The Lanyard

by Carter-Thomas, Jake

  He turned to wake his father and share this idea, but the driver's seat was empty. All traces of sleep fell off him like snow on a speeding car. He scanned the surroundings, moving his eyes over the forest around where they had stopped, all the way to a large sign on the front of a wooden hut, which seemed to hold a pictorial map of the area, the top shaped like the roof of a house, with trash cans beneath the bench. The letters at the top that once could have given the area a name had begun to peel and fall, rolling into tubes, shrivelling into white cigarettes that might come with a kick if smoked, perhaps leaving the last trace of the meaning in the lungs, the words, the breath, like spider silk on the hand.

  In front of this sign was a dusty brown patch of dirt poured over with colourless gravel, a dozen sections marked by logs sawn in half and pushed into the dirt flat first, rotted to jagged dregs, gone green, as if sinking, soon to be turned to coal, or whatever it was that happened to wood.

  Around to the far side of the area he found his father, standing next to the back of some sort of Land Cruiser, a vehicle not much different from their own, peering into the window with his hand pushed onto the glass, shielding his eyes from the light. The boy climbed up onto his seat and walked on his knees across to the driver's side to get a better view. As he reached the window, his elbow bumped into the horn.

  His father jumped, turned, and put his fingers over his lips, glancing behind him. The boy held up his hands as if to show they were empty then followed his father's gaze to a part-hidden path that sloped from the area up towards a clutch of taller trees with leaves covered in yellow moss. Behind them the mountain appeared again, as if it wrapped all around the area, and behind that the sky, the sun diminished, as more and more clouds piled between the hills, gathered the light, turned it alabaster blue. When he looked back his father was beckoned for him to come.

  "Whose car is it?" the boy said.

  "I don't know... Pretty sure it wasn't here last night though."

  "For real?"

  "Yeah. Too clean to be abandoned. This car has been on the road." He jabbed it as if to make sure it was really there.

  The boy stepped past him to inspect the car. The paint had some dirt on it, but there was no rust. Maybe it lived in a garage under one of those reflective silvery blankets they had once found, which he had wanted to keep so bad because it reminded him of outer space, and his father had said no. He kicked the tire. His foot bounced back a good distance and the bone beneath his knee throbbed for a moment. He rubbed his finger over the side of the car, taking off a line of dust. The paint was red underneath, bright, like cut blood, touched with scratches that formed long silver strings. He followed the lines all the way to the back of the vehicle, where there were a series of white notches painted over the bumper, like a tally, a score.

  "What are these?" the boy said, pointing them out.

  "I don't know."

  "You think maybe they're hunters?"

  "Maybe. Why'd you say that?"

  His father took a step towards the boy and then moved away, walking back to the front of the car where he bent to look in the side mirror, as if trying to see behind them without letting it show.

  "What is it?"

  "Come stand over here won't you?"

  The boy turned on his toe, but didn't move.

  "Why?"

  "Because someone's here."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Well howdy, what have we got here, stranger? You out here all on your own? Just you and your wheels?"

  "Er, yeah... Something like that."

  "Man got to like to travel that way, for sure. Well? Relax. Take your hands off the trunk. Keep them where I can see them. Alright, no sudden moves, like in the movies."

  "Sure."

  "We don't mean any harm. But we don't want no surprises either.

  "".

  "So are you alone, or not?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Go on."

  "I'm part of a group."

  "A group? Well how about that? Did you hear that?"

  "Sure did."

  "You got yourself a group? Everyone wants a group these days, isn't that right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Way I see it is travelling as part of a group is all fine and well, I mean, we do... But it does raise the spectre of another question. How many is a group would you say? You ever given cause to consider it? Is there a figure a man's supposed to get when he hears group? Is this? Is this a group? Three of us. My brother and me and my daughter here. I guess some could say that's a group. Maybe a small group. But it could be a group. What do you say? Does it even matter how big?"

  "It could be a group."

  "Right, but so could fifty guys... Either way I'm going to need to get a bit more from you about your group."

  "I got nothing to hide."

  "You from the city?"

  "No."

  "Then how many?"

  "Six."

  "Six plus you, or six total?"

  "Six total."

  "They near?"

  "Give or take."

  "How near?"

  "Just over the way there. Past the trees. We're just scouting the lay of the land."

  "All six of them?"

  "Five."

  "Five?"

  "Five plus me... Makes six, like I said."

  "Right... All that way there?"

  "I think."

  "You think? See I don't want no guys suddenly walking out from those trees that way and trying to stick us up."

  "They won't."

  "I hope not... It wouldn't be good for you if they did."

  "They won't."

  "So tell me. What you got in the trunk of the car?"

  "Nothing."

  "Why'd you keep looking at it then?"

  "Maybe he's got a shotgun in there?"

  "Yeah. Maybe. You got a shotgun in there?"

  "I said, I'm unarmed."

  "You want to open it up and prove that to us?"

  "Why don't I just step away from it?"

  "Why don't you do as I ask?"

  "It's locked. I don't have the key."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Wait. Hold up. Maybe he's right. Opening something wouldn't be a wise thing of us to suggest, now would it? Stepping away is better."

  "Huh?"

  "Cause if there is a gun in his trunk and you have him open it to show us then he just gone and got one step closer to pointing it at us."

  "You're right. Good. Yeah."

  "Step away."

  "Slowly. Yeah that's it. Stay still."

  "Keep your hands where we can see them."

  "I'm not lying. I'm unarmed."

  "So what you really doing all the way out here in this group?"

  "Passing through..."

  "What you doing with our car?"

  "Nothing. I didn't even see it when I pulled up. I was just looking for supplies."

  "Supplies?"

  "There's an outpost nearby, right?"

  "Of sorts."

  "You trying to mess with our car, steal our fuel? Tyres?"

  "No. I swear."

  "Thought you could suck out the gas?"

  "No. Hell no."

  "Why else would you stop here if not to mess with it?"

  "It's a rest stop isn't it? We didn't even see it until..."

  "Until what?"

  "Until dawn. Until the light."

  "You see it now, don't you?"

  "Yeah I see it."

  "You see this?"

  "Winchester isn't it?"

  "Sure is."

  "Browning .45 Colt."

  "It's a nice gun."

  "That's right mister, it is."

  "So your group need to trade? Looking to join the city?"

  "Not today. No. Really, right now, I'm just looking to get on my way. I'm sure we all are."

  "Why's that?"

  "Don't like getting stuck up... If that's alright with you?"

  "Oh us too, us too. But that can be kind of h
ard to avoid when you come back and find someone pulled up near your car."

  "Point taken."

  "Any sick? In this group of yours?"

  "No."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you? You'd tell me before I got close to you, wouldn't you?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Show me your wrists. Turn them around. Nice and calm, roll down your sleeves."

  "Looks clean."

  "We got meds if you do got sick. In the group. Easy as pie."

  "I know. I know."

  "You don't want to be running around out here though too liberal. Folks that run around out here make folk edgy."

  "I said, we're just passing by. On our way north. It's better that way, right?"

  "It's colder."

  "Which is better?"

  "If you say so."

  "I hear it's better."

  "So what now?"

  "I don't know. You have all the cards."

  "And the guns."

  "Right."

  "Right."

  "So turn around."

  "Ok, ok... Wait."

  "What?"

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Just do as I say."

  "Don't do anything rash. You want your kid to see that?"

  "Who you calling a kid?"

  "She ain't no kid."

  "She doesn't need to see it."

  "She's seen plenty."

  "Please..."

  "Start walking."

  "That's it, go on. Keep your hands up."

  "You're going to take the car? Don't."

  "I never said turn around."

  "Keep going, right."

  "Why?"

  "Relax. Because what we're going to do is drive away. And you're going to head all the way to the trees so you don't see us."

  "Then, when we're good and gone you get back to your group and you tell them to go on and keep passing through this bit.

  "I will."

  "Only if you do come across sick you should tell us. We got a place just over the hill. Imagine going on a straight line from here for about a mile and then dog-leg to the left another quarter. You'll see it. You'll see the smoke. We keep a fire going."

  "Got it."

  "You'll tell them."

  "Yes."

  "Any sick, you come to us. Or we'll come to you."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The silent sense of a missed question snapped him out of his daze. He stopped and blinked out the air, noticing for the first time that it had gone all crisp and cold again, like it was night even though the sun was somewhere up above the clouds and the trees, so different from the hot dark crush of the car, of the emergency plan they had set upon and spring-loaded ever since the first time he had been allowed on a trip.

  He had been walking through the forest without even thinking, without looking around, in the sort of daze that might come from being locked out of harm's way, bottled up, cocooned. From what? What now? They hadn't said much. Just the sense of a missed question, that was it. He stopped. His father kept on going, his shape bulked by the bag on his back that rattled as he walked as the dirty bottle of water that hung from a strap hit his shorts, coloured a blend of khaki and moss, each step crunching on any number of the countless small twigs that littered the area, all thin and tapered at the end as if they used to hold spines, too many to have come from the browning evergreens around the raised clearing, with long arms that seemed to reach towards them.

  After a few more paces the boy's father turned, waiting.

  "I said, 'What do you think of this spot?'"

  The boy shrugged. He had marched here with his head down over the course of an hour, traversing foothills like a river desperate to find the sea, heading away from the car, from the people that had come upon them, as if the intention was to keep going forever, or until their hearts gave out. This question offered an end at least. He had to answer it. Just say yes, grab the chance to stop. This clearing would do. It would work, of course it would. What did they need anyway to throw out a camp? The area was flat, open, a rare break from the slopes, a patina of silvery dust beneath the twigs, stable enough, some rocks here or there. It could take a couple of tents, sleep bags, fire. Or was this some test? Was he meant to suggest they press on. What else could be the deciding thing if not the distance from the car?

  "Well?" the boy's father said, brushing his arms free of flecks of bark.

  "It's fine," the boy said.

  "Just fine?"

  "Yeah. Isn't that enough?"

  "I don't know... That's why I asked. You've been awful quiet back there."

  "So?"

  "Get over it already, won't you?"

  "Over what?"

  "I told you. There wasn't any other choice." He swung his backpack onto the ground, shaking out his arms from the shoulders all the way to the wrists. He rolled his fingerless gloves off his hands and stuck them into his waistband, pulled up his shorts and tightened his belt before he straightened his cap.

  The boy stood in place, watching.

  "It was the girl, right?"

  The boy exhaled and the air got caught in front of him and made a slab of mist that slid away from the clearing. He shook his head.

  "Then what else have you been daydreaming about?"

  "I don't know." He looked down into the dirt. Of course it was the girl. He hadn't seen her, but he'd heard her muffled voice, and the thought did something to him, and he could picture her stood with the two men who had nearly surprised them back there as they gawped at the Land Cruiser, picturing them the way his father described them, with long grey coats that flapped with cracked mud, long hair beneath their caps, one back one front, long limbs, and long rifles over their shoulders, and her, who he said looked like she followed them around three paces off like a ghost. But that was easy for him to say. For he had seen doubtless many girls, while the boy had not.

  "I get it," his father said. "Don't bottle it up. Tell me. We could talk about it while we get started on the tent?" He opened his bag and pulled out the large green canvas that fit inside. "Remember, the point of the trip was for us to spend time together..."

  "I know," the boy said, focussed on a small tuft of green in the dirt.

  "Those people had places to go too, things to do... I had to say what I said and we had to get gone."

  "I guess."

  "So what's on your mind."

  "It's just... Nothing."

  "Doesn't sound like nothing."

  "All this time, I mean--"

  "Go on..."

  "...All this time and I've never even seen another kid."

  The boy tried everything he had to make eye contact now. His father stopped what he was doing with the tent and stood straight up. He nodded. A crash of branches came from behind him and a large black bird flapped across them and away.

  "I do understand," he said.

  "You don't. You can't."

  "I'll explain it to you soon, I promise."

  "Were they so bad, those people?"

  "I don't think so... They were just... drifters. I don't know. It's not worth taking risks. Not with you."

  "Were they hunters?"

  "I told you, I don't know. They didn't say. You said you heard."

  He nodded. "So was it bad that you talked to them?"

  "No. No. I don't think so."

  "That's why we walked so far?"

  "No."

  "Then why?"

  "Because you never said stop."

  "Oh?"

  The man shook his head and smiled to himself.

  "Because I'm paranoid more like."

  "And why'd you tell them we had friends over the hill?"

  "That wasn't exactly what I said... to be safe."

  "So they were bad men?"

  "I don't know."

  "What about the girl... Was she bad?"

  "I said, I don't know."

  "But why'd you lie? Isn't that bad too?"

 
; The man looked at the ground, rummaged some more in his bag as if searching for answers. "You're right. It is. But I had to." He stopped and took a few steps closer, lowered his voice. "See, sometimes people act different when they don't know the full situation. I know they sounded reasonable. They let me go. They left us alone. But you don't know. Letting them think there was more of us not far away was no bad thing."

  "Even if it wasn't true?"

  "Right. You never heard of a white lie?

  "No..."

  "Well, you have now. Come on give me a hand."

  The boy walked over to the bag with him. He took hold of one end of the tent canvas and helped shake it out until they could put it flat on the ground like a sheet. He went around it and smoothed out any ridges while his father started on the other, opening, pulling, unfolding.

  "You ever wondered what they were thinking when they saw you?"

  "No," his father said. "I guess they could have gone through a similar set of questions. You know, the girl could be saying the same stuff as you, even now."

  "Except she didn't know I was there."

  "Right."

  "I wonder if they thought you were a hunter?"

  "I guess they could have."

  "That would be cool," the boy said. He thought about it for a moment while he stared at one of the ripples that went across the middle of the tent, impossible to smooth, like a permanent wave. "But we don't have guns."

  His father knelt near the second tent and began to thread rope through the ringed holes in the canvas that looked like small halos where they caught the light. He stopped and stared at the boy.

  "We could sit and wonder all day long. I think it's best to let it go."

  "I guess."

  "It's an important skill. Believe me. The world doesn't stop because you get let down by something. You pick up your things and keep going."

  "Always?"

  "Always."

  "I just wish we could have--"

  "Talked, I know... What I just say?"

  "Right."

  The boy frowned and then turned away from the canvas. He felt he was back in the yard outside the house, on his own once more, surrounded by just hints of other kids, of other lives, who would move on without him, who would live, and he was meant to just leave them behind, pushing them out of sight until they left the back of his head.