“Good idea.”
Storm was doing a damn good impression of being healthy and engaged. Maria couldn’t figure out what had changed, or if Storm was even aware of it.
They worked together, Storm pulling and tossing as much of the clutter as Maria into the huge pile around the crate.
“Leave that.”
Storm pushed the lawnmower back against the wall.
When they had collected everything they could find, Maria wound the roll of chicken wire around the mess, the mass appearing as a great volcano opening towards the door above it. Storm stood with her hands on her hips, breathing hard, the sliver of light striking across her lifted shoulders.
“Give me your t-shirt.”
Maria removed her coat again and handed Storm a slightly sweaty ball of crumpled cotton. Storm fed the shirt into the opening of the lawnmower’s gas tank. Fumes of gasoline made small intoxicating ribbons through the stench of rot and earth. Storm nodded towards the crate in the corner and Maria crouched behind it. Storm placed the soaked cotton into the filled crate and thumped the lid into place. The space between the wall and the crate was so narrow Storm had to pull her legs close to her chest when she crawled beside Maria. All she heard was the sound of their breathing and the occasional pop or creak as the pile settled.
“How long?”
Maria whispered though there was no one there to hear. She strained to hear the rumble of an approaching engine.
“Cover your ears.”
Their shoulders and hips pressed together, their hands over their ears, their heads bent as if in prayer. It was impossible to hear if anyone arrived, but it no longer mattered. They sat, so close their hearts beat to a single rhythm. Maria squished closer, the walls pressing inward, anticipating the explosion. She lifted her head, thinking the walls had shifted when the world exploded in sound, pain, and dirt.
SEVENTEEN
A thick fog of dirt hung in the air and Storm felt as if she was back in the fire. She bent low, her back brushing the sloped roof. There was a gulp of smoke and dirt, and she doubled over in a fit of coughing. She pulled her shirt over her nose, her eyes burning as she tried to see whether the bomb had worked.
A beam of light streamed through the dirt and smoke. One side of the door hung into the room, the other an empty ring of splintered wood. She tapped on Maria’s hunched back, a thick coating of dirt across her shoulders and hair.
A crash sounded as something hidden by the smoke dropped and rolled, accompanied by the first whiff of clear, fresh air.
Storm bent over to yell into Maria’s ear and saw Maria’s hands grasping her leg below the right knee. The unattached handle of the lawnmower had jammed into her calf, a metal claw hooked into her skin.
She crouched down, marvelling at the strength in her legs and the clearness in her head, even as she recoiled at the sight of the wound.
“What can I do?”
Storm sounded a thousand miles under water, the echoes of the bomb ringing in her ears. She didn’t hear Maria’s response, but the shape of the words on Maria’s lips was enough, her competent, capable veneer stripped away.
Take it out.
The rod had gone in at an angle, the edges around the wound ragged. It made her gag to look at it and she would have turned away if it weren’t for the rigid grip of Maria’s hands around her calf. Without letting herself think, Storm pulled.
The feral scream pierced through the ringing as blood gushed from the hole. Maria clamped her hands over it, and Storm laid hers over the top. Hot blood ran through their fingers.
“Your shirt.”
Storm took off her shirt, feeling its small warmth leave her skin, and wrapped it tight around the wound. Maria sat with her head bent, her hands pressed over the shirt.
“Come on.”
Storm offered Maria a hand, this time her voice not quite so far away.
For a moment Maria didn’t move, the look she gave Storm a struggle against pain. Storm hated to move her but she knew their wide open escape to the outside could close at any time.
The blood stuck their palms together as Storm pulled her up, Maria’s grip at least still strong. Maria gasped as her foot touched down and Storm looped Maria’s arm over her shoulder, stooping to bring her shoulders to a level that Maria could reach.
Storm staggered under Maria’s weight, her head and shoulders brushing the low wall so that a small shower of dirt added to the thickening fog. Torn pieces of chicken wire tangled around their feet as they picked their way through the splintered wood and the smouldering piles of hay. Four of the seven steps had been blown away, only the top two intact.
“Leave me here.”
The cold air swirling in the raw opening chilled Storm’s bare skin as she carefully lifted Maria’s arm from her shoulder and placed it on the edge of where the door had been. Maria’s ragged breathing combined with the rattle of the wind above ground.
“And then what?”
“You keep going.”
Storm put her shoulder behind Maria’s uninjured leg, bracing her body the way she had seen Maria do. She didn’t know if she’d even been able to get her off the ground, let alone over the lip of the opening. It angered her that Maria thought she would leave her behind. As if she were still the person who had left her team.
“You can’t carry me.”
Storm pushed upwards against the back of Maria’s thigh, testing her weight. Not as bad as she thought, and her anger added to her strength.
“How do you know?”
Storm knew it was true, yet she felt different. Not cured, but better than she had, the inertness of the earth letting her body operate without interference.
“What do we do once we’re out of here? I can’t walk.”
“I’m not going to leave you behind.”
Maria grunted as Storm lifted for real, Maria sitting on Storm’s shoulder like a chair, her hand clasped with Storm’s for balance. At first Storm’s muscles shuddered under the weight, but a dormant and forgotten strength rose from deep inside her, rising through the sickness and weakness to lift Maria up and over the ledge. There was a truncated gasp as Maria rolled out of sight.
“Maria?”
The wind whipped through the trees. Storm called again as she struggled to pull the crate they had used as shelter underneath the gaping hole. She coughed in the smoke, tasting burnt hay on her tongue. She imagined Maria being dragged away, the others waiting to grab Storm the moment she poked her head out. She crouched on top of the crate and slowly peeked over the lip. She wished she had more of a clue of how to do this.
The scrawny trees bent and twisted in the wind, the dried grasses pressed against the ground in the gusts. A strange twilight lay over the scene, the wind drawing the encroaching clouds with it. Maria lay on her back in a small hollow below the opening, a ghost in the twilight, a dark stain spreading through Storm’s shirt.
It took several tries to pull herself over the lip, her stomach scraping over the cool, moist earth as she finally climbed free. Her once white bra was gray in the full light, her ribs visible in neat rows above the hollow of her stomach. It repulsed her to see all that was left of her, like a creature that had lived without light and warmth for much longer than the hour they had been below ground. She listened for the deeper sound of an engine returning above the hum of the wind.
“Are you okay?”
Maria panted in her battle against the pain, her chin jutting up from the force of her clenched jaw. She gripped hard to the bunches of grass in her fists.
Storm was unprepared for this. She had no experience or first aid to tell her what to do. No understanding of how to relieve Maria’s suffering.
White caps pushed down the river, every leaf and blade of grass caught up in the approaching storm, save for the looming bulk of the cabin behind them.
“I’ll
be right back.”
She checked the laneway that headed along the base of the mountain and the wider branch that led down a slope into the woods. The footpath from the door disappeared into the same woods, its edges smooth and worn from the countless feet that had trod its path. An electrical cable the width of her thumb connected to a freshly installed junction box on the house, its trail leading in the same direction as the path and road. She jumped over it, feeling only a short burn on her shins and toes.
She listened at the cabin door. There were no signs of inhabitants other than the stench of old pizza stirred up by the wind. Any sounds from inside were lost in the buffeting gusts. She grabbed the rusted latch, checking the road a final time.
The door opened into the kitchen, the laminate counter and off-white cupboard doors all tinged yellow by the filtered light of the closed curtains. A few empty beer bottles sat on the counter, the shelves empty in one cupboard with its door ajar. It had the closed-in feeling of a shuttered house, the air stale and old, as if no one had been there for a long time.
She checked outside the screen door again before following a dirtied trail that led through the dust, ignoring the old phone hard wired into the wall. Heavy curtains blocked the light of the high windows in the main living area, the dated sofa and worn carpets tinted yellow. A frightful wooden chandelier hung above the center of the room and an unbroken layer of dust lay on the low side table.
She breathed in, trying to slow her slamming heart. She needed to be able to hear if anyone arrived or waited down the dark hall where the trail led.
No lights. No movement. But as she moved further in she recognized it was not empty of human activity, for several bedrooms had unmade beds with clothes discarded beside them. A bathroom showed a smudged half-filled water glass and several crumpled magazines beside the toilet. It was the absence of caring or any feeling of love that she was feeling here. There were echoes of it in the selection of the drapes, and an old plaque that hung above the fireplace. But it had been a long time since anyone had truly lived here and called it their own.
She searched the medicine cabinet behind the discoloured mirror and shoved the medical tape and safety pins into her pocket, though the tape was barely enough to wrap a finger. Back in the hallway, she smelled the acrid, pungent smell of gasoline.
She stopped on the threshold of the final bedroom. Three shirts hung on hangers in the open closet and a rack of guns hung on the wall. There were no personal possessions other than a pair of glasses lying beside the bed. Nothing that spoke to any kind of humanity. Her coat was draped over the back of a plastic chair, her shoes tucked beneath. A new style walkie-talkie sat in a charger on the bare desk, its red LED light a beacon in the tiny room. She approached carefully, knowing it couldn’t hear her but wary of its presence. The room reeked of body odour.
She chose the least offensive shirt, a blue plaid with a torn sleeve, sliding her coat over and slipping on her shoes. She took the remaining shirts for Maria. She placed her hand on the bottom rifle, choosing it not for her knowledge of guns but for the box of ammunition positioned next to it. Maria would know how to fit the pieces together. She fitted a faded ball cap over her head as the walkie-talkie crackled.
She grabbed the rifle and stopped short before entering the hallway. There was no sign of life but for that brief burst of static. She ignored the reek coming from a closed door at the end of the hall and tore the liner from a curtain in the main living area on her way past. When the screen door slammed behind her, she felt again like she had escaped from a long confinement. She found Maria shivering violently where she had left her, great plumes of smoke rolling from the exploded opening.
“You’re going to have to leave me here.”
Storm’s anger rose.
“I brought you something.”
Storm laid the rifle carefully next to Maria, not knowing enough about guns to tell if it was loaded.
“That isn’t going to fix my leg.”
Storm shook off the dust and tore the curtain liner into strips. Tendrils of smoke from the cellar wafted past them. Maria inhaled through clenched teeth as Storm unwound the bloody shirt. The calf had already swelled up and blood flowed freely from the wound.
“They’ll be accusing you of every unsolved crime on their books by the time they’re done with you.”
Maria ripped grass from the ground as Storm redid the bandage.
“Can you sit?”
Storm levered Maria up to sitting, worried about her shaking and drained whiteness. At the sight of her, Storm recognized her own fatigue, it having slipped back in the moment she had kneeled down. She looked upwards as if to find the cause, the deepening banks of cloud providing no answers. Fury coursed through her, her few moments of strength making its return all the more devastating.
Maria’s hand pressed on her arm.
“There’s a boat, if I can get there.”
The wind blew harder through the trees, the tops bending towards the river. Storm breathed and ignored the heaviness in her limbs.
“Can you stand?”
Storm wrapped her arm around Maria’s waist, feeling Maria’s core strength as she stood on her good leg.
“We need a key.”
“I’ll worry about the boat. You worry about getting there.”
They hobbled towards the sagging shelter of the boathouse, several drops of rain striking her hands as Maria hopped and paused, her hand locked on Storm’s shoulder. Thirty meters to the door and Maria was getting slower, the new bandage already soaked with blood. Storm couldn’t risk carrying her, her legs already struggling to keep moving forward. It would be impossible to hear the truck returning above the noise of the wind whipping around them. The reek of the man’s body odour on the shirts never left them.
Storm gripped Maria’s waist tighter.
“Almost there.”
She left Maria at the door near the splintered lock, her face as gray as the sky. Wind swept over the slope pushing against Storm’s cheek, the raindrops striking faster and harder. She was panting by the time she scooped up the pack from where Maria had left it against the first canoe, hardly recognizing herself in the depleted person who had lain down to rest only a few hours earlier.
The full force of the rain rushed in as she hurried down to the boat launch, her shoulders soaked, the brim of the hat the only thing that allowed her to see. When she ducked through the door, Maria was on all fours, crawling through fishing nets and rods along the edge of a shining new boat. This was what he had thought they were stealing.
Maria trembled as Storm helped her into the boat, the fingers that gripped hers cold and clammy. The roar of rain on the roof surrounded them as Storm lowered Maria into the passenger’s seat. Maria slid down onto the floor and crawled under the bow, collapsing onto her side.
“You’ll need the gas.”
Maria pointed towards the front of the boathouse where two red gas cans sat on the deck. The pervasive smell of gasoline could have come from here, the toxic scent impregnated into the man’s clothes like his sweat and skin.
When Storm had the cans in the boat, she took off her coat and laid it over Maria before turning her attention to the motor. A 150 horsepower. Enough to practically fly them down the river. She wiped her wet palms on her thighs before she lifted the cap off the motor, their freedom so close she could taste it.
It was almost comforting to see the simple mechanism, one almost obsolete with the electrification of everything after the Gatherer. She understood how it worked, the fields that drove the propeller not so different than the fields she had played with her entire life. Except this one would now hurt and there was no time for the silver suit.
“Hurry!”
Maria’s voice was strained with pain and fear.
She pulled the cord three times before it started, ready for the spike of pain from the spark of the
ignition. The throaty growl of the outboard echoed over the drum of the rain as she stepped back from the motor, the agitation of the field vibrating over her chest and abdomen.
She undid the stern without pushing off, wary of what that current would do once they poked into it. She stayed close to the bow on her way to the steering wheel, aware of the vibrations of the motor’s field that reached out to her. Sweat gleamed on Maria’s forehead. Storm stayed standing as she eased back the throttle.
The current caught the stern immediately and the side of the boat scraped along the edge of the boathouse before it was finally free. They were swept downstream, the rain slamming onto the shining deck, soaking into her thighs and back. She pulled the cap tighter over her forehead as she turned the bow parallel to the current. The boat surged easily, smooth and powerful.
She steered into the centre of the river, wary of sand bars and hidden logs, and kept an eye on the row of shuttered cabins and the hollow, yellowed window of the house. Only a few tendrils of smoke from the cellar survived in the rain.
The river curved right after they slid past the main house, the tip of the boathouse the last piece of the camp to disappear as they turned the corner. A deadhead poked out of the water close to shore and she gave it a wide berth, easing the throttle faster as she got a feel for the boat.
“Made it.”
The words barely went farther than her lips, the force of the rain consuming them and anything in its path. She ducked under the bow to adjust her coat back over Maria. She had curled into a ball, her eyes shut tight, a compact ball of suffering.
When Storm looked back to the river again, a long deep dock floated at the river’s edge and a gray steel Quonset hut sat back from the water partially hidden by trees. The tidy, organized yard was so different than the house and cabins she at first thought they weren’t connected. Except the road was there, leading up the hill, and the foot path opened onto the flat loading area by the dock. A forklift was parked on a diagonal at the top of the ramp that led to the dock, abandoned mid-job, and the large rolling door of the hut was closed tight.
The Gatherer Series, Book 1 Page 14