At Yellow Lake

by Jane Mcloughlin

I tried not to shout. I had to keep calm, stay cool. If I was quiet enough, still enough, maybe Kyle would forget I was here and when he went out to see who it was I could—

  A car door slammed. Footsteps came towards the cabin.

  ‘Hey!’ A man’s voice through the kitchen door. The sheriff, had to be. Or a paramedic.

  I took a deep breath and put my good hand to my mouth. No screaming. Not yet. There could be an ambulance outside. Right this minute they might be loading Jonah onto a stretcher, giving him fresh blood, getting ready to take the bullet out and stitch up the hole. I had to give them time to get away. When they started the engines and turned on the sirens, I could shout for help then.

  ‘You OK in there?’ The man’s voice again.

  Don’t answer. Just listen.

  He said something else that I couldn’t make out, and another man – it sounded like the weasel – started to laugh.

  Something wasn’t right. Why would a paramedic be cracking jokes?

  Kyle looked down at me and smiled. ‘Everything’s fine and dandy in here, Sheriff,’ he said.

  Sheriff. How did he know?

  ‘Okey-doke,’ the man outside said. ‘Just checking, Kyle.’

  My stomach twisted up, like a hand was inside me, pulling at my guts.

  Kyle. Sheriff. Somebody was in on it – Peter was right. So there wasn’t any ambulance outside, wasn’t going to be one, ever. And nobody was coming to help us, because nobody even knew we were here.

  They probably got Peter on his way to the Nussbaums’s.

  Jonah would just keep bleeding, if he wasn’t already dead.

  ‘Right,’ Kyle said. ‘Let’s hurry this up.’

  And then it would be me.

  PETER

  The forest slowed him down – thick-bodied trees muscled in front of him, vines grabbed his feet, and finally, the earth’s dips and troughs trapped his legs, sent him sprawling, roughing him up with sharp twigs and jagged stones.

  He was laid out flat on his face, winded, sweating. In front of him, just beyond the edge of the woods, was the cabin and a shiny cop car parked in front, spewing out light. Bryson stood beside it, talking to the fat bloke with a gun, and the skinny weasel kid, having a right laugh about something. Peter wanted to cry – why had he let that bastard get a head start? If he’d taken off from the Nussbaums’s sooner, Bryson would have chased him through the woods on foot and then. . .

  What was that on the ground?

  Peter remembered the shot, Etta’s scream.

  It was Jonah, face down, arms outstretched, legs sprawled out, like something on the ten o’clock news. And there was Bryson – a cop, for Christ’s sake – laughing and joking as if it were nothing, as if Jonah were nothing.

  But where was Etta? Peter scanned the clearing – Bryson, lighting a cigarette, Weasel, standing with his hands folded across his chest, Charlie waddling back toward the woods.

  But no Etta. And no Kyle.

  ‘Hey,’ Bryson shouted. ‘How long does it take you?’

  Who was he talking to? How long did what take? Peter listened for an answer, his heart pounding. Everything was quiet, except for the razor-sharp squawks of a blackbird.

  ‘Seriously, dude.’ Bryson took a step toward the cabin, as though he were talking to somebody inside. ‘I’m sure she’s a little honey, but can’t you make it quicker?’

  Kyle was in the cabin. He had to be. And the she? The honey?

  What was going on in there?

  Peter inched his body closer to the edge of the forest, trying to push Bryson’s filthy words out of his head. He couldn’t think now, he just had to get to the cabin, find some way to get Etta out of there, away from Kyle, away from whatever disgusting thing he was planning to do.

  Bryson flicked his cigarette onto the lawn.

  ‘I mean it, Kyle. We got shit to do here. If you ain’t outta there in five minutes, I’m coming in after you.’

  Peter crouched behind a hollowed-out log. Bryson and Weasel were both looking towards the woods. He’d have to go now, while they were distracted, before the five minutes were up. Against Kyle he might have a chance – if Etta hadn’t been hurt too badly, it’d be two against one, but if Bryson went into the cabin. . .

  Bryson turned to the car. Weasel wandered towards the forest.

  This was his chance – he got up onto his feet and raced toward the cabin, crouching down as soon as he got to the front, ducking below the windows so that no one could see him. He sat still. Listened for sounds inside.

  Weird, how quiet it was. No screams, no whispers, no shoving or struggling or. . .

  Maybe he’d got this wrong. Maybe the whole thing was a set-up, a trap. Bryson must have known he’d run back to the cabin. Were those horrible things he said about Etta just bait?

  Peter’s breathing got heavier, and his hands trembled. No. He couldn’t start shaking now. He had to calm down. Trap or not, it didn’t matter. Jonah’s body on the lawn was real enough. Those tied-up guys he’d seen in the car, they were real. Etta was in danger – real danger. He had to go in. Now, while there was time. Now, while there might be a chance.

  He crawled towards the porch and crept up the stairs. The back door was smashed in, shattered. Peter looked through the jagged slats, but he could only make out vague outlines – the couch, the dining table, the square of dusky light that came through the kitchen window, the flickering lights of the cop car dancing across the walls.

  The door groaned as he opened it, the bottom edge scraped along the porch. Whoever was inside knew he was coming. If this was an ambush, he was walking right in and shouting a big halloo.

  It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He straightened up and took a deep breath. He smelled something – that strange smoke Jonah had burned on the beach. He breathed in again. . .

  There – on the floor, in front of the fire, half hidden by the sofa.

  He blinked and squinted, straining to see.

  An outstretched arm. A leg. A pool of something dark and nasty.

  Another body. What have they done?

  He walked across the floor. He felt cold – not on his skin, but inside, as though something had iced up his heart and lungs and all the muscles and bones that held them in place. Barely breathing, he stumbled closer. The blinking lights made everything look out of joint – the foot on the body seemed huge, the leg was too long, the arm was thick, heavy.

  ‘Peter?’

  The voice was tiny, trembling. Peter’s heart kicked into action again – Etta. Christ, it was Etta. What the hell was happening here?

  ‘I thought you were dead, Peter,’ she said.

  She was hunched over on the step that led to the bedroom. She was holding onto something – a massive, black gun – clutching it to her chest as if she were clinging to a tree against a rushing torrent of water.

  ‘I thought they killed you.’ Her voice was calm and her face was still, but the rest of her body quivered dangerously. Peter took her hands, unfolded them and released the gun that was covered in sticky blood and clotted hunks of hair and skin. He leaned it against the fireplace and looked down.

  There was Kyle – on his side, motionless.

  ‘He was trying to take my bra off,’ Etta said, blankly. ‘I think I killed him.’

  She poked Kyle’s body with one of her toes. ‘See?’

  Peter leant down and touched Kyle’s chest. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have bashed him so many times,’ Etta said. ‘After he was on the floor, maybe I should have just stopped, but—’

  ‘He’s still breathing,’ Peter whispered. ‘We’ve got to go now before he wakes up, or before the others come in.’

  Suddenly, Etta stood up, her hands fluttering in front of her face like a bird’s wings. Peter took her by the shoulders and set her gently her back down. They had to keep still. They were nearly safe now – they had Kyle’s gun. All they had to do was keep quiet, find a place to hide – get down to the lake or into the thick woods.

/>   ‘Jonah,’ she whispered.

  On the floor in front of them, Kyle’s legs twitched. He let out a moan, then settled again.

  It was then that Peter saw the phone in Kyle’s back pocket. He carefully dug it out with his fingers. Kyle didn’t move or make any noise. Peter turned the phone on, watched it light up, the signal bars climbing up the side.

  ‘Take this.’ He handed Etta the phone. ‘Take this, and call 911. Ask for an ambulance. Tell them everything, if you want – what happened, where we are – but most of all, we need an ambulance for Jonah. Can you do that?’

  Etta looked at him, nodded purposefully.

  Then he picked up the gun. The sleek barrel, the smooth solid metal, frightened him. How could something designed to give him power make him feel so weak?

  He gave it back to Etta. ‘Take this, too.’ He was glad to be rid of the horrible thing. ‘Go down to the lake – find a hiding place in the woods, where we first saw Jonah.’

  She was about to protest but Kyle groaned again, like a hibernating animal returning to life.

  ‘I’ll get Jonah, Etta. You’ve got to stay safe.’

  He took her hand, guided her across the minefield of shattered glass and coaxed her through the door, helping her down the porch’s steps. He stood on the lawn and watched her tread carefully down the hill, holding the gun as far from her body as she could. She stopped for a second and looked back up at him. Then she was gone, safe in her haven of bushes and trees.

  Right then, Peter thought.

  He crept along the side of the cabin, flattened his body against the wall, inched past the bedroom window, the kitchen window. When he got to the front of the cabin, he peered around the corner. There was Jonah – halfway between the cabin and the parked cars. There was Bryson, close to the edge of the woods, smoking a cigarette, watching something that was going on in the forest.

  Peter took a deep breath. How many steps would it take to get to Jonah’s body? Eight or so. Then he’d have to drag him to the woods on the other side of the cabin. How far was that? Thirty metres? He could do that, couldn’t he? Of course. As long as he had enough adrenaline pumping – and as long as Jonah didn’t wake up and start shouting in pain.

  Right then. That bloody phrase again.

  Without thinking any more, he took off running, silently counting off the seconds with each step – one thousand one, one thousand two. When he got to Jonah’s body, he was already at seven. He glanced up. Bryson was still puffing away, oblivious.

  He bent down and took hold of Jonah’s arms under the shoulders. Jesus, there was so much blood. The wound was huge – red and gaping, like a horrible mouth.

  Don’t look at it, Peter. Don’t think. Just get on with it.

  He twisted Jonah’s body, rolled him onto his back. He held him under the shoulders, pulled as hard as he could. No good – Jonah’s shirt ripped. He had to bend down further, get a proper grip.

  Right. Now try again. Hang on tight. That’s it.

  They were moving – one foot, two feet, three. He looked up again. He was nearly around the side of the cabin now. A few more feet and he’d be out of Bryson’s line of sight.

  ‘Hey!’

  Bryson was shouting. Don’t stop, Peter.

  ‘Hey guys, get back!’

  Had Bryson seen him?

  Peter kept pulling. Just bloody get on with it!

  Closer to the woods. He glanced backwards. Closer. He didn’t look at anything except Jonah’s shirt – at the wound getting bigger, wetter, bloodier.

  His heart pounded, his back was breaking, his lungs burned.

  Keep going, son. Good lad.

  He felt something sharp on his back – the branch of a pine tree. He hunched over Jonah’s body, protecting it from the pointed thrusts of broken twigs and the cat’s claw scratches of brambles and burrs. He bent down even lower – on his knees now – and pulled, pulled, pulled. The dark undergrowth got thicker, spread over him like a rough blanket, cutting out light.

  He was going into the woods – deeper, deeper – until he couldn’t go any further. No more strength to push his back beyond the thick shrubs, or to pull poor Jonah another inch.

  He stopped, listened. He couldn’t see the front lawn from here – the cars, the men. They must have noticed that Jonah’s body was gone by now. They’d be looking, following the trail of blood, straight to where he was hiding.

  He listened for their grunts, their footsteps.

  All he could hear was Jonah’s rattly breath.

  ‘Not long now, mate,’ he whispered.

  Not long for what?

  Peter knew the answer, but he didn’t care any more. When the men came, when they shot him and Jonah, at least somebody would live – Etta would survive.

  ‘That’s some consolation, isn’t it, mate?’

  He closed his eyes – so tired now. He wished he could pray. But he could only think about Mum, imagine her on that daft fluffy cloud, waiting for him, getting impatient, telling him to hurry it up, to get a move on, to listen to her, for goodness’ sake.

  He opened his eyes – had he been sleeping? He listened.

  Sirens. Cars. Voices – women and men. It was as if a huge army were forming out on the lawn – a massive chorus of barking commands.

  And there were colours through the trees, lighting up the sky as if it were Bonfire Night – swirling orbs of red, yellow, white, blue, as the cop cars and the ambulances covered the lawn, making an impenetrable web out of metal and wheels.

  He sat still and crossed his legs, letting Jonah’s head rest in the hollow of his lap. He put his head down and listened to Jonah’s chest. Up, down. In, out. Wheeze, hiss.

  He could stop being afraid now.

  Job done, he thought, hearing Dad’s voice in his head. Job bloody well done.

  Car doors slammed. Ambulance engines roared. Through the dense trees he saw Etta limping up the hill towards him, both arms waving, no sign of the gun.

  ‘Hey,’ she shouted, peering into the brush. ‘Where are you guys?’

  Carefully, Peter set Jonah on the ground and stood up. He pushed away the scrub to clear a path. When Etta emerged through the undergrowth, he reached out for her and she took his hand. Together, they crawled out of the woods and walked arm in arm – away from the dark, away from the fear – up the hill to the shining lights.

  Chapter Fourteen

  JONAH

  All in all, being dead wasn’t so bad. There were no white lights, the black eagle had gone. There was just a slow, grey dimming, and Jonah hovered above the ground on a cool, wet cloud.

  Gradually, the cloud grew warmer. Something soft was put over his body, thawing his frozen limbs, making them shake violently as they were gently coaxed back into a harsh and painful life.

  He was aware of sounds, horrible beeping, shallow, wheezy breath – his own.

  Jonah moaned, semi-conscious, opening his eyes to a noisy, blurry world.

  ‘He’s awake again.’

  Not for long, Jonah thought. Not if I can help it, anyway.

  The pain was duller than it had been before – a nagging, persistent ache. It was hard to breathe, too. He had to force himself to move his chest up and down, in and out, in time with the beeps. It took so long, though. Breathe in slowly . . . wait . . . out. . .

  Was that enough? Was he taking in enough oxygen to keep himself alive?

  He looked around. A white, windowless space, a wall that supported the labyrinth of tubes attached to his body. A hospital room. No, the ceiling was too close to his head. An ambulance, that was it.

  ‘You must be Jonah.’ A woman in a green jacket, with curly reddish hair was sitting at his feet – a female leprechaun, but taller, and without the hat and pipe. ‘Jonah? Is that right?’ Her voice was soft, calm. She wasn’t scared or panicky. She was just doing her job.

  He felt himself nodding. God, it was hard work.

  ‘Can you wiggle your toes for me, Jonah?’

  He could, a little.<
br />
  ‘Can you wave your fingers?’

  That was easier.

  ‘Right now, what we’re doing is we’re waiting here until a helicopter comes so we can take you to the Cities. We don’t have the right equipment to take care of you up here, so we’re gonna fly you over to Minneapolis. Doctors are waiting there to operate on you.’

  Operate?

  He heard the beeps get faster. Memories seeped into his brain. Blurred images faded in, out – a face above his. The last things he remembered – hitting the ground, pain, like fire, a face looking down on him – Etta’s face.

  ‘Keep breathing, Jonah.’

  He moved his mouth. He had to talk. Up and down – that was good. See? He could talk and breathe at the same time. He swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted of straw. He moaned softly, half-humming, half-grunting the word. ‘Etta.’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine. The other kid, too. Everybody’s just fine. Nobody died.’

  Jonah imagined that he was nodding. Good. Good. Better now.

  He closed his eyes. His vision went funny again – the painkillers doing their trippy stuff. He saw sweeping lights across a midnight-blue sky – green, yellow – behind them a bright face, getting bigger, huge as the heavens. Two black eyes shining – wet with tears.

  His mom?

  He needed to call her. Now. She’d be panicking, worried sick. He had to let her know where he was – right now – explain everything that happened, tell her that. . .

  The beeping got faster, louder. The paramedic jumped out of her seat, grabbed something, shoved it onto Jonah’s mouth like a muzzle.

  ‘Jonah, you need to calm down,’ she said softly, keeping a firm grip on the suffocating mask. ‘Come on now, take deep breaths.’

  He wanted to pull it off, kick her away from him, but there was something in her voice that made him obey.

  ‘In. Out. You can do it.’

  The beeping slowed down. The paramedic loosened her hold on the mask. After a few seconds, she attached it to his ears with two stretchy cords. That was better, Jonah thought, easier, with the mask on. Easier without fighting against it. Easier letting this nice lady help.