by Amy Plum
Two guards get bored with the conversation and head back to the jeep, leaving the shooter and his buddy to argue. “If anyone double-checks the video, they’ll know we fooled with the fence. And I’m the one who’ll catch shit for it.”
The men stare at each other, one unsure and the other pleading. “Come on, Sergeant, I’ll give you a bottle of my bootleg Oaxaca.”
“Is that the tequila Sully drank when he mistook the cactus for a bear and unloaded a semiautomatic into it?”
“Same poison,” the shooter says.
The sergeant rubs his chin, and then says, “Hell, Sanders, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He pulls from his pocket an object that looks like Miles’s cell phone, and aims it at the metal box affixed to the top of the fence. The red light underneath it stops its slow flashing and turns a steady green. Letting out a whoop, Sanders climbs three times his height to the top and scrambles halfway down the other side before dropping to the ground in a crouch. I squeeze myself tightly behind the boulder, my brown, cracked skin blending in like an extension of the rock as the man jogs over to the dead snake. Mere feet away from me, he draws a long hunting knife from a sheath at his waist and chops the rattle off the snake, leaving the stump spurting blood in the dust.
I can almost taste my anger: It is coppery like the taste of fear. My nose wrinkles in repugnance as I look at the rattlesnake’s remains. Killing for sport is something I will never understand. Killing for protection . . . for food . . . that is the way of nature. Killing for fun is the vilest of crimes.
As Sanders pockets his prize he scans the landscape, looking right through me as he does, and then jogs back to the fence. In a minute he has scaled it and is climbing back down the other side. I see the guards joking among themselves, and the sergeant points the black box at the green light. “Let’s see you jump, Sanders!” he calls, and the light switches to red. Sanders immediately lets go and drops the final ten feet to the ground.
Face scarlet, he turns to the sergeant and his two companions, who climb into the jeep roaring with laughter. “Goddamn it, you could have killed me, Sarge!” he yells, and though I can see he is shaking, I’m not sure if it’s from fear or rage. Probably both.
“Get your fat ass in the jeep,” the driver calls, and starts driving off slowly without him. Sanders runs, grabs the side of the vehicle, and swings himself over to land in the backseat.
I sit down, my back to the boulder. Unscrewing the top of my canteen, I take a swig, careful not to drink too much. I’ve been hiking since before dawn, and have eight more hours before nightfall. If my estimates are right, I’m halfway to where the two rivers end. And if my hunch is correct, that is where I’ll find my people.
I think of Miles and wonder what he thought of my letter. I’m sure it hurt his feelings, but I didn’t want him to follow me. And although I didn’t come out and say it, I’m sure he read between the lines. I had no other choice. Miles would only have slowed me down. He could have gotten us captured. Or worse. Besides, knowing that he’s alive and waiting for me is additional motivation for me to find my clan and get them out of there as soon as possible. And after that? I wonder.
I will go wherever my clan decides. Miles and I will say good-bye, and he will return home, make amends with his dad, and go to college. Get on with his life. That’s what has to happen—I know it like I know my own name. So why does it make my heart twist painfully in my chest?
I can’t think about that now. I need to stay focused. I scan the horizon and spot my next hiding place—a large patch of yucca in the distance. I adjust my backpack, and, unable to maintain my camouflage without concentration, I let it fade and get ready to run.
28
MILES
I CRUMPLE UP THE PAPER AND THROW IT ACROSS the clearing. “Fucking hell!” I yell. But there is no one to hear, and my words feel as empty as the hole in my chest.
Juneau didn’t need to say it. I know what she was thinking. She doesn’t want me along because she knows—we know—that if it comes down to fighting in the desert, instead of using the truck for surveillance and escape, I will be a liability.
Even if I always knew that I wasn’t Juneau’s equal, the fact that my incompetence is so insurmountable that she left me behind just confirms my utter lameness. I stop these thoughts in their tracks. I’m not utterly lame, I tell myself. I am exponentially less lame then a few weeks ago; Juneau said it herself. I can help her. I know I can. She needs me. I won’t let her push me away just to protect me.
I pace the clearing, debating what to do. The sun is shining in through the trees at an angle, well up above the horizon. When did Juneau say the sun rose? Six a.m.? And if the sun is directly overhead at noon, then I guess it’s around ten in the morning. Juneau’s probably been gone since dawn, if not earlier. Even if I ignore her request and follow her, it will be impossible to catch up with her at this point.
I hold my head in my hands, squeezing hard, and let out a roar of frustration. What do I do? Can Juneau really free her clan by herself, or is she walking into a trap? What can I actually do to help? I can’t just sit around and wait. But if I go after her, I could be a detriment: either slow her down or get her captured.
I head to the top of the mountain, ignoring the branches that whip painfully against my arms, the brambles that poke me through my jeans. And when I reach the crest, I find a rocky outcrop and sit down, surveying the land spread before me like a giant Western movie set. The woods thin out gradually as the land levels into foothills, until there are no more trees—only a dry brownish-green pastureland that quickly turns into desert scrub. Deer-type animals graze peacefully in the distance. It would look like they were living in some kind of untouched-by-civilization Disneyesque utopia, if it weren’t for the twenty-foot fence sectioning off the ranch.
As I sit, my anger and shame melt away and my thoughts become clearer. What are my options? Stay or leave. And if I leave, I’ll have to find a plan of my own since I can’t catch up with Juneau.
Think about what advantages nature gives us, I hear her say. What advantages do I have? Although I can shoot a tree, I’ve never aimed at a moving target. And although I can build a fire, I’m not a wilderness survivalist like her. But I have one advantage she doesn’t know about: I can Read. At least, I did it once. And I am determined to find out what that means. To add it to my short list of skills.
I stand and let the wind whip my hair around, close my eyes and breathe in the pure mountain air. I can be one with nature, I think. And then I open my eyes and laugh. Like hell I can. I’ll let Juneau be one with nature. I’ll just be myself.
Back at the campsite, I rifle through our supplies. Juneau left the tent and bedding, the cooking equipment, flashlights and dishes, and most of the food. It looks like she took the backpack, most of the water, and some food. The knife and her crossbow are gone.
My crossbow, however, lies where I left it last night by the fire. I decide to fit in one last practice with a tree before potentially having to aim it at live targets. At the edge of the clearing, I cock the bowstring and load a bolt into the tiller, like Juneau showed me yesterday. Pulling the crossbow up to my chin, I eye a tree a few yards away with a large, round knot about halfway up. Aiming for the knot, I squeeze the trigger and launch a bolt in its direction. Then one after another, I cock and load and fire, until all six of the arrows are embedded in the tree, although unfortunately nowhere near the knot.
At least I’m getting faster at loading, I think, as I gather the bolts and go back to my starting position. But I’m still not a sharpshooter like Juneau. Sometimes I’m good, sometimes I’m way off. I have no consistency, and don’t understand what’s tripping me up.
Too bad it’s not a video game, I muse, and suddenly an idea comes to mind. I’m good at video games. Really good. Shooting in real life must be mainly a matter of hand-eye coordination, after you’ve gotten used to the weight and feel of the weapon. What if I just pretend I’m in a video game? Forget that I’m in the w
oods, out of my element, and pretend I’m in the comfort of my living room, all conditions under my control.
I let everything melt away, the sounds of the woods, the smell of dirt and pine. It’s just me, the tree, and the crossbow. I breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger. The bolt flies across the clearing and lodges firmly into the knot.
I whoop and dance around a bit before calming down and trying again. I put myself in the zone, aim, and fire. Another bull’s-eye.
This is what I needed. If I make the environment my own, I can manipulate it with confidence. It makes perfect sense.
After practicing another half hour, I’ve gained a renewed sense of purpose. I’m no longer lost and out of my element. I’m in control. I look at the campsite with new eyes.
In gaming terms I would say this is a two-day mission with the goal of infiltrating an enemy camp. What supplies do I have at my disposal? I go through the bag and measure the food into small portions. Since I’ll be on the go, I won’t have time to stop and eat. Plus constant eating to keep my strength up is smarter than slowing my metabolism with three large meals. Bread, soup, canned beans . . . I’ll be eating it all cold. No cooking supplies means a lighter pack.
Juneau left me a bottle of water, plus one empty bottle I can refill from the stream. I’ll have to be careful with that—it won’t be easy to find another water source in the desert.
The plastic shopping bag won’t do the trick if I’m going to be hiking. I need something that will give my hands freedom. I look around at the scattered supplies. The nylon bag that the tent came in is just big enough to hold the bottles of water and the food, with a little space left over. I slip the lighter and the flashlight that Juneau left me into the tent bag and, remembering the lifesaving advice from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, add one of the purple towels that Juneau’s been dragging along since Seattle.
I take one last look around the clearing and, seeing the piece of wadded-up paper, I grab it and stuff it into the tent bag with the rest of my supplies. It seems masochistic to keep it, but it’ll serve as my motivation to prove Juneau wrong.
29
JUNEAU
THE SUN IS DIRECTLY OVERHEAD WHEN I DECIDE to stop. I’m not tired, but I’ve spotted a group of trees far off on the horizon, and am heading directly for them. I know I should eat something and give my body time to rest. I might not find shelter again.
I jog for another twenty minutes before reaching the motley group of dried-out trees. Swinging my pack to the ground, I throw myself down in a patch of shade cast by the anemic tree branches. I close my eyes and after a few seconds I doze off.
I awake in alarm—there’s something scratching at my chest. Sitting up abruptly, I send Poe flapping off me and onto the ground nearby. “Poe, you scared me to death,” I scold.
He cocks his head to one side and lets out three loud caws. Fair enough, I think, I scared him, too. I check the sun. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour. Wiping caked-on dirt from the side of my mouth, I fumble with my bag and take a long swig of water from the canteen.
Then, unfolding the pouch on Poe’s back, I draw out a small bundle of papers and shuffle through them. Three printed sheets. Tallie’s done her work.
I pull out a rabbit leg and, handing Poe a small piece, eat as I read. The first sheet is an area map that is similar to the one I left with Miles. “It’s all I could find” is written at the bottom of the page in red ink. “Hunting range isn’t advertised on the internet. I only found it mentioned in a couple of articles on wild-game hunting. Both referred to it as a ‘well-kept secret.’”
The second page reads “Forbes 1000” at the top, and shows a photo of a man wearing a suit with cowboy boots and a hat. The name under the picture is Randall Bradford “Hunt” Avery III, and the article beneath talks about how he transferred his father’s Texas-based oil business into an offshore drilling outfit, more than tripling his father’s fortune. It mentions a couple of ex-wives with children, and refers to him as a “playboy.”
On the last sheet, Tallie has written “from Wikipedia” across the top. Several paragraphs follow, starting with this:
Amrita (Sanskrit: IAST: amta) is a Sanskrit word that literally means “immortality,” and is often referred to in texts as nectar. The word’s earliest occurrence is in the Rigveda as the drink that confers immortality upon the gods.
Well, that confirms why Whit and my parents named the elixir what they did. I scan down the page for anything else of interest, and my attention is caught by this:
A Vajrayana text describes the origin of amrita . . . In this version, the monster Rahu steals the amrita and is blasted by Vajrapani’s thunderbolt. As Rahu has already drunk the amrita he cannot die but his blood, dripping onto the surface of this earth, causes all kinds of medicinal plants to grow. At the behest of all the Buddhas, Vajrapani reassembles Rahu who eventually becomes a protector of Buddhism.
There is something about this passage that calls out to me, but I’m not sure what it is. I turn the page over and see more of Tallie’s scribbling. Giving Poe my rabbit bone, I take another swig of water and begin to read.
I spent half the night throwing the bones for you. Thought of how my and my ancestors’ readings are similar to yours, and more than ever I’m convinced that our answers come from the same source: the collective wisdom of all things, past and future. So I suppose you can consider me an oracle from your Yara. In any case, the answer I’ve been getting for you has been the same, no matter how many times I throw.
You will be captured. There will be a battle. Whether a battle of wills or an actual physical struggle, I can’t tell. But I see you at the center of it. And when the end comes, your regular weapons won’t help you—I read that as meaning both physical and mental weapons . . . meaning your Reading and Conjuring. Instead you must Invoke.
Invoke! As in “call upon,” but more powerful. And invoke who . . . or what? Damned if I know what it means, and I think it would be unwise for me to try to translate a message that is meant specifically for you. But you will need to figure it out—Beauregard’s never been this specific. Otherwise, let’s just hope that the message becomes clear when the time comes.
I lower the paper and stare out over the desert, thinking. So many new concepts. And somehow, they blend together. But with only a few notes of the melody, it’s hard for me to decipher the song.
Poe squawks and reminds me that I’m not alone. I fold the papers and slip them into my back pocket—I’ll have plenty of time to mull over things while I’m running. But there’s no reason for me to keep Poe out here in this baking desert. I scrawl a message thanking Tallie and telling her I’ll call Poe back when I need her help.
I send him off. Then, throwing everything into the pack, I swing it onto my back and leave my oasis of shade for the ruthlessness of the desert sun.
30
MILES
I HEAD OVER THE CREST OF THE MOUNTAIN LOOKING for one of the streams I saw yesterday. I hear it before I see it, and follow the sound of flowing water until I’m standing on the bank of a crystal-clear mountain stream. Taking the empty water bottle from my improvised backpack, I fill it, take a long drink, and then fill it again.
I eye the perimeter fence a few yards away. Do I try to get inside the ranch or do I follow along outside the fence, like Juneau suggested? I’ve decided that my role will be distracting the Avery guy and his guards away from wherever it is that her people are being held. But I won’t be able to do a damn thing if I don’t figure out where he is.
I pull out the area map and trace the two rivers that Juneau pointed out yesterday. She thinks that both the Avery mansion and the adobe huts where her people are being kept will be in that vicinity, and she’s heading there following the southern edge of the perimeter fence. At least I think she is. Doubt strikes me. How can I know what to do if I’m not even sure of her plan?
Juneau would try to Read, I think. She would try to get her direction from the earth. So m
aybe it’s time to see how far my Reading ability works. I feel weird just thinking about it. This is so out of my comfort zone. Everything from now on is going to be out of your comfort zone, I remind myself. Buck up.
Closing my eyes, I press my hand to the ground. I try to slow my breathing. To concentrate. Almost immediately, a tingling sensation begins in my fingertips and spreads upward through my hands. I think of Juneau. I picture her in my mind.
And suddenly I’m experiencing her feelings: I am swept by a wave of fierce determination. I feel a sense of curiosity . . . alertness. She’s watching . . . waiting for a sign. Juneau’s still on her way, I think. If she had been captured, she would be feeling fear. If she had found her clan, there would be some relief. She’s safe, for now, and is still looking.
I open my eyes and the tingling stops. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. I did it. I Read.
Juneau is wrong. The Amrit has changed something in my brain. It’s not a choice—a lifestyle change—like she’s been taught. It’s something that comes automatically with the drug. A side effect. Not only does Amrit make you immune to disease and slow your aging, but it somehow changes your brain chemistry so that you can perceive things you couldn’t before. Or, saying it in Yara-speak . . . plug into the consciousness of the universe.
Why not? I think. My mom used to talk about how she got “dog nose” when she was pregnant with me. Being pregnant changed her perceptions enough that her sense of smell was sharpened. Why shouldn’t a drug powerful enough to bring me back to life have a chemical effect on how my mind processes things?
It’s just another weird quirk to accept about my condition. But at a time like this, if I can figure out how to use it to my benefit, it could be my greatest asset.
I decide to push a little further and walk into the woods until I find a place where trees grow thick enough to blot out the sunlight. In between a few old pines, I gather sticks and build a small fire. When it catches, I sit cross-legged in front of it and look just above the flames, like Juneau does.
