Getaway

by Zoje Stage

  41

  Gale let her take the lead, though he gave her verbal commands—“Straight,” “A little left,” “Let’s go up past this rock.” Imogen scanned everything, clueless as to where they were going or what she was looking for. Unable to even grab a rock for protection, she loped along, hoping she appeared casual, compliant.

  “So…you actually like me? A little?”

  The question so startled her that she wheeled to look at him. She recalled his struggles in life, his love for his daughter. “Um…I don’t think you’re all bad.”

  He chortled. “I thought this might be like—what do they call it? Stockholm syndrome? That really happens, I guess. I think some people like to be told what to do, have their choice taken away.”

  “Do you like that?” she asked him, confused by his interpretation.

  “No!” He chuckled again. “Though there’re times when it makes things simpler. Prison rules is easier to follow than life rules. But some people really want—wish they could just have someone in charge, know who’s boss. Follow the top dog, all that.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that.” She wished he’d shut up. Although, now that he’d brought it up, she realized that she, Beck, and Tilda were all basically their own boss.

  “Well, whatever. I hope ya weren’t offended, that I didn’t pick you first.” With her back safely to him, Imogen rolled her eyes. “With yer friend, it’s just, ya know, the physical. But yer nicer, and petite. And kinda cute, even with that unnatural-color hair. Reminds me of a toy.”

  Oh the urges she fought—to scream, to puke, to lunge at him. She hadn’t ruled out the possibility of trying to strangle him with her bare hands, but it wasn’t her best option. She took deep, even breaths, afraid she would do something rash. To the degree that she could, she needed to let it play out. And hope he stripped off his clothes. He’d be at his most vulnerable then. And if she survived this, she swore to never have pastel-colored hair again.

  Thankfully, they continued on in silence. She wondered what Beck and Tilda were doing. At the very least they’d be talking—and they might be able to concoct some sort of strategy, right? And if they got themselves untied (how?) they could go back and find the gun. Yeah right.

  They were the wrong things to be thinking about. Imogen couldn’t entertain even the flicker of hope that they would somehow come to her rescue. She’d already been disappointed once that day, upon returning from the creek with Gale. No, she had to be all in. They weren’t here and she was. They weren’t here and Gale was.

  Gale came up beside her and stopped. Surveyed the terrain. She’d spaced out for a few minutes, walking on autopilot. How far had they gone—a third of a mile? more? They’d come to a flattish area, partially enclosed by boulders. It gave the impression of a half wall, like an office cubicle that only pretended to provide privacy. The rest of the Canyon seemed to gaze down at them. A lizard scurried under a dead-looking bush. Maybe it thought it was hiding, but Imogen could still see it.

  Gale laid out the mattress pad. “Think this will do. Good spot, yeah? Little bit a heaven?”

  Imogen had no clue what to do next. Frozen in place, she felt her pulse pounding in her ears. Gale sat on the eggshell pad and laid the spear beside him.

  He pulled his shirt off.

  —groped under her dress, squashing her into the corner of the couch—

  She remained standing, but the world started to spiral. No no no. Everything inside her disobeyed her preparations. The armor loosened and threatened to slip off. Her damaged ear trilled a siren and the ground began to buckle.

  —he tugged at her panties and she tried to kick—

  What if she couldn’t do it? What if, instead of fighting, she just lay down and let the bile rise in her throat. He’d promised to release them. Faster and faster, everything spun. Maybe she’d pass out. Then she’d have no memory and he could do what he wanted to her and then let them all go.

  “You gonna sit?”

  —she couldn’t push him off—

  Before she could overthink it, she dropped down beside Gale. He stank. It was more than unwashed pits and unbrushed teeth; something inside him was rotting. His chest sprouted sparse, wiry red hairs and his ribs were countable slats of bone. He started to untie his boots. The spear was on his right side—the other side. Fuck. She shouldn’t have sat down; she couldn’t reach across him.

  “The sun feels real good. Should take yer shirt off.”

  She bolted up. Took a few steps away and turned her back to him. He was watching, she could feel it. She’d gotten skittish and maybe he was getting wary.

  Eyes wide open. Not caught by surprise. The armor slammed back into place. She throat-punched the little voice of doubt. This was her moment, years in the making. She whipped off her shirt, threw it on the ground beside her. Her sports bra, in patterned turquoise and reassuringly tight, gave her the illusion of protection: she wasn’t naked.

  “Don’t the sun feel good?”

  —promised herself to never drink again, never go to a party again—

  “Yeah.” It did. On her shoulders. On her upper back. A warm caress. Fresh out of rational thoughts, she felt the sun’s fingers. The sun was a goddess, there to protect her, help her. She looked skyward, shut her eyes, soaked in the rays. Let herself get drunk on the goddess’s fiery power.

  “Don’t be shy. Promise I won’t bite.”

  She glanced back. One boot off, he yanked at the other. The pants would come next. It was almost time. She came closer, until she stood right in front of him, and bent over to unlace her own boot. He wasn’t in a hurry. It was so easy for him, to live with his decisions. His wants. His effortless (selfish) justifications.

  “S’pose I should thank you. By doing this…maybe yer not just saving yer friends, but saving some part a my soul. See, I been thinking about whatcha said, ’bout my conscience.”

  So maybe he meant it. About letting them go.

  Didn’t matter. She had her own shit to resolve.

  She didn’t know what to say, but her dry mouth wasn’t cooperating anyway. Out of habit, and to slow things down, she coiled the laces of her boot and stuffed them inside. She debated whether to leave her sock on or off. The warm earth would feel nice against the sole of her foot, but the sock provided at least a little padding, in case she needed to run.

  As she was about to tug on her other shoelace, Gale stood. Unfastened his pants. Lowered them. When they reached his knees…

  The sun made her as light as air. Gave her wings.

  The lizard darted off onto a tumble of rocks. That was the only movement she consciously registered—not her own, pouncing. Seizing the spear. Gale bolting upright.

  Her reptilian brain took over, did what it had to do. Gale stepped forward, reaching for…

  She thrust the knife end into his flesh.

  They both froze.

  In her peripheral vision the lizard got away.

  —“Catch ya later.” He let himself out, like it was nothing—

  Gale gazed at the blade in his belly, the blood dripping down to the waistband of his stolen boxer shorts.

  They looked at each other, mirroring surprise. Imogen, aware of her hands on the spear, the spear in his gut, wrenched backward. Gale gasped, weaving his fingers over the gash. More blood rushed out. Still, they both reacted as if in a trance.

  “Didn’t think you had it in ya. Glad I could teach ya a little something.”

  Slowly, from pain or caution, Gale bent over and hoisted up his pants. Fastened them.

  “If that’s how it’s gonna be…least I can die with my pants on.”

  A bolt coursed through Imogen’s body, making her fingers sizzle. Everything came into sharp focus. They were here. This was happening.

  He stood as stoically as he could, his hands cupped against his wound. Imogen felt the tension in her arms, her knuckles white as they gripped the spear, ready to thrust again. But she didn’t thrust again. Wasn’t he going to fight bac
k? She’d made the first move, but now in the aftermath she remembered who she was.

  Had she done enough? Would he bleed to death if she walked away?

  Gale shook his head. “Girl. Sweetheart. You gotta learn to take yer moment. You earned this, one way or another. You got a beast in you? You need it, to survive.”

  She didn’t disagree, but unlike him she wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. She couldn’t just shut off her mind, her conscience. A human stood before her; she couldn’t stop seeing him that way, even after everything he’d done.

  For a moment there was just the standoff. The impatient warmth of the sun. A drip-dripping louder than a ticking clock, the blood loss a warning. Deafening. Silent.

  Imogen stared at him so hard his image started to blur, then dissolve. She cursed herself for hesitating, for not knowing what to do.

  He smiled. His face became the chiseled red of a devil. Deep lines, all menace. From somewhere came a laugh. Was it him? Her? It bounced off the Canyon walls. It bounced around her insides, ricocheting off her steel-plated organs.

  Gale lunged. His hand connected with the bamboo stick right below where the knife was attached. Imogen swung upward and he lost his grasp. In the same sweeping motion she carved the blade through the air, around and across—slicing open the skin along his fluttering ribs.

  He hurled himself at her. She fell onto her back with a whoomph and though Gale landed on top of her, she had just enough mobility left to shift the bamboo pole hard across his face, rupturing his nose.

  “That’s how you fight.” His words bubbled with blood, but he sounded approving.

  This time he was the one who hesitated, spitting aside a gob of blood, and Imogen took advantage: with the stick still between their prone bodies, she heaved it up against him and squirmed out from under his weight.

  He was an experienced fighter, accustomed to pain. They scrambled to their feet at the same time. Imogen jabbed and jabbed, hitting every part of his body that he held forward in defense—his hand, his forearm. Always he kept grabbing for the spear, but Imogen was quicker.

  “Proud a you,” he said, as if they were sparring, the master demonstrating his final lesson. “Girl, remember me fer this—okay? For teaching you how to—”

  The words imprinted, but the meaning of them came later, with the memory of her guttural cries as she thrust the spear. And the softer, more nightmarish whispers of a blade slicing through flesh.

  The air smelled of rust. Of desperation. Of the urine seeping through his dusty pants. It was as if he’d bathed in blood. She cut and stabbed.

  He fell to his knees, holding out a surrendering hand.

  She panted. The blade wanted to keep going but she held it still, took in what she’d done.

  While her mind had been shut off something feral had taken its place. He wasn’t dead. Yet. But it was inevitable. Blood nearly black streamed from his mouth; she must have punctured a lung. His entire torso dripped red, vibrant shades of death. And his arms, his hands.

  “I got soft, didn’t I?” He spoke quietly, his energy nearly spent. “Untying you?”

  “I finally got selfish.”

  He gave her a wet grin. “Glad it was you. Love you.”

  The fragile creature that lived inside her, often hiding its head beneath a wing, came to the surface and saw the consequences of her wrath. It wanted to weep. It wanted to erase time and bring him back to life. It thrived on love and wanted to love him harder, better, so none of this needed to happen.

  Go to sleep, soft one.

  Feral Imogen wasn’t finished. This wasn’t love. This was sick. And gross. She plunged the blade into his neck. Ripped it out in a gush of death. He toppled over.

  She thrust and thrust, pocking his bare back with red slashes that looked like sneering mouths. They barely bled, his heart no longer pumping.

  “Imogen!”

  “Imogen!”

  Who could be calling her name? Who could be standing at her side?

  “You’re okay—”

  “Thank God—”

  Their voices overlapped. Then she realized. Beck. Tilda. On either side of her.

  She wanted them to know she hadn’t been afraid to fight. Not this time. She resumed stabbing at Gale’s unmoving body. “I did it. Fair and square, I fought him…”

  Her sister’s hands gripped the bamboo stick. Tilda’s strong arms wrapped around her waist, her shoulder.

  “You did it, Imogen.” Beck pried her fingers off the pole, released the weapon from her dripping hands.

  Tilda tugged her away from the macerated body at their feet.

  “I fought fair and square, I won…”

  “You did, you won.” Tilda sobbed.

  Something was crushing her; for a moment Imogen didn’t understand why she couldn’t breathe. Then the world as she knew it came back. Her sister and her best friend hugged her so tightly. Their three bodies heaved in unison as they all wept.

  42

  The vultures were already circling overhead.

  Beck held out Imogen’s discarded boot and she stepped into it. They dressed her: Beck tied her laces, Tilda put the shirt over her head, guided Imogen’s hands through the armholes. Reality was slightly out of alignment, nothing seemed quite right. Beck and Tilda whispered to each other like she was in a coma and they were afraid to awaken her.

  “What should we do with the knife?” Whisper whisper.

  “Are you going to want your stick back? For walking out?”

  “No.”

  “Then leave it.”

  They held Imogen’s arms, as if she couldn’t walk on her own. No one spoke as they made their way back. They went directly to the creek. Everything was so ceremonial that Imogen wondered for a time if she had died. They helped her sit. Took off her shoes, her socks. Eased her to the edge of the water. Took off her shirt.

  She had died and they were bathing her body. It felt so good. The cool water. The sun’s warm fingers—the goddess hadn’t forsaken her. Together, they’d slain the monster. Imogen finally looked at her crimson hands. Arms. Belly. She was as blood-spattered as a murder scene. She was murder.

  No, she was course-correcting. Course-correcting for the violence that had interrupted her life. She’d experienced what one man could do. One man who didn’t care about the web of misery he left in his wake. One man, and another man, and another man.

  This was what one woman could do. Bloody as a newborn.

  Beck sent Tilda to dig through their things in search of their washcloth, their biodegradable soap, Imogen’s clothes.

  It seemed like hours before they got the blood off. They washed her hair. They scraped the red from under her fingernails. She closed her eyes and they scrubbed her face. At some point, a moment that went unnoticed, they all became naked in the water, to keep the stains from spreading. We are goddesses. Beck, so flat and slender, pale as a moon. Tilda, with her fertile breasts and hips, glistening like a holy chalice.

  Beck dried her with their little hand towel. Tilda dressed her in clean garments. They brought her back from death. Rebirthed, they made her presentable for the coming life. In everything they did Imogen saw the mothers they would become: tender, strong, capable, protective.

  When had they all stopped speaking? Or maybe they were speaking. Perhaps Imogen couldn’t yet register their mortal voices, their imprecise words. She understood the creek and the creek said everything that needed to be said.

  Clean

  Clean

  Clean

  Things happened around her while Imogen sat in her half trance on an inflated mattress pad and watched. Tilda took everything out of the packs. Here’s Beck’s living room, the night before our trip. She reorganized, redistributed, refolded. With an orderliness that made Imogen proud, Tilda arranged their things as they once had been, in the right packs, the right pockets. Everything that didn’t belong to them was set aside for the stranger’s backpack.

  Beck tended to her own wounds, her knee, her arm
. She had Tilda help her with some butterfly stitches, and then she checked Tilda’s sting and Imogen’s head. As she sat crisscross applesauce beside her steady old stove, flames licked the edges of the pot, but the water wasn’t in a hurry to boil. She scrubbed at the bloodstains on Imogen’s left boot.

  At her fingertips, Imogen found a canteen and drank, long and deep. It was delicious and cold. Tilda and Beck glanced at her every other minute or so as they went about their tasks. The tableau was ordinary, familiar. The hearty roar of the tiny stove. The creek, happy and pure. The infinite landscape of rock formations, donning their deep imperial colors as the sun sank lower.

  Everything was so calm, so easy. Imogen felt herself in a parallel dimension where the trip had gone smoothly, where Beck held her intervention and apologies were exchanged with declarations of love. Where they bonded during the days and rested contented in their sleeping bags each night, so appreciative of the all-encompassing and simple joys. But wait. That had really happened—not all of it, but enough. Enough to revive her, to make this dimension real.

  “Did you find the gun?” Her voice startled them.

  “No. Not yet,” said Tilda.

  Imogen nodded. There’d been a question, scratching on a door at the back of her mind. “How did you get free?”

  “You didn’t know?” Beck asked, surprised.

  “Know what?”

  “That we had a plan, for cutting the rope.” Tilda looked at Beck, then Imogen, her confusion becoming something more like shock.

  “How could I know that?”

  “You went with him? Really not knowing?” Tilda sounded astonished.

  “Of course. That was the agreement.”

  Beck’s face reddened, but she didn’t let herself cry. “We had shards, of the rock Gale used to smash the scorpion.”

  “Ohhh.” They had slithered around while alone in the shelter.

  “Stashed in the back of our underwear,” Tilda said with an abrupt laugh.

  “They were too big, too risky to hide in a closed hand.”

  “We had a chance to move them when we squatted for a pee—Beck’s idea. Slipped them into our boots.” Imogen remembered Beck’s little boot-kicking dance, and understood now she’d been signaling to Tilda. “Then it was just a matter of waiting until we were sitting again—”