On the Free

by Coert Voorhees

  Rico pounds his chest with a closed fist. “I’m every girl’s type.”

  “She’s the assistant leader, dumbass.” This time Victor’s tone is more measured and distant, but still with a healthy dose of contempt. “I’m pretty sure the ‘no amorous conduct’ rule doesn’t just apply to us. Besides, she’s a rich college girl. She’s fancy, man. What do you have to offer?”

  A quick glance at Victor, and Santi decides to have a little fun. “You should try to hit it, Rico. She’s hot, ese. But I’m pretty sure she’s into me.”

  “What do they put in the water in New Mexico?” Victor says. “I knew that place was a shithole, but you two are delusional.”

  Santi shakes his head. “For real. You saw the way she was rubbing on my feet this morning, right? And at lunch, too. She put some real care into it. Some good squeezing. That’s a connection. I mean, people don’t just do that to other people’s feet for no reason, no matter how torn up they might be.”

  “That’s awesome,” Rico says.

  “Hell yeah. I think she was giving me a foot massage without wanting to admit that she was giving me a foot massage. Like it was a secret. Like the promise of something more.”

  “Yeah,” Rico says, getting into it. “I could teach her a thing or two, if you know what I mean.”

  “Wow, Rico,” Victor says. “Have you ever even touched a pussy?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Victor,” Rico says, suddenly quiet. He looks away.

  “Come on, man,” Santi says. “Jerry’s going to wake up and then we’re all busted.”

  Victor waves both hands as if surrendering. “You’re right. I’m done.”

  Rico says nothing. He jams his arm through one sleeve of his raincoat, but the other sleeve is twisted, and he can’t get his arm in. Santi thinks about helping him, but the kid is so clearly on the edge that he doesn’t want to risk a reaction punch. Rico finally gets the other arm through the sleeve, but the jacket’s twisted across the back, so now all that’s covered are the poor dude’s arms.

  As Rico scoots forward to leave, Santi notices a glint in Victor’s eye, and he knows something is coming. He should try to stop it. He should run interference until Rico is in the clear. That would be the right thing to do.

  But he doesn’t.

  Even Victor himself seems to know it’s a bad idea. He covers his mouth and laughs through his nose, but he can’t help himself. “I’m sorry, Rico, I really am. What I meant was, have you ever even touched a pussy that wasn’t your mom’s?”

  Rico whirls around and launches himself at Victor. The tent shakes with his windmill punches. Rico is crying now, yelling unintelligibly, his ferocious swings having no effect. Victor crouches into the fetal position, covering his face like a boxer, taking the punches but laughing a little too.

  “Oooh, that’s it,” Victor says, making his voice high like a woman’s. “Oooh, Rico, baby, you know where I like it.”

  16

  Slips of paper drawn from Jerry’s baseball cap determined the tent pairings: evens with evens, odds with odds. Amelia and Celeste, being the only girls on the trip, did not participate. Santi chose first, sliding his hand into the hat and shifting the papers around a bit before his fingertips finally decided. He peeked at the paper: 3.

  Rico was next, followed by Victor, who had spent most of the short time they’d been together talking about how great he was at building fires and orienteering and being an outdoorsman. Jerry picked the last number and put his hat back on.

  “You’re lucky,” Victor said when Santi showed him the number on his scrap. “I’m an Eagle Scout.”

  With the pairings out of the way, the six of them sat on the ground outside the Bear Canyon trailer and divided up the food and communal gear.

  “Your pack’s going to be way too heavy,” Jerry said when Santi kept volunteering. “It shouldn’t be more than a third of your body weight.”

  Santi gave him a smile as he tucked a block of cheese next to the bagels. “I can handle it.”

  Jerry shrugged and went back inside the office for the keys to the Bear Canyon van. When the front door closed, Celeste turned to Santi and said, “Just because this trip is co-ed, don’t assume I’m going to get with you.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about it.” Santi hesitated, and she poked her finger at him with a triumphant look on her face. “Aha!”

  “It’s not like that,” he said.

  She wrinkled her brows at him. “Oh, so you think I’m ugly?”

  “No. What? No.”

  “Make up your mind. Jesus.” Celeste looked over her shoulder and leaned in with a whisper. “I brought some mushrooms for later. Tripping in the woods is next-level. You in?”

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “Maybe I am,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe you’ll find out.”

  “Maybe,” Santi said.

  Victor grunted and stood up. After hefting his pack onto his shoulder, he walked around to the other side of the trailer.

  Santi pushed his feet into the hiking boots Jerry had given him. The treads were almost completely worn, and the fit was a little loose, especially in the toes, but they were better than nothing. He pulled his socks a little higher and tightened the laces.

  Rico went inside to take a leak. Celeste twirled her hair and stared off into nothing. Amelia was looking at Celeste.

  Amelia finally cleared her throat and said, all cautious, “Where’s the name Celeste from?”

  Celeste turned, and her eyes narrowed. No more hair twirling. Her hands fell to her sides. “Where’s the name Amelia from?”

  “Family name. But my friends call me Miels,” she said with a smile that obviously took some effort.

  “I’m not your friend,” Celeste said.

  “I—No, I just thought that we mi—”

  “And I’m not going to be your friend.”

  Santi pretended to rearrange the things in his pack but he kept his full attention on the girls. It was like watching one of those nature shows on TV where the alligator explodes out of the water and snatches an unsuspecting bird right out of the air.

  “I’m not trying to be your friend, Celeste.”

  “Well.” The girl fixed Amelia with a sarcastic smile. “This must be my lucky day.”

  Amelia was flustered. She swallowed and looked to Santi for help, but he quickly turned back to his pack. “I meant I’m not trying to be anything.”

  Santi let the awkwardness linger until he couldn’t take it anymore, and then he stood up and announced, “I’m going to take these bad boys for a spin.”

  He made a big show of stepping from one foot to the other as he walked away from the girls and around to the back of the trailer. Victor had his back to Santi, but Santi noticed him tuck something quickly into the top compartment of his pack.

  “It’s cool,” Santi said. “I’m not going to tell.”

  Victor didn’t look up. Instead, he feigned like he was checking the straps around the climbing rope on one side. “What are you talking about?”

  “I won’t say anything, you bringing booze or a piece or whatever. If that’s what you’re worried about. I’m pretty good at keeping secrets, as it turns out.”

  Victor turned around. “You think I brought booze?”

  “Or whatever.”

  “What’s in my pack is my business. Got it?”

  “Your business,” Santi said. He didn’t want to start things off on the wrong foot, but this guy wasn’t making it easy.

  “And anyway, booze is too heavy. If I wanted to medicate, I’d have borrowed some of my mom’s Vicodin instead.”

  “What’s the rope for?”

  “Be prepared.”

  “And yet you didn’t bring any booze,” Santi smirked.

  “Are we going to have beef?” Victor said. He hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder and stalked toward the other side of the trailer.

  Santi laughed ou
t loud even though he figured he might regret it later. “Have beef?” he called out after Victor. “Who talks like that?”

  17

  A low rumble, like thunder, but this time, the thunder doesn’t stop. It builds upon itself, growing in depth and volume until it sounds like a jet engine coming toward them.

  Santi sits up in the tent and reaches for the headlamp. “What is that?”

  “Turn the light off,” Victor says.

  “Listen.” Santi’s cheap-ass watch has no backlight, so he has to check it under the beam: one in the morning.

  The growl intensifies, and the ground begins to shake.

  Victor sits up too. “Is there such a thing as an earthquake in the mount—”

  Then they’re moving. Moving! The tent pitches over, and Victor careens on top of Santi, landing a direct shot into Santi’s stomach with his knee. They begin to roll, but slowly. The tent goes dark as it turns upside down, and ten seconds later it’s right-side up again, and the light returns. The dangling headlamp sways like a ceiling fan, scattering shadows across the inside.

  A broken tree branch pierces the tent, inches away from Santi’s head. They roll over again.

  It’s loud, so loud. Santi knows he’s screaming, but he can’t hear himself. He can’t hear the rain. Just the rumble so powerful that he feels it in his chest.

  He tries to push up, but he and Victor jumble together, his legs trapped by the sleeping bag. Darkness again. Another rotation.

  And suddenly it’s over.

  No movement. The only sound, once again, is the rain on the tent, but after what they’ve just been through, even that sounds like silence. Santi feels wetness on his cheek. Is it rainwater? Blood?

  He tries to hoist himself up, but he has no idea where up is. Pressure comes from all sides. He pushes with his arms.

  “Victor!” he says. “Are you alive?”

  “That’s my face,” Victor screams. “I can’t breathe.”

  Santi rolls over. The mound he’s wrestling with is Victor, covered by both of their sleeping bags. Santi scrambles for the headlamp, finds it. He wipes his face and checks his fingertips, relieved to see that the moisture was just rain.

  The tent is in tatters, the aluminum poles bent and twisted, and the dome that had once protected them is crushed. A tree limb pokes all the way through, the smaller branches torn off, creating jagged points like an uneven saw blade.

  Victor fights out from underneath the sleeping bags. Blood streams from cuts over his right eye and a gash on his right shoulder, the fabric of his new jacket torn completely through. “What the hell just happened?”

  Santi reaches both hands into the slit above him and tears a hole large enough to stand through. He shines the light through the sheets of rain around him and yelps in shock.

  “What?” Victor says.

  It’s as though the mountainside has been bombed, leaving a collection of mud, boulders, and snapped trees. Not even the slope looks familiar. They could be a hundred yards away from where they started, for all Santi knows.

  “Hello?” Santi yells. “Jerry? Anybody!”

  Calling for the others is no use, not in this rain, so Santi crouches back down and searches for his pants and jacket.

  “What happened?” says Victor, more stunned than panicked.

  “Everything’s gone.” Santi shakes his head. Then he notices Victor’s feet. “You already have your boots on?”

  “I was going to take a piss. Before the . . .”

  Santi finds his jeans and pulls them on. His poncho too. He’s only able to find one of his boots. He should have kept them inside the tent, like Victor.

  “Everything’s gone,” he says again. “Just gone.”

  Clothed but still disoriented, they leave the tent and wander uphill. Santi has no socks, so he limps along, one foot bare against the mud and sticks, the other an open wound rubbing against wet leather. He isn’t sure which hurts more.

  “Do you know where the cooking tarp was?” Santi yells.

  They take turns screaming for help, but it’s no use. The more Santi yells, the more the reality of the situation sinks in, and the more a sense of dread overtakes the shock of it all.

  “Jesus Christ!” Victor says, betraying a panic of his own.

  Even with the headlamps, the rain limits their visibility to no more than twenty feet. Santi stumbles repeatedly, crashing to the ground, mud smearing all over his face and chest, but now that the panic has taken over, he feels none of it. The rain doesn’t even seem to be hitting him.

  “Over there!” Santi says, pointing.

  But the movement is their backpacks, swaying in the rain as though nothing had happened. The terrain is getting more predictable, though, with less debris to scramble over. In their search for the others, they must have gotten turned around and walked the opposite direction.

  “Thank God.” Victor sprints to the twine tied around the tree and pulls on it as though testing its strength. Then he sits down against the tree trunk with the bags dangling overhead.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t add yourself to the victim list,” Victor says. “That’s the first rule of rescue. We don’t know what the terrain is like.”

  “What about the others? We can’t just leave them.”

  Santi shines the light in Victor’s face, and he’s surprised not to see a look of panic or stress. Victor’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing deeply.

  “Victor! What the hell?”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Victor says. Blood from his forehead mixes with the rainwater and trickles down the side of his face. He touches his shoulder and winces, but he can still move his arm up and down. “You might want to take a couple deep breaths yourself, Santi. You’ll think more clearly.”

  In spite of everything, the mud against Santi’s foot, the pain in his back, the lack of a freaking campsite, he takes Victor’s advice and forces himself to breathe.

  “Okay,” Santi says. His fingers stop trembling. That’s something, at least.

  Using the location of their backpacks to orient themselves, Santi and Victor head toward the ravine. When they reach it, they’ll simply follow it downhill, and that’s where the cooking area will be. “If we find the kitchen,” Victor says, “we find the others. Good?”

  Santi nods. They point their headlamps toward the ravine and walk side by side. Rocks and mud clutter the terrain, then boulders and branches and broken trees, the debris thicker as they move away from the packs. Five minutes in, they have to climb over the fallen trunk of a tree more than three feet in diameter.

  “This thing was snapped like it was nothing,” Victor says.

  “We’re almost there. I’m pretty sure.”

  Only, when they get to where the ravine should be, there is no ravine. There is no kitchen. Just a vast swath of destruction.

  “It was right here, wasn’t it?” Santi says.

  “They’re gone. They’re dead.”

  Santi doubles over. The nasty macaroni and cheese comes first, the ham tasting exactly the same as it had going down. Then comes the bile. Santi turns off his headlamp and rests his hands against his knees. When the dry heaves finally come, he knows it’s almost over.

  Is there something on the wind? A voice? Santi forces himself to be still between heaves. “Shhh.”

  “There’s nobody here.” Victor’s voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of cruelty. “We need to get back to the tent, try to salvage as much of it as we can, or get under a tree or something. We need to get out of the rain.”

  “I said shhh!” Santi stands up again. A girl’s voice. “She’s screaming for help.”

  “There’s nobody here.”

  Santi takes off down the hill, staggering with a little hop-jog, trying to touch his bare foot to the ground as little as possible. “Hello!” he yells into the wind.

  “Santi!” Victor screams after him.

  He’s about fifty yards downhill when he hears a new rumbling sound and wh
ips his head around, half-expecting to see another mudslide. “Amelia! Celeste!”

  A few more steps and he realizes what the rumbling is. The ravine. It moved. The torrent of water created a new path, and boulders are rolling in the freshly formed river.

  The voice again. Clearer this time. “Help me!”

  Santi cups his hands to his mouth. “Celeste? Amelia?”

  “Over here!”

  He stumbles gingerly toward the river, and his headlamp passes over the reflective tape of a rain jacket.

  It’s Amelia, clutching onto the side of a boulder on the other side of the water. Santi’s bare foot lands on a broken branch and he screams in pain, but he grits his teeth and keeps moving downhill until he’s directly across from her, only fifteen feet away. Somehow, she’s fully dressed.

  “Are you okay?” he yells. “Are you hurt?”

  “I can’t cross.” Amelia’s voice is high-pitched and trembling, and her face is a mask of terror. “It’s too fast.”

  Santi shouts for Victor, then turns back to her. “We’re going to get you over here.”

  “What happened? What happened to the others?”

  “We’re going to get you over here,” Santi says again. He steps to the water’s edge and reaches across, but it’s too far. They’ll have to find another way. “Calm down.”

  “It’s just you? Just you and Victor? What about—”

  “Everybody else is going to be fine,” he says, even though he doesn’t believe it. “Let’s concentrate on you.”

  Amelia opens her mouth to talk, but the rumble grows louder. Santi motions with both hands for her to calm down, but then the rumble becomes a detonation, and a gust of wind slams into him, and a thick black wave sweeps down the mountain.

  “Amelia!” Santi screams. His headlamp shoots across the river, but there’s nothing. “Amelia!”

  She’s gone.

  18

  Victor West squints through the rain at the broken-down cabin across the meadow. Celeste leaning out the window for some reason, the bearded freak sitting on his pack in the middle of the room. Victor himself is hunched over in the rocky mineshaft, his back starting to go numb, all of his planning now for nothing.