The Liar's Guide to the Night Sky

by Brianna R. Shrum

  It’s Jolie; I can make out her voice over the frantic snapping under my feet, the utter roar of the mountain, the panic in my brain.

  “JESUS, JOLIE, COME ON. WE HAVE TO GO.” It’s Jaxon—raw panic in his voice as he jerks her away from the camp.

  “Where are they? Where’s Hallie? Where’s—”

  “We’re here!” I shout it, but I don’t know if they can hear me. I don’t know who can see me and who’s here and which direction we need to run. All I know is that the mountain is coming down. Oh my god. Oh my god.

  Jonah has me by the wrist, hand clamped around my bones, and he’s dragging me along. It probably does make me move faster. I know if I tripped, he’d just yank me back up, and my feet are flying over the ground.

  I manage to hook the backpack I brought as we sprint past the bonfire.

  Mud and rock and snow rush in a roar down the mountain, and I can barely think past the lizard brain RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN in my head.

  Every muscle, every cell, every bit of blood and bone is urging me to FUCKING GO.

  I don’t even know where we go, I don’t know which turns we make. I can barely see in the dark and neither can Jonah, and I’m sure neither can my cousins. We’re just behind them, and then we’re surrounded by them, the smallest stampede. Our footsteps are swallowed by the growl of the mountain.

  Our panic, our fear, our sudden flight of survival is nothing in the face of this. It is an impossible roaring, it is world-altering, the sound of it is everything.

  Anyone who saw this from the ground would hear nothing but silence.

  The woods cave in, being overtaken by the rush of mud and snow, and I don’t know. I don’t know where it stops, where it will end, if we will all be swallowed and this is it, it’s the end.

  I’m freezing and I’m hot all at once.

  But I’m moving.

  We’re all moving.

  Not as fast as the mountain.

  We crash through the trees, we go, we go, we go.

  Until the deafening rumble quiets.

  Until the woods slowly, slowly still.

  Until we can step out of the falsely protective cover of the trees and look down the hill and see that we are out of its path, and it’s a path no longer being carved anyway.

  Until we can breathe.

  I’m trembling everywhere, and my throat hurts. My head hurts. None of this feels real. The adrenaline is so intense that now that is the loudest sound I can hear, and I can’t push past it. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them. Shut again, so hard it hurts. Then open. I exhale. It comes out in stops and starts.

  Jonah’s breath is ragged beside me. I can feel his whole body shaking.

  He squeezes my wrist, and then his grip loosens, like he physically can’t make his fingers loop.

  Without him forcing me to stand, I don’t.

  I collapse.

  I think I remain conscious.

  I don’t think I actually pass out. But if I laid money on it, I’m not sure I wouldn’t come out at a loss.

  No one says a damn thing for seconds, minutes.

  We are all just breathing, touching our own skin to make sure we’re alive. Staring into the darkness to try to puzzle out what the fuck just happened, to confirm that it’s real.

  That the earth we had just been standing on is gone.

  That the mountain, like one of those crazy videos on YouTube, just came down around us.

  “Head . . . head count,” says someone. Tzipporah. It has to be. Who else would it be?

  No one says anything for a solid minute.

  “GODDAMMIT, HEAD COUNT,” she says.

  And Lydia starts crying.

  Sam says her own name, and Lydia sobs hers, and then we all follow, person by person.

  Lydia is still sniffling.

  We all gather together in a huddle, and Tzipporah makes us say our names three more times before she’s satisfied that we’re all here.

  Thank G-d.

  The trees, which seemed so much smaller earlier, seem huge and dark now, suffocating. Like binding and shelter all at the same time.

  “Can we . . . can we get back to the truck?” says Lydia.

  Oliver says, “No way to know, man; do you even know where we are?”

  “No.”

  “It’s dark,” says Jaxon. “We’re all turned around; there’s just . . . there’s just no way we make it down tonight.”

  “What the hell was that?” says Jolie.

  Sam says, “Mudslide. It’s been so dry and then the rain; I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it. I just figured Cool. Rain. Means we can have a fire. I didn’t . . . I should have figured . . .” She starts crying and Tzipporah wraps her arms around her.

  “Why doesn’t someone call for help?”

  There’s a collective rustle as people check their phones. But no one has service. I mean, of the, like, three of us who didn’t leave phones in the cars or lose them in the chaos or leave them back at the campsite.

  Sam says, “DAMMIT.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s going to be fine. It’s one night and it’s cold, but we all have our coats. We have supplies. I mean, a couple bags, right? Who’s got a bag? I have one.”

  “Me,” says Jolie.

  Sam says, “I got one.”

  Oliver hugs Lydia in close to his side and says, clearly trying to cover up panic that cannot be covered, “No. No, no, this is bullshit. I’m not staying up here tonight. Lydia and I aren’t. We can’t. All we need to do is just, like, retrace our steps—”

  “Retrace?” says Tzipporah. “How, exactly? There’s nothing TO retrace. The mountain ate it.”

  “And it’s dark now,” Sam pipes in.

  Lydia starts shaking. “We could hike around a little. Look for like a ranger station or—”

  “We are not. Getting anywhere. Tonight,” says Jaxon.

  Lydia sniffs.

  “I’m not a fan of this either,” he continues, “but doing anything other than staying put right now is suicide.”

  It’s silent for a solid thirty seconds.

  That’s a shockingly long time in the city.

  In the woods, alone in the cold, it’s an eternity.

  “Okay,” I say. “So we start another fire. We can do that. We take turns keeping it alive and this will be like . . . an adventure. In the morning, we find the cars and we go home. Okay?”

  Jonah is looking at me. He’s quiet, contemplative. Coming down from everything, probably. Then he stands and simply starts gathering wood and pine needles.

  Some people feel comfortable making plans. Me, that’s me. I need a plan, I need steps A through Z, and I need to lay it out.

  Jonah is someone who needs to act.

  A couple cousins join Jonah in the gathering, and when the plan is underway, I can breathe.

  It becomes clear to me, in the silent aftermath of everything, just how cold I am. Just how dark it is. Just how much my muscles suddenly hurt.

  I blow out a shaky breath. We just . . . we just survived a mudslide.

  Someone—who cares who—pulls out a lighter and ignites the growing pile of kindling.

  It starts small; it really is cold out, cold enough to discourage even flame.

  We all move toward the fire, everyone shivering and scared and tired and freezing and just . . . just wondering.

  Wondering too many things that feel dangerous to put to words.

  I wind up between Jolie and Lydia. Jaxon is on Jolie’s other side and he’s practically hovering over her. He’s protective; he’s always been like that with her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen siblings love each other so much.

  She’s fine.

  But he’ll be like this until we’re out of the woods.

  Literally and metaphorically.

  “My ankle hurts,” says Lydia. She’s fourteen but suddenly she seems so much younger than so many of us. I want to protect her.

  I say, “Yeah, I sliced my
hand open running. And my calves are killing me.”

  She nods and scoots closer to me on a log a couple of the cousins rolled over here. She lays her head on my shoulder.

  I can feel the worry in the camp.

  It’s just one night; we really will be fine. I think. I mean, I’m pretty sure. How far can we have run? We can’t be that turned around; it’s just that it’s so freaking dark and we’re all running on a combination of adrenaline and absolute exhaustion.

  And worry, which doesn’t help.

  On the other side of the fire, it’s about as quiet as it is here. The whole camp is thick with unease.

  It’s starting to soak down into my marrow, the anxiety I was able to banish with all my reassurances and plans.

  I shudder.

  I want to say, “It’s fine, guys! Perk up! Truly, an adventure!” But I can’t. It wouldn’t help anyone, and I can’t make myself say something I don’t really believe, not when it comes down to it. Not when it comes down to the reality that we are spending the night turned all around without a tent or cell service.

  I’ve camped, but I’ve never camped without anything over my head.

  A coyote—a wolf? I don’t know. Are there wolves in Colorado?—howls somewhere in the distance, and I actually laugh. Because hey, as it turns out, I’m fucking terrified.

  Jonah’s voice is the thing that cuts through the tense silence.

  He says, “I ever tell you about that time my truck broke down about ten miles from here?”

  Jaxon’s head pops up, and he and Jonah exchange a long look. Jaxon says, “Nah. Tell us.” Like he knows something.

  Jonah says, “It was dead winter, a night kind of like tonight, actually. Wind howling, wolves, snow, all that shit.”

  “Atmospheric,” says Jaxon.

  Jonah flips him the bird and says, “So I’m up here scouting and I cross this creek. It’s a little hop for me. Frozen over, kind of, but anyway, not solid enough I’m gonna step on it or my boot will go right through. I hear this crack and I look back, and there’s this tiny little spiderweb fracture splintering out in the ice. Like someone’s walking on it. Then another a few inches away.”

  I furrow my brow and hug my coat around me. The smallest breath of wind whispers through the sparse forest, if you could even call it that.

  Jonah says, “I don’t really think about it much; I just keep walking. I saw some elk sign up the way last year, so that’s where I’m headed. Well, a half mile down, I realize it’s not just my footsteps I’m hearing in the dirt. I’m hearing me and these little muffled steps that are moving twice as fast, at least. Small. Like a little animal maybe? Or like . . . a little kid.”

  “Bullshit,” Sam whispers.

  An owl hoots in the distance and because I’m cool and mature, I do not immediately think it’s a ghost.

  “Yeah, sounds like I’m losing it. But then a quarter mile down the cow path, I see something. It’s a little stuffed porpoise. And it’s got its stuffing ripped out. At this point, I’m just kind of freaked out. But it’s nothing compared to what I see hanging in the trees when I follow that cow path into the pines. It’s a fucking menagerie. Dolls and shit, various states of disrepair. I can hear the wind whistling, hear those little footsteps behind me; it’s like a kid’s horror paradise in the woods. And I don’t know what the hell to do except I know I can’t turn my back on it. Not on a place like this. Suddenly I hear those little footsteps behind me and they stop.”

  I’m holding my breath.

  We all are.

  “And this tiny little voice says something I can’t understand.”

  I lean in.

  “She says—”

  Suddenly Jaxon grabs Jolie by the shoulders and shakes her and says, “I HAVE COME FOR MY REVENGE,” and Jolie shrieks and we all shriek and then we’re laughing in relief.

  Jolie says, “You asshole!”

  Jaxon is losing his shit, and Jonah is laughing, too, and he says, “Which one?”

  And Jolie says, “Both of you! I HATE YOU.”

  Then someone else starts in on a scary story, and it’s like the spell is broken.

  It feels . . . unreal now.

  Like a story.

  Like an adventure we can make it through.

  At least a bunch of us feel that way, or it seems like it. Distracted by stories and the fire.

  The flames are by turns too hot and too cold, warming my front until I feel like my skin is on fire while my back freezes, then doing the opposite. Smoke stings my eyes. But the pain, the discomfort, is something to focus on.

  The lateness of the night sinks in, even through the fear.

  Through the hot and cold.

  One by one, most of us drop into sleep.

  I can’t.

  I’m not gonna be able to sleep all night.

  I can’t stop hearing those wolves.

  How am I going to sleep through this cold, with nothing at all to shield me from whatever’s home we are invading?

  As though a tent would do that.

  It doesn’t matter; it’s the principle of it.

  Eventually, Jaxon and Jonah and I are the only ones awake.

  Jaxon yawns, and I say, “Go to sleep, man. I can’t. I’ll stay up and keep this fire stoked.”

  Jaxon doesn’t argue with me. He just says, “It’s gonna be okay, cuz.”

  I say, “Yeah.”

  Jonah meets my eyes across the fire. They are intense, determined. Assessing the reality of the situation.

  The risk.

  He is concerned.

  So am I.

  Neither of us says anything.

  We don’t have to.

  The fire crackles between us in the dark.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I DON’T THINK I slept all night.

  I’m missing time; I couldn’t tell you every single moment that passed in the last six hours, so I must have dozed off at some point. But it feels like I was up forever. My eyes are burning and I’m cold, and I look like a mess, I’m sure.

  On the plus side, so does everyone else. It’s not like anyone slept in a king-sized hotel bed last night, but everyone else at least got a few hours of sleep.

  I got none.

  Jonah looks like a total wreck, too.

  His eyes are red and there’s dark circles under them and his hair is standing up all wrong.

  It’s charming, or it would be if I wasn’t worried about being completely exhausted and cold and stranded in the freaking woods.

  I lie on the hard ground for a while, like I can fall asleep with the sun on my face and the freezing earth hard under my hips. I shut my eyes.

  Nothing happens.

  I’m just cold.

  I’m just tired.

  My eyelids are straight up glued together.

  I force my eyes open—it hurts—and roll from my side up to my butt so I’m sitting up. I’m committed now, I guess. I’m up.

  I stand and stretch, wrists and back and neck popping audibly.

  I look around the woods, willing myself to just magically see one of Tzipporah’s yellow trail markers we all teased her for earlier, one of the breadcrumbs she forced us to leave so we could find our way back home.

  But it . . . it all just looks like trees.

  One by one, everyone in the camp wakes up, remembers where we are. Where we aren’t.

  Someone digs into their pack and passes around water bottles and granola bars. No one has to say that we should ration. No one goes nuts on the food or the water or anything because last night we said we were going to be fine.

  But we all know that was the kind of truth you can only tell when you have no fucking clue what’s real.

  I eat my bar silently.

  Staring into the dead fire.

  Suddenly, beside me, Lydia starts sniffling. I’m almost mad, which is shitty of me, but Jesus, dude, pull it together.

  We’re hardly even awake.

  Calm down.

  I bite down on my
tongue so I won’t say anything, so I can be nice to my scared, small cousin—or at least not actively mean to her.

  Then I see her shift and hear her suck in a sharper breath.

  “You okay?” I say, even though I’m sure she’s just being young and small and sensitive.

  She says, “My ankle hurts.”

  I say, “That sucks. Still bugging you from last night?”

  Big deal, honestly; I’m sure we’re all sore.

  “No,” she says. “I mean. Yes. But no, like. It just. It really hurts, Hallie.”

  “Walk around on it,” I say. “You probably just need to stretch it or something.”

  Lydia sucks her lip in between her teeth and moves to stand, then hisses, and her leg collapses under her.

  “Shit,” I say. Guilt courses through me when her face goes a shade paler. She’s not being a baby; that’s an injury.

  I’m so glad she couldn’t hear what I was thinking.

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Yeah. I just—I think I sprained it or something.”

  “Shit,” I say again. I dig in my bag for the few first aid supplies I brought in case of something like this. (Suck it, brain—acting like I was being overly cautious! We’re all welcome!)

  Jaxon walks by, stretching, yawning, hair a wild mess, nose pinched with the cold. He frowns. “You okay, Lydie?”

  Lydia scrunches her nose and draws in a breath. She’s really trying to hold it together.

  I’m handing her some ibuprofen and taping the foot in question when I say, “She sprained her ankle.”

  Jaxon shoots me a wide-eyed look and says, “That’s okay. It’s gonna be fine.”

  His face says, She’s going to get eaten by a bear.

  I watch him go from person to person, then, doing an evaluation.

  He circles back around to Jonah and tells him that it’s just Lydia, that the rest of us are okay, and I don’t know why it feels so comforting that Jonah knows what’s up and doesn’t freak out. I don’t even know the guy, and any of the other cousins who don’t know him much better than I do seem to be perfectly content with it, like checking in on Jonah’s reactions is the reasonable choice here.

  Maybe it’s the Eagle Scout thing; maybe it’s just that Jonah has that energy that says he knows what the hell he’s talking about and you should believe him.

  Tzipporah clears her throat and says, “Okay. What needs to happen here is this: we are going to send a small group to explore. If it starts to rain, if it starts to snow, if anything at all happens that jeopardizes your ability to get back here to everyone in a reasonable amount of time, you head back.”