by J. L. Esplin
“Almost there,” I say, catching a breath. The stressful part is over. No more twisting live wires. The brown starter wires carry a strong current as well, but I’ve only got to strip them. I cut the wires, and my hands are shaking more than ever. Not so much because I’m stripping live wires, but because this engine is about to start up.
I palm the knife when I’m done, taking a starter wire in each hand with the ends out—
“John,” Cleverly says urgently.
“Hang on—”
“John!” she shouts, and just as I touch the exposed ends together, just as I hear the engine rumble and start up, I feel a yank on my upper right arm, pulling me out from under the column, and Cleverly screams.
“What in the—” Spike growls. I don’t hear what comes next, because his fist connects with the side of my face.
The hit is absolutely stunning. So stunning that I think I’m out of consciousness for a second, but I can’t be sure. I do know I’m halfway out the window without even realizing it happened, and I’ve dropped my knife on the floor of the cab somewhere along the way.
I feel Cleverly’s fingers latch on to the waist of my jeans, feel her pulling back, and though it feels like my head is underwater, I brace against the doorframe before Spike yanks me all the way out.
“Get out of my truck, you little—”
I yank back hard, manage to twist and get my legs and feet between the door and me. I push against it until I’m back in the cab, facing the side window with my feet planted against the door, my left hand holding the headrest.
Spike’s got my other arm in both his hands, but lets go with one hand and uses it to try to leverage against the doorframe. Then puts a knee up against the door for more leverage, cursing for me to get out of his truck.
I blink hard, shaking my head a little because my vision is still swimming. I’m trying to think through the buzzing in my head.
The engine is running. I can’t move. I can’t get my feet to the pedals.
“Cleverly,” I say, winded. She’s behind me, still clutching the top of my jeans. “Put your foot on the brake.”
Spike’s eyes jump to meet mine. “Don’t,” he says, a low warning.
“Which is the brake?” she shouts, but Spike is squeezing my upper arm, yanking it so hard I can think of nothing but the pain of it.
“Do it!” I call, getting my whole arm around the headrest.
Cleverly slides down the bench, stomps her foot on the pedal.
The engine revs, a deafening roar, the truck still in park.
“Wrong one!” I shout over the noise.
“Sorry!” Cleverly says to me, stomping the other pedal.
I hear shouts from the other side of the camp.
Spike calls back over his shoulder, “Hey! I need help over here!”
I stretch across and grab the gearshift on the steering column, just like in my dad’s truck.
“I’m serious, kid—”
I pull it into drive, twist forward to grab the top of the steering wheel.
“You’re not gonna get far,” Spike says through gritted teeth.
“Let your foot off the brake,” I tell Cleverly, ignoring him. The truck starts to roll forward.
“I’m warning you, kid.” He stumbles sideways alongside the cab, still gripping my arm with one hand and the doorframe with the other.
“Too bad your piece-of-crap truck has no running boards,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You picked the wrong truck to steal!”
“You picked the wrong kids to rob,” I say back, then to Cleverly, “Foot on the gas, now!”
Spike curses, takes a few running steps as the truck accelerates, and then finally has to let go.
I fall back the second he does, the truck swerving a little as I adjust my hold on the wheel and shake out my right arm. I turn in place, get my legs down, quickly reach around the column, and find the headlight switch, flipping them on.
“I got it!” I say to Cleverly, and she moves her foot off the gas.
The truck lurches back.
And right before I floor the gas pedal, I glance at the side mirror, see Spike illuminated by the red taillights. I see him jogging to a stop, cupping his hands around his mouth, yelling out at the top of his lungs.
“You picked the truck with no gas, moron! The truck has no gas!”
16
I HIT THE brake hard as we take the first turn onto the narrow road. The tires skid in the gravel, the front end of the truck almost plowing through the wooden sign that says NO FACILITIES PROVIDED. PLEASE CARRY OUT ALL YOU CARRY IN.
“Holy crap,” I say on an exhale of breath, correcting the turn.
“You’ve done this before, right?” Cleverly shouts, gripping the passenger armrest.
“Yeah, one time!”
“One time?”
“I don’t remember it feeling this weird,” I say.
I am in control of a big hunk of metal that is somehow attached to my body.
I squeeze the steering wheel with my good hand, my injured hand braced against the opposite side in a fist, elbows out. My heart is pounding, my whole body jittery.
We just committed grand theft auto! I am driving a freaking truck!
A freaking truck with no gas in the tank.
“I forgot the first rule of committing grand theft auto,” I say, the sinking feeling in my stomach worse than my jitters. “Check the gas gauge.”
“We forgot,” Cleverly says. “I should have thought of it too. But the truck started. That means there’s some gas in it, right?”
I take my eyes off the road for a second, lean forward, and squint at the gas gauge.
“The line is all the way on red,” I say. My eyes jump back to the road. It looks like the truck is straying to the side a little, so I quickly jerk it back to the left, then jerk to the right.
“Sorry,” I say, gasping.
Cleverly leans back and reaches for the seat belt—which is probably a good idea, but no way am I taking my hands off the wheel to get a seat belt on.
I’ve got to relax, got to remember what my dad said about driving.
Ease off the gas. And the trick to keeping the vehicle steady is, focus your eyes farther ahead down the road.
I do that. I ease my foot off the gas, just as we bounce over a dip in the narrow road.
I don’t know if it’s the bouncing, the sucker punch to the head, or the fact that it smells like old dust and sun-cooked vinyl seats in here, but that nauseous feeling starts to build at the back of my throat again. I try to swallow it down.
Cleverly asks, “How much gas do we have if the line is on red?”
I shake my head. Then cringe, because the movement makes me sick. “I don’t know. A few gallons? We’ll see how far we get.”
But that sinking feeling is back. Because for a split second back there, right when I touched those two tiny wires together and the engine roared to life, my brain sent a quick message to the rest of my body. It said, “Guess what? We’re done walking! We’ve got a ride all the way to Brighton Ranch!”
From where we left Stewart and Will, it’s another sixty-six miles to Brighton Ranch. There’s no way there’s enough gas in this truck to make it all the way. But if we can make it five, even ten miles on fumes … that’s better than nothing, right?
After a few miles of successfully keeping the truck on the road, the weirdness starts to wear off. I relax my shoulders a little, let my elbows drop.
“Hey,” I say to Cleverly, swallowing hard, “I’m sorry I didn’t stick with the plan.”
“I’m not,” she says. “If you had, we’d be in trouble right now.”
That’s right. We’d have a truck with no gas, an empty water bottle, and three empty canteens. We’d be back to where we were when we left for the reservoir—no water, two days away from Brighton Ranch.
“Are you thirsty?” I say. Stupid question. “I mean, you want to grab the water bottle from the backpack?”
“Maybe we should save it,” she says hesitantly. “That was the reason I came with you to begin with. I was supposed to drink at the reservoir so we could bring back full canteens, and the water bottle, back to Stew and Will.”
“I think the reason you came is so I’d have someone to save me when I got stuck behind that water tank,” I joke.
She still doesn’t move to get the backpack, so I say, “I drank three bottles of water. Help me get over the guilt.”
“All right,” she says, and takes off her seat belt long enough to grab the backpack off the floor. “That guy by the fire,” she says, clicking her seat belt back into place. “Why do you think he didn’t go after you, anyway?”
She’s talking about Clayton Presley. My good hand squeezes the wheel.
“I mean, when he caught you getting water. I’m not gonna lie, it freaked me out. I thought we were both dead.”
I have to admit, it’s a little embarrassing, knowing she saw me stand up from behind the water tank like an idiot.
Still, I tell her, “He didn’t know I was there.”
“Yeah he did.”
I shake my head. “It probably seemed like he saw me,” I explain. “That’s what I thought at first too. But his vision was all screwed up from staring into that fire. That’s the only reason he—”
“John,” she says like I’m being dense, “he knew you were there the whole time, even before you stood up.”
Heat travels up the back of my neck. “How do you know that?” I say, the truck slowing as my foot slips off the accelerator, then jolting forward when I find it again.
“I could see you both from where I was,” she says, “behind one of those big tree trunks. When you didn’t meet me at Spike’s truck, I knew you probably went for the water. Anyway, he kept watching the tank you were sitting behind.”
The heat floods my face. “Yeah, well, he’s kind of a creepy guy.”
“Maybe, but that’s not my point.”
You still feeling bad about Jim’s kid? The one that was crying?
I don’t ask what her point is, just shut my mouth. I don’t want to think about Clayton Presley. I don’t want to think about him staring at the water tank with me behind it. He’s not a good guy. He’s the kind of guy who robs kids and leaves them to die.
If my jaw were clenched any tighter, my back molars would be pulverized. I’d be choking on the dust.
Cleverly takes a long drink of water, and then holds out the bottle to look at it. “It tastes funny.”
Relieved at the change of subject, I say, “That’s just iodine. Our water storage has been around for a while, so it had to be purified to make it potable again. They dropped in too much iodine, and didn’t add the vitamin C tablets to counter the taste. I guess the idiots didn’t read the instructions in the water-purification kit they stole from us.”
“Idiots,” Cleverly agrees, taking another drink.
Then I ask, “Did you hear what that guy said on the radio?”
She comes up for air, wipes the water from her mouth. “The part about the borders being closed?”
“Yeah,” I say, though that wasn’t the only crazy thing he said.
It’s “survival of the fittest” time.
“Do you think it’s true?” I ask about the state borders. As if she knows whether some random guy on a radio was telling the truth.
She doesn’t answer.
“Almost to the highway,” I say a moment later, seeing the dark strip of asphalt ahead, our headlights flashing on the small reflective markers.
I slow at the end of the road, bringing the truck to a stop with a sudden jerk. The dust settles around us, billowing in through the open windows.
I reach for my seat belt while we’re stopped—kind of awkward to do with my injured hand. Cleverly takes off her seat belt and slides over to help.
“Here.” She takes the buckle and pulls it out and around me. “Is your hand okay?” She’s eyeing my balled-up fist.
I say, “It’s fine,” even though it’s throbbing like crazy.
“It’s bleeding a lot,” she says, clicking the buckle into place and sliding back.
I don’t need to look. I can feel the trail of blood down my arm, all the way to my elbow. I squeeze my hand tighter. “I’ve got a first aid kit in my pack.”
“The side of your face looks all red and swollen too,” she adds.
I grit my teeth at that. I don’t really want the visual reminder of Spike’s stupid fist connecting with my face. “I’ll be all right,” I say, taking a breath. I flip on the blinker for some reason, then carefully press the gas and turn onto the highway, using mostly my good hand.
I’m not going too fast, because I’m kind of new at this whole driving thing. But also because Stewart and Will aren’t that far up the road. I’ve got the high beams on, watching for that mile marker on the side of the road where we left them. If the clock on the dashboard is right, it’s exactly three in the morning, and it feels like it. The glowing yellow reflectors in the middle of the highway blink past us. They’re mesmerizing, swaying back and forth, my vision starting to double.
A jackrabbit dashes across the highway, narrowly missing our front tires, and I adjust my grip on the wheel, shake my head a little, and force my eyes wider.
My hand is throbbing. I’ve got a skull-splitting headache at my left temple, where Spike punched me. But it’s the exhaustion that’s hitting me hardest.
“I’m not asleep, by the way,” Cleverly mumbles. I glance over and see her head resting against the doorframe, wind scattering pieces of her hair, eyes closed.
“It would be all right if you were,” I say.
“No, it wouldn’t.”
I turn back to the road, slam my foot on the brake with a curse, tires skidding. Cleverly gasps. The brakes lock, the truck slides, jolting to a stop.
Eyes wide. Deep breaths.
“Did I mention your brother is crazy?” Cleverly says, staring straight ahead, her hands braced against the glove box.
Stewart is standing not ten feet from the front bumper, arms out to his sides, fists balled, chest heaving. I sit back against the seat and breathe out another curse, willing my pulse to slow down.
I don’t defend him this time. Stewart is crazy.
But my initial shock of almost running over Stewart with a truck is suddenly replaced with a strange sense of relief, seeing him standing in the middle of the highway, angry. I guess a part of me had been wondering, worrying about the state I’d find him in when we got back. Standing on two feet, looking like he might murder me? I could think of worse things.
Cleverly jumps out the second I put the gearshift into park. “Will?” she calls, running in front of the high beams toward the side of the road. “Hey, Stew,” she says as she passes, her shadow darkening his figure for an instant. But he doesn’t even look at her.
I decide to leave the truck running, and hop out. I’m giving up a little bit of gas, letting the truck idle like this, but with the light of the headlamps, we can throw everything in the bed of the truck and get out of here quicker. Plus, with the truck on empty, maybe running on fumes, I might not even be able to get it started again.
“You all right?” I say to Stew, shutting the door behind me. His cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing pretty heavily, but I’m not sure if it’s a side effect of anger, or if he’s actually experiencing shortness of breath.
“Where were you?” he says through clenched teeth, his voice cracking.
I don’t think he needs me to answer that, but I do anyway.
“We left for the reservoir after you fell asleep. We’ve got some water for you and Will. And a truck. There’s not much gas, but—”
Stew hauls back and shoves my shoulders, pushing me back a step. I stare at him, uneasy. Not because I’m surprised he pushed me, but because he’d gathered all his strength to manage it, and the push was still pretty pathetic.
I may be bigger than him, his older brother, but Stew
is no wimp.
“Stewart,” I say as calmly as possible, “you have every right to be mad. But we need to get our stuff and go, all right? I’ll tell you everything that happened once we get going.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I head to the side of the road to help Cleverly, who is already rolling up the sleeping bags as fast as she can. Will is on his feet at her side, but he seems to be in a confused stupor, gazing sleepily at the truck idling in the middle of the highway, his hair flattened to his skull on one side and a ratted-up bird’s nest on the other.
Just as I reach the brush, Stew shoves me again, this time from behind. I turn and face him, my patience already dwindling. “Listen, Stew, I’m sorry—”
“No, you’re not,” he says. He looks like he’s going to shove me again, so I take a step back.
I say with forced calmness, “The longer the truck idles, the farther we have to walk. So I officially apologize for going to the reservoir without you, okay? I knew you’d be mad, and I don’t blame you. But right now, we need to pack up and get out of here. We’re wasting gas.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he says, his chest rising and falling faster. “You’re the biggest liar, John. You lie, and it makes me sick.”
“Get in the truck, Stewart.”
“I’m not going.”
“Get in.”
“Just leave me behind!”
“No.”
“What difference does it make? Just go without me!”
“I won’t, and you know it.”
“What about what I want, John? It’s my life, not yours! I hate it when you do this. You’re so selfish. You act like I was put on this planet to be your brother.”
“Because you were, Stew! You were put here to be my brother, and I was put here to be yours.”
“Well, one of us got the short end of the deal!”
“Believe me, I know. Get in the truck.”
“I don’t want to be here anymore!”
“Get in the truck.”
His frustration brimming over, Stewart stalks away from me, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes. I watch him, my heart hammering against my chest. He gets as far as the front bumper, and then stops and turns back to the cab. He yanks open the driver’s-side door and climbs in. The heavy metal door slams shut with a loud clunk.