Savaged

by Mia Sheridan

  For a minute, the pig stood there grunting, its head lowered, and Jak thought it was going to turn in the other direction. He leaned forward, ready to chase it, when it suddenly charged forward, taking him by surprise. He stood his ground, planting his feet in the soft earth and bending his knees, the knife stuck out in front of him.

  Fear swirled through him, but so did a wild excitement. “Come and get me, you ugly thing,” he said, only this time instead of yelling the words, he grunted them out under his breath, his jaw grinding. The boar lowered its head more and sped up, charging straight at Jak.

  Jak had a second of confusion, his instincts screaming at him to run, his mind and his heart saying no. The forest was quiet for a heartbeat, two, like every animal, leaf, and branch had stopped to watch the beast and the skinny man/boy slam into each other, eyes stuck as the animal rushed forward as fast as its fat body would let it. And somehow, that huge animal moved with the quickness of a lightning flash.

  Everything exploded through Jak as the animal ran straight into him, Jak’s body flying backward and slamming into the trunk of a tree as the animal let out another war scream and kept coming.

  Jak hurried to his feet, fighting to fill his lungs with the air that had been knocked out of him. He jumped to the side just as the animal came at him again, the sick smell of it following him, even though its body went to the side. Jak rolled and hopped to his feet, just as it came up too short and turned back, charging at him again, its eyes crazed, spit flying from its mouth.

  Jak held up the knife and rolled again, a deep yell coming from his chest as he rolled away from the pig and stabbed his arm forward, the blade ripping across the animal’s shoulder. It let out another demon scream, this time of pain.

  “Come on, you dirty beast!” Jak yelled. “That’s all? That’s the best you can do?” He felt as crazed as that pig looked. Nothing mattered. He would die, but first, he’d get in as many good jabs as he could. The boar wanted to kill him, but Jak would make it a fight that nasty thing would never forget. That ugly monster would be telling his ugly grandkids about Jak someday. Jak figured he had balls big enough to make at least a hundred ugly kids as sick smelling as himself. He laughed crazy-like, spinning as the huge pig rushed him again.

  Jak went the other way quickly, but he didn’t move fast enough this time. As he threw his body forward, his foot caught on a tree root and he went down hard, the wind knocked from his lungs again as pain rattled his bones. He cried out, the hurt making him curl into himself as the pig head-butted him where he lay, the edge of its tusk slicing down his arm. Jak grabbed the beast, squeezing big handfuls of hairy meat as the animal shrieked, its heaviness coming down on top of Jak, crushing him, his air whooshing from his lungs.

  He wrestled with the animal, fighting with all his leaving strength. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, was the only thought rushing through his dying mind. The forest around him blinked out for a second, dark spots coming in front of his eyes as the stink of the animal filled his nose.

  I’m going to die.

  His head fell to the side as the pig kept up his shriek, its hoofs digging into Jak’s body, its tusks scraping across his flesh, the wounds he’d opened gushing blood. Jak opened his eyes to see the glint of shininess. He was still holding the pocketknife loosely in his fist.

  The dark-eyed boy from that very first night showed up in his mind like he was right there beside him.

  Why are you here? Jak asked, and the boy didn’t answer, but he looked down at the pocketknife still held barely in Jak’s hand as the boar continued to tear at his body. What happened to you? Jak wondered. The boy looked down at the knife again as if to say, I gave you that knife. My dying gift. Use it.

  Jak’s final boom of strength came from nowhere, from everywhere, from the memory of that other boy and the way he’d held his hand, and Jak had told him to live. Jak raised his hand, and with the last of his might, he let out a battle cry and swiped the knife across the pig’s throat.

  Later, he would remember only feeling nothingness as he dragged that dead pig body through the wilderness, his wounds tied with torn pieces of his clothing, but still leaving drops of red in the melting snow. The gaping one at his side burning like fire.

  Driscoll was outside when Jak turned the bend, and he stared at him with wide eyes, his jaw loose. When Jak made it to where he stood, dropping the dead boar at Driscoll’s feet, Driscoll threw his head back and laughed. He’s as crazy as that pig.

  Jak tilted to the side, catching himself and pressing his fingers to the gaping tear at his side. “Iwantmybowandarrow,” he said, the words running all together.

  “Oh, you shall have it,” Driscoll said. And with that, Jak turned and walked away.

  The next while was spent somewhere between life and death. The dark-eyed boy did not come to him again, but his baka did, telling him he was strong boy and not to give up. Jak wanted to give up. He was tired of living. Tired of fighting. Tired of surviving. And most of all, he was tired of the never-stopping empty aloneness.

  But Jak’s body didn’t agree that he should give up. It kept on fighting, even though his spirit did not. There were no whispers inside, no deep-down life. Only silence. His soul had died. Along with Pup. He cleaned his wounds and laid clean cloth on them, changing through the pieces he had, washing them in water from the pump behind his house and drying them in the warming wind, to go back inside to sleep again. He woke only to gulp down water from the pump, clean his wounds, and eat the small bit of food he had.

  **********

  Many, many days passed. He didn’t know the number, but on one morning, he woke, noticing he felt better, less sore, less achy. For many minutes he lay there, staring at the wood ceiling, a beam of sunlight from the window, dancing and sparkling before his eyes. Maybe I am dead, he thought. Maybe those dancing lights are tiny angels, and I’m in heaven.

  A twist of hurt in his side spoke up, telling him he was wrong. No angels, just dust pieces, and two things could not be more different than those.

  His belly spoke up next, telling him that it wanted breakfast. He pulled himself from bed, cleaned himself up, dressed, and picked up his hunting knife.

  Another day. Many more to follow. He walked in a different way than he usually took when hunting. Maybe it was toward town, maybe not. Maybe he would walk right into the middle of enemy territory. Maybe they would kill him on sight.

  Maybe . . . he didn’t care.

  He’d thrown himself in front of a huge, wild, crazy pig with sharp tusks and lived. He’d laugh, only it would open his wound back up again, and he didn’t have any clean cloths.

  He didn’t know if he could do it anymore, the constant suffering. The winters always coming, the hunger, the loneliness that felt like darkness carved deep into his bones. Why should he fight? For what? Why should he survive? He understood the look in the blond boy’s eyes now. The happiness that it was finally over. Jak should have died on that cliff that night, with the other two boys, maybe three. But he had fought to live. Why? He didn’t want to fight anymore, and there weren’t any pigs nearby.

  You could find a bear with cubs. A mother bear would rip you to shreds if you went too close to her babies.

  But that would take too long. He didn’t think he wanted to live, but he didn’t want to be torn apart by a bear over a whole day either. Plus, he liked bears. He didn’t want to make one mad.

  He came to a canyon and stood at the edge, looking down. He could jump off a cliff. But not this one. This one wasn’t high enough to make sure he died, but there were lots of others that would.

  As he stood there thinking about the ways he could make sure of his death, sunlight blinked off something shiny through the leaves at the bottom of the canyon, blinding him for a second.

  Curiosity made him pause, the fog that had been hanging over him clearing for a quick minute, the need to know what large shiny item was hiding underneath the leaves, a spark of . . . life. Jak climbed down the canyon slowly, not
out of being careful, but because it was all he could do. His body was still healing; he could feel a trickle of blood from the barely closed-up tear on his side, sliding down his skin.

  His feet hit the bottom with a crunch, and he moved toward the glint of what looked like blue metal from this closer place. He blinked in surprise when moving the thick leaves aside showed a . . . car. It took him a minute to put together this large thing from that other world, with the one he lived in now. What is it doing here?

  Had it been someone trying to escape the enemy, who’d driven far into the wilderness and over the edge of this canyon? How long has it been here?

  Glass crunched under his feet and he bent, looking inside the broken window, and pulling back when he saw the skeletons inside. Clothes hung on the bones, and by their look, he could tell that the one at the wheel had been a man, and the other one, a woman.

  Another beam of sunlight caught something shiny lying on the seat, and Jak reached for it, bringing it out of the car and opening his hand. A silver necklace with a tiny opening thing on the side. Jak used his thumbnail to pry it open, showing a tiny picture of a man, a woman, and a baby inside. A family. Jak’s stomach knotted up with wanting as he stared at the three smiling faces.

  His eyes moved over the people one by one, the man wearing a small smile, one hand sitting on the woman’s shoulder. The woman’s smile was big and shiny, her blonde hair pretty and bright. But it was the baby who drew him in. It was the baby who made him stop and stare. There was something about her eyes . . . something that made his heartbeat go faster and his skin feel sweaty. He gripped the necklace in his hand and moved to the back of the car where the trunk was opened a crack.

  He pushed on it, the metal creaking as it went up. There were piles of wet leaves inside, something that looked like it had once been a blanket but had rotted with wetness. He pushed that to the side and found that under it, there was a blue bag, mostly not touched by weather.

  He unzipped it and looked inside. A few paper pads with writing in them. He wanted to know what they said, but he made himself wait, putting the things back into the bag, zipping it closed, and swinging it over his shoulder.

  Something that felt like excitement sang inside him. It’d been so much time since his mother had dropped off those kids’ books, the ones he could now say by heart. The ones he still took out many times a day to read so he would remember what words looked like. What they felt like in his mouth, and in his mind. Maybe what he had in the bag wasn’t a story, but to have something new to read . . . new words . . . they were . . . light in the dark.

  He turned toward the canyon wall and started to go up. He could figure out a better way to die tomorrow. Today, he had new words. And he didn’t feel as alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Harper knocked at the door that was now becoming a familiar sight. She stepped back, her heart skipping several beats as it seemed to do whenever she would soon be in his presence. The door opened and he stood there, staring at her with a look on his face that was slightly less wary than it’d been the first two times she’d shown up unannounced. Not that she really had any way to announce herself other than the sound of her truck a few minutes before she arrived but . . .

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  She reached inside the large purse she had slung over her shoulder and retrieved the notebooks that had once belonged to her mother. “These are yours.”

  Surprise flickered over his face. “They’re not mine. I only found them. They belong to you.”

  Harper shook her head and took the book she’d brought out of her purse. She handed The Count of Monte Cristo to Lucas and watched him as his eyes flared with surprised pleasure. “I also thought you might want this so you can make more sense of those notes.”

  He didn’t attempt to reject the book as he’d attempted to reject the notes. He took it and held it to his chest as though it were precious.

  Harper looked over his shoulder at the dancing firelight on the walls. “Can I come in? I won’t stay long.”

  He didn’t answer, but he stepped back and she went inside, shutting the door behind her. She put the notebooks on the empty bed closest to the door and his gaze remained on them for a moment before he met her eyes again. “I want you to keep my mother’s notes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . I think they were meant for you.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Harper sighed, moving closer to him. “I’m not sure what I mean. I just . . . have this feeling.” She shook her head. “And I’m not always one to follow my gut, or my intuition, or whatever you want to call it, but I think those notebooks belong with you, and that’s all. I didn’t think it through. I drove them out here, and I hope that’s okay. Also, I found something out this afternoon and I wanted . . . well, I wanted to ask you about it, to see what you think because—”

  “Harper.” He said her name, nothing more, but there was a gentle beseeching in his tone—slow down, breathe, I’m trying to understand you, it seemed to say—and that one word was enough for her to stop her aimless rambling and gather herself. She felt seen by him in a way she hadn’t been seen by anyone in a long time, even if he didn’t always understand her words.

  “Agent Gallagher called me this afternoon and told me they’d found evidence that my parents were shot.”

  “Shot? With an . . . arrow?

  “No, no. With a gun.”

  “I thought they died in the car accident.”

  Harper sat on the bed next to his, the metal springs making a soft creaking sound. “I’ve always believed that. I’ve always assumed the three of us were involved in an accident, and the car had never been found. I believed that all my life. Despite the location being odd”—she wrinkled her brow—“finding the car at the bottom of that canyon was confirmation of that. I’m so, so confused, and . . . I don’t know how to feel.” She paused for a moment. “Did you see anyone near that wreck? Or know anything that could explain what happened to them?”

  Lucas took the few steps to his bed and sat on it, the springs making a deeper creaking sound than the springs on which Harper had sat. She became even more aware of him, his knee only inches away from her own, his size seeming to increase along with the close proximity. “I don’t have any answers for you. I climbed down the canyon one day when I saw sun shine off something at the bottom. It was almost all covered with branches and leaves. When I looked in the window I . . . saw them in there. The necklace was on the seat. The trunk was open, and the only thing inside was the blue backpack. I took it with me and climbed back up. I went back sometimes, I don’t know why. Maybe because, your mother felt . . . real to me. I wanted to . . . I don’t know, Harper. I wanted to thank her. She . . . the words . . . they made me want to stay alive.”

  Harper blinked, tears burning the backs of her eyes. He’d told her it was so they weren’t alone, but it was also so he wasn’t either. You’re breaking my heart, she thought with a catch of breath. “I knew I was right.”

  “About what?”

  “That those notes are meant to be yours.”

  He smiled in that unpracticed way of his and Harper smiled back, her finger tracing one of the uncovered springs. “What did you learn from her?”

  “From your mother?” He squinted out the window for a moment, obviously considering her question seriously. When he looked back at her, he asked, “Have you read it? The book your mother was teaching her class about?”

  “The Count of Monte Cristo?” Harper gave him a smile. “Yes, twice, and I’ve seen the movie too.”

  “There’s a movie.”

  She smiled. She liked the way he posed his questions as more of a statement, as though reiterating something to himself that he’d just learned, rather than asking for confirmation. “Yes. It’s very good actually, and that’s not always true of books turned into movies. Have you . . . ever seen a movie?” She felt awkward asking it, but she wanted so badly to know about
him, and she never would if she didn’t ask the questions that came to her mind. She’d spent enough time with him to know he didn’t offer information freely.

  “I’ve never seen a movie, but I heard of them when I was a kid. And I’ve seen TV.”

  She nodded. “A movie is just TV, but on a bigger screen.” How strange to utter a sentence like that to a man who was approximately her age if she was assuming correctly. “Anyway, The Count of Monte Cristo is one of my favorite stories. It’s about vengeance, but more so, it’s about forgiveness.”

  “I had to try to understand the story from what your mother wrote about it. And from the questions she asked. I didn’t know that word before—vengeance. It means feeling mad and then getting even. But your mother was like you. She thought the story was more about forgiveness.” Lucas paused. “Your mother thought that most humans are good. She hoped her students would think that too.”

  “Do you?”

  His lips tipped slightly. “Am I one of her students?”

  “Of course you are. You’ve probably studied her thoughts and ideas—her values—more closely than any one of the boys or girls in her classrooms.”

  That seemed to please him. “Maybe. But . . . I don’t know if I believe more people are good than bad. I don’t think I know enough about the world outside of that one book. And I haven’t even read it yet. Your mother, though, she made me feel . . .”

  He looked to be searching for a word and so Harper attempted to supply it. “Hopeful?” she asked softly?

  His eyes met hers. “Hopeful,” he repeated. “Yes. Your mother gave me . . . hope. She taught me that there is both good and bad in the world. Before that, I didn’t know.”