the name of the campsite: WILSON RESERVOIR.

  I point to it, and Cleverly nods in understanding. Stop there.

  Once we’re crouched behind it, I take off the backpack, set it on the ground between my knees, and take out Cleverly’s steak knife.

  There’s one thing we’ve got to do before we steal the truck. Slash the tires on the other three trucks. Make sure they can’t come after us.

  Silently, I demonstrate to Cleverly how she should hold the knife, in a reverse grip with the blade opposite her thumb, and swing outward. She’ll have more force behind her swings this way, making it easier to puncture tires and pull the blade out. She takes the knife and shows me she understands. Then she looks down at her hip and carefully slips the knife blade-down into the waist of her jeans.

  I raise myself up high on my knees, peer past the edge of the rock. Look at each truck carefully, all of them backed in, ready to drive straight out of there.

  I kneel back down. Cleverly lifts her eyebrows in question.

  “I can only hot-wire one of them,” I say quietly. “Spike and Killer’s silver truck. The other three are too new.”

  Newer models have complicated wiring and the components are hidden. Even if I could figure all that out, most of them have kill switches that cut the engine if you even try to mess with it.

  “Okay,” she says, and doesn’t ask me to explain.

  “How about,” I say, slinging on the backpack, “I jump in the truck and start working on it while you slash the tires on the other trucks. When you’re done, you can meet me at Spike’s truck.”

  “You mean split up?” she asks in a whisper.

  “Is that okay?” I ask, remembering the promise I just made to her. Not to leave her in the dark again.

  But splitting up would mean getting out of there faster, which would mean less chance of getting caught.

  She agrees with a nod.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I move to peer over the top of the rock again, getting one more look at the trucks. Left to right, it goes: piece-of-crap silver truck, white truck, wide gap of about thirty feet, red truck, and another silver truck—that one’s Presley’s. They are backed up against the roots of three tall cottonwood trees, which cast a lot of shadow around the area, so we’d have decent cover once we reach the trucks. We just have to cross a length of white gravel in direct moonlight to get there.

  I’m still not sure if we should creep across it slowly, careful to not make noise, or just full-out book it across before we’re seen.

  I turn back to Cleverly on the balls of my feet, thinking of how dark it looks around those trucks. “Actually,” I say as if reconsidering things, “I think we should stay together.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. That way … Well, yeah, let’s stay together.” She looks relieved, so I go on, working out the new plan aloud. “We’ll slash the tires on the farthest truck first,” I whisper. Presley’s. “Take care of the other tires, making our way to Spike’s truck. Then you can keep a lookout while I’m working with the wires under the steering wheel,” I add, already warming up to this new plan.

  “I like that plan. Let’s get it over with.”

  I move to crouch beside her, taking her hand in a firm grip. “Slow and quiet?” I say, and she nods in agreement.

  Then, staying as low to the ground as possible, we start out across the gravel road.

  14

  THE SOUND OUR soles make on the road is like the first few mouthfuls of Cap’n Crunch before the milk makes it soggy. Or like fireworks exploding beneath our feet. And I realize there’s no possible way to get across this gravel road quietly. We’re better off sprinting.

  Cleverly must’ve realized the same thing, because I barely have to tug on her hand. Then we’re making a run for it, heading for the farthest truck, Presley’s. Wind rustles through the sagebrush. Night critters scrape and skitter across the packed desert earth. The cicadas in the cottonwood trees sharpen up their dull hum to a piercing buzz. I can only hope all that noise is enough to mask the crunch of our feet hitting gravel.

  My sights are locked on the front bumper of the truck, and we’re almost there when I see something out of the corner of my eye. A glint of metal in the wide gap between the two sets of trucks. I squint into the darkened space, and see two dirt bikes and a four-wheeler. Panic hits me, because we missed those, and what if there are other vehicles parked around camp that we didn’t know about?

  We reach Presley’s truck and hunker down between it and the red truck parked next to it.

  “Did you see…?” Cleverly whispers.

  I don’t have to ask what she means. “Yes.” I drop her hand and crouch next to the front passenger tire on Presley’s truck. Pull the handle of my knife from my waistband and stab the blade hard into the sidewall of the tire.

  I don’t know what to expect, but when I yank it out, there’s a big hiss, a whoosh of air, and then it’s over. The front passenger side of the truck sinks maybe three or four inches lower, but without close inspection, the difference isn’t noticeable.

  Cleverly stabs her knife into the front driver-side tire of the truck next to Spike’s, just like I showed her, but the serrated blade of her knife gets stuck. I help her wiggle it out. Hiss, whoosh, and the truck settles lower to the ground.

  We move to the rear set of tires, and I’m aware that we are making too much noise, our feet scurrying and slipping on the gravel. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I catch a glance of Cleverly’s widened eyes. If we don’t calm down and at least try to be quiet, we’re gonna get caught.

  Before we slash the rear tires, I trade knives with Cleverly. The blade of my hunting knife is smooth, stronger, and easier to use. Hiss-hiss, whoosh-whoosh, and the two trucks sink toward each other.

  We start to scramble back to the rear bumpers, but I stop Cleverly before she goes any farther, holding her arm. She leans in close.

  “We gotta slow down,” I say next to her cheek. “Slow down.” She jerks her head in agreement.

  We’re still for a minute, just listening. Listening for the sound of footsteps, or voices in the distance. But I don’t hear anything besides the desert, besides our combined heavy breathing and pounding hearts.

  I’d almost rather hear something else. Then I’d at least know whether someone was coming. I hate being surprised.

  “Okay,” I whisper, and we move away from each other. I’ve got Cleverly’s arm still, and I start to pull her right, taking us around the other side of Presley’s truck, but she pulls in the opposite direction.

  She motions that she’s going to go around the other side of the red truck, to take care of those tires on her own, so I guess she’s feeling okay with splitting up. Or maybe she’s still terrified, but she’s going to do it anyway. Either way, it’s pretty Battle Born of her, if you ask me.

  I nod, but tug her to the right, trading places with her because even though I’d like the pleasure of slashing all of Presley’s tires, I’d rather be closer to the camp. I want to know if anyone is there waiting for us, if anyone has seen or heard us.

  I move quietly around the rear bumper, and as the distance between us grows, Cleverly’s crunching footfalls fade until all I hear are my own. I stop to listen. Nothing. Maybe we’re okay. Maybe we weren’t as loud as we thought.

  I get to the rear tire and turn around so I can puncture it with my right hand, all the while scanning the area. The smell of campfire is stronger, the bright glow visible through the scattering of tree tr
unks.

  I slash the tire at my side, and then the front one, and the red truck is all one level now, a couple of inches closer to the ground.

  Cleverly comes around the front of the bumper just as I’m slashing the last tire on the four-wheeler. I motion toward the dirt bikes, like I’m asking a question, and she nods in understanding.

  Then I hear a sound. The creak of canvas stretching over metal. A camping chair. And my eyes dart to the lighted space between the tree trunks.

  Someone’s sitting by the fire. And I don’t know how I know this, but I know that that someone is Clayton Presley.

  Standing, I move toward the cottonwood tree in my line of sight. Its trunk is wide—wide enough to stand behind it unseen and then some—and I put myself close, the soles of my shoes slipping on a root bulging up from the ground. I rest my knuckles against the dry bark, knife still clutched in my fist, and I see him.

  Clayton Presley’s not ten yards away from me. He’s alone, sitting in one of several camp chairs by the fire, slouched low in his seat. His ankles are crossed and balanced on an upright quarter of firewood, arms slung out over the armrests. His face is expressionless, eyes staring unblinkingly into the flames. On the ground by his chair is what looks like an old shortwave radio with a long antenna. I can just make out the crackle of static, but nothing else.

  I thought seeing Clayton Presley would trigger the rage I’d felt earlier. I’d been tense, expecting it, knowing I’d need to find some way to control it before I did something stupid. But anger isn’t the emotion I’m feeling right now.

  There’s something about the way he’s staring into that fire, listening to static. Like he’s lost. Like he doesn’t remember where he’s headed or what his purpose is anymore. Like he doesn’t care if those flames eat him up. And he reminds me of someone. Stewart, the night we were robbed, and almost every moment since. Stew walks around with that same look on his face, as if there’s no reason to be here anymore, and he’s just going through the motions, waiting for everything to end.

  I watch Clayton Presley, unmoving, and I don’t like the resemblance of him to my brother. I don’t like it … but I can’t pretend it’s not there. And it’s not as if this makes me feel one shred of pity for him, or that I forgive what he’s done. Not even close. It’s just that I know confronting him would no longer give me any satisfaction. Sucker-punching him in the face, sure. But I don’t need any answers from him anymore. I’m not interested in hearing one thing that comes out of his pathetic mouth. Unless it’s Help yourself to those water tanks over there.