by Erin Teagan
Pudding looks at everyone gathered around, sniffs Kitten, then picks it up with her teeth and drags it into her house.
Twenty-Six
For a few seconds, everyone just stares at the rest of Isabel’s animals, not moving. Doesn’t she know we’re looking for her? Can’t she hear her mother’s desperate calls?
The crowd starts to break up, continuing the search. I’m pushing through a clump of people to look in the trees behind the animal enclosures when everyone’s walkie-talkies start chirping emergency-beacon-style at once. “BEEP! BEEP! . . . immediate emergency evacuation of Lake Drummond and surrounding areas . . . BEEP! BEEP! . . . this is a mandatory evacuation . . . tune to channel nine for further instructions . . .”
Everyone freezes and listens. Except for Adam. “I told you, Dad!” he shouts. “We should have left as soon as we saw that smoke!” He’s angry, bright red in the face. “I told you!” Rick shushes him, but Adam doesn’t calm down. “All of this, for what? A show about what it’s like to sleep in million-dollar campers in a swamp?”
Rick fiddles with the walkie-talkie, searching for channel nine, and then a second later a voice comes through the radio, “Survivor Guy, proceed to coordinates N 36°35'41.9", W 76°26'19.5" for evacuation by helicopter at sixteen hundred hours . . . please copy.”
Rick holds the walkie-talkie to his face. “This is Survivor Guy. Copy.” And then he looks at the rest of us. “Okay, nobody go anywhere. Those are our coordinates. Sounds like they’ll land a helicopter right here.” He checks his watch. “Sixteen hundred hours is four o’clock. That’s fifteen minutes from now.”
Claire cries out.
“Number-one priority is to find Isabel,” Rick adds, and everyone goes in different directions.
“We’ll look around the lake again,” Bianca says softly to Claire.
She nods and then sits on a boulder, shaking, her head in her hands.
“Hold this for a minute.” Dad hands me his walkie-talkie and goes to her and I pretend it’s my own mom sitting there getting comforted by my dad. And they’re more than a united front. They’re together and in love forever and ever.
“Camp Dig . . . move for evacuation . . . proceed to coordinates N 36°35'41.9", W 76°26'19.5" . . . copy . . .”
I snap to attention because I know Camp Dig. That’s Ronnie and Theo’s camp.
A minute passes and the call comes through again.
“Camp Dig . . . please respond . . . we are under mandatory evacuation . . .”
“Dad?” I yell, but they are back to searching with an even greater sense of urgency, poking the brush with walking sticks, Jake beside them now, yelling for Isabel. I can’t even look at Claire, thrashing through the bushes, her arms bleeding from the branches.
“. . . evac by helicopter at 1600 hours . . . proceed to coordinates N 36°35'41.9", W 76°26'19.5" . . . copy . . .”
I check my watch. Time is running out, and it’s just too much to take. A fire, a lost kindergartner, and now an entire camp in danger.
“. . . Camp Dig, do you copy? . . .”
Why aren’t they answering? Maybe their walkie-talkies are off? What if they don’t have walkie-talkies? What if they’re out of batteries? Someone has to go get them. Someone has to make sure they’re not left behind. I sprint over to Jake, who’s helping Laura shuffle the animals into their cages, locking them inside. She’s folding blankets for them and squeezing them through the crate doors and I feel like throwing up. Will they be evacuated too?
“Jake, I need your help. There’s a camp and the park rangers can’t get ahold of them and someone needs to warn them—”
Jake and the animal trainer look at each other and then at the animals. “I have to help Laura load the animals onto the golf carts. We don’t have much time.”
I stare as they pull three of the smaller cages onto the back seat of a golf cart, strapping them down. The birds and mice and snakes, all chirping and squeaking and hissing.
“The fire road is still open,” Laura says, out of breath. “I’m going to try to drive them out of here. It might take me awhile.” She clears her throat, looking over my shoulder at the smoke moving around the lake now. “But I should be able to bring the pickup back for these bigger guys. It’s parked at the boat launch.”
“I’ll wait for you,” Jake says, patting Lucy the alligator’s cage. “Hurry.”
“Jake, what do we do?” I say as soon as she drives away. “There must be twelve kids at that camp. They don’t know about the evacuation.”
“Ali,” Jake interrupts. “Help Dad and Claire find Isabel. The camp will be fine. They’ll get out.”
But I’m still holding Dad’s walkie-talkie, and I can hear that Camp Dig is not responding. They don’t even know they’re in danger.
“Dad!” I run across the set to where he and Claire are talking to a circle of crew members. “Dad!”
When I get to him, he grabs my arms. “Ali. Listen to me. I need you to stay here with Jake and wait to be evacuated.” He pulls me in fast for a hug and squeezes the air out of me. Over his shoulder I see the smoke. It’s grown. A wall spreading around the lake, and the helicopters are dumping something powdery on the trees.
“Dad,” I say. “I’m scared.”
Claire taps Dad on the shoulder and all at once he lets go and they start toward the woods.
“Where are you going? Wait!” I yell after him.
“The helicopter will be here any minute. I’ll be right behind you as soon as we find Isabel.” And then they’re gone, leaving Rick, Bianca, and me to stare after them.
The attempts to contact Camp Dig continue to crackle over the radio. The helicopter will be here any second. “Where’s Adam?”
Rick looks toward the lake. “Searching for Isabel.”
“. . . please respond . . . Camp Dig . . . mandatory evacuation . . . proceed to coordinates N 36°35'41.9", W 76°26'19.5" . . . do you copy? . . .”
We look at each other. “I know where they are,” I say. “I can warn those campers.”
“No.” Rick shakes his head. “You heard what your dad said. You stay here.”
“But you can come with me,” I plead. “They’re just past that tree I was supposed to climb.” East of the tree. That’s what Ronnie had said. “We’ll be back in time for the helicopter.”
“No,” Rick says sternly. “The fire road isn’t safe anymore and the bog is at least a half-mile hike from here. There’s not enough time.”
“Stay here, Ali,” Bianca warns.
“Why doesn’t anyone think this is important?” I yell, surprising both of them. “There are twelve kids at least in that camp.” I flinch as another helicopter blares past us overhead, toward the fire.
Bianca puts a hand on my shoulder, her camera turned off for a change. “It’s not that we don’t care, Ali. But at this point, it’s just too dangerous. You need to get yourself out.”
“Fine,” I say. “Fine.” I stomp off toward the lake, looking for Adam, but he’s not there.
They must know, right? Ronnie and Theo would definitely be able to smell the smoke, and if they left camp looking for firewood again, they’d see the haze and clouds of ash in the distance, right?
But my mind keeps going back to the what-if. What if they don’t know they’re in danger? That could mean twelve or more families that never get their puzzle pieces back. And that’s a chance I can’t take.
I wait until nobody’s looking and dash into the woods.
Twenty-Seven
I reach the bog and branchless tree easily, but Rick was right, a half-mile hike in the swamp takes longer than I’d thought. Not to mention my legs are tired, my muscles burning from sloshing across the muddy ground. I hear a helicopter and it sounds like it’s overhead, although I can’t see much through the canopy of trees. A shrill repetition of emergency signals sounds from the walkie-talkie, making me jump. My watch says it’s nearly four o’clock, and for a second I feel weak wi
th panic. What if I can’t find Camp Dig? What if the helicopter doesn’t wait for me? Why didn’t I look harder for Adam? Or at least tell Jake what I was doing? I consider going back, but it’s too late now.
I can see Lake Drummond far off in the distance between the trees and I know I can’t get lost as long as I have the lake in my sights. But their camp is inland, deeper in the forest, and I have to leave its safety.
I call everyone’s names—Isabel, Ronnie, Theo—as I run and heave for air at the same time. For some reason, I feel lighter now. I can do this and I don’t even care that my too-small shirt is halfway up my belly, or that I have a wedgie from my cargo shorts. Nobody’s watching, so nobody cares.
I’m pretty sure I’m going the right way, but my memory from that day I visited their camp is foggy. Why didn’t I pay better attention? I stop to catch my breath. Something feels wrong. There are no signs of life here, no voices, no overturned rocks or footprints. “Ronnie!” I yell, and my voice disappears into the swamp forest. The helicopters are getting closer now, drowning out my shouts. If I’m going to get to Camp Dig in time, I’ll have to move faster.
It’s dark even though it’s late afternoon, with the smoke now blocking the sun. I look for a landmark, something familiar that will show me I’m headed in the right direction. But there’s nothing. This swamp looks the same no matter which way I turn. “Theo!”
If I could find the right tree to climb, maybe I’d be able to get a better look, even see the archaeology camp from here. They can’t be much farther. I’ve been walking for at least five minutes. I can’t see the lake anymore. Only trees. And I can hear the bugs. Chirping. Flapping wings. I smell damp. Mildew. Soil.
When the first yellow fly bites me, I flick it off. But I’m deep in the trees now, I realize. Their territory. And they’re ravenous. There’s three on me and then five and then I lose count because my legs start running. Seven to ten miles per hour. Betsy Sue said you have to move seven to ten miles per hour to outrun the yellow flies. I should be moving inland more, in a straight line, but the brush is so dense, it’s easier to follow the deer path in front of me. Just follow the path.
And this is why I’m not the hero. I’m the kid who goes along with everything. Who follows the path already cut, even if it’s not the right way. But I don’t want any more bites, because they hurt, and what do you expect from someone who hides Pop-Tarts under her mattress? I run with my eyes closed, because somehow that makes everything hurt less.
It’s the only thing that feels right when so much is wrong: California. Isabel. Survivor Son. Dad’s new life without me. I run with my eyes closed so I can’t see the swarm of yellow flies. And it works, until I hit a tree with my outstretched hands, my walkie-talkie dumping into the puddle at my feet.
The swarm is still with me, and their bites hurt worse. I flap and spin and hop and cover my face. But the reality is still the same. I’ve just run myself straight into the swamp with no GPS or phone or thoughts of safety. During the peak hours of the yellow flies, without my bug helmet. And now everyone looking for Isabel will have to look for me, too.
My walkie-talkie bleeps from the puddle and I lunge for it. “This is Survivor Guy . . . Camp Dig has arrived for evacuation . . . all members accounted for . . .” It’s Rick.
“Copy . . . we’re on our way,” someone says.
“Rick?” I say, pressing the button to talk, but there’s suddenly no light anymore. I shake it and try again, but there’s no saving it. Not even when I pound it on the tree. Not even when I pull the batteries out and dry them on my damp shirt, all the while batting bugs away. And it’s just another thing to add to my list of failures.
I don’t let myself cry until I see the helicopter beat past overhead, slow down in the distance, and start descending onto what must be the set. It seems miles away. Then I don’t just cry. I sob. Loud and ugly.
Because reality hurts the worst of all.
I stand there. So still. A statue of a girl who can’t do anything right. Betsy Sue also said that the yellow flies would stop biting after a few minutes if you stayed perfectly still. And they do. They stop swarming me and drift off, looking for their next victim. I don’t feel their bites anymore. Just a dull, numb throb from my skin. And I remember Betsy Sue said something else. That if I moved, even an inch, the flies would find me all over again. So, I stay frozen. Except for my eyes. I keep them open and watch the helicopter disappear below the trees.
Nobody will find me here on my little deer path in the middle of the Great Dismal Swamp. I’ll just disappear like Grandpa. I call for help one more time, but my voice is gnarled and raspy from my run through the woods. Still, if I call long enough and just stay in one place, someone will have to come for me. Right?
Grandpa’s book said that staying put and waiting for rescue is the best chance for survival. So that’s what I’m going to do. It’s official, I’m going to stay here until someone finds me. And I like this decision, because it also means I won’t get eaten alive by yellow flies. And hopefully Dad or Jake will remember to bring me my bug hat when they come to my rescue. And a granola bar or something.
My throat is burning from all my yelling. I’ll add a whistle to my pocket survivor kit when I get home. I will also add bug spray. Because even though the yellow flies are gone, the gnats are not, and they crawl into my ears and across my neck and dangerously close to my nose holes. I sneeze, swallowing at least three of them. Protein. That’s what Grandpa would say.
I hear a helicopter circling above me but when I look up, I can’t see it. The smoke has settled into the trees. Acrid, poisonous smoke. It smells like a campfire, but I know it’s dangerous. Deadly.
It takes me a moment to realize the gnats are gone now too. It’s like everything knows to get out of the forest but me. So, I change my mind. I can’t sit here any longer. I can’t wait to be rescued. I can’t let the fire find me first.
I need to run. To save myself. That helicopter is not leaving without me. I’m not going to just disappear like Grandpa. I reach for the walkie-talkie, banging the water out of it against the tree, but it’s still dead.
I’m lost. In a wildfire. With no communication.
Something I read over and over again in Grandpa’s guidebook floats into my head. “You are never fully lost if you have a compass to follow.”
My compass.
I reach in my pocket and pull it out, relieved that it’s still dry, and flip the cover open. The Survivor Guy set is on the shore of the lake, so if I can find the lake, I’ll make it back. I push on my forehead, thinking. If Camp Dig was east of the branchless tree . . . then the lake would be . . . “Come on, Ali,” I say to myself, trying to picture a map in my mind. “Think. Think.” The lake would be . . . west.
I find north with the compass to figure out which direction I need to go and then I start running. I squint through the smoke, following my compass, rolling my ankle once in a hole, tripping several times over roots and branches, and creaming my shin against a fallen tree. But the pain is nothing compared to my fear of being stranded. My fear of what happens if the wildfire catches up to me.
I splash into water, ankle deep, then knee-deep, and I don’t know if I’m in the lake or just another bog, but then the brambles disappear and I’m walking on soft ground. Peat. I’ve made it to Lake Drummond. My rescue can’t be too far away. I stay in the lake where I’m in the open, and even though it’s hard to run in the water, the bottom of the lake is less rugged than the half water, half land of the swamp.
I can hear it. The helicopter is so close, but my vision is obscured by the smoke and I can’t see it. My legs are like Jell-O, and I’m breathing so hard, I can feel the smoke in my throat. But I can’t slow down. I push myself harder, trying to run toward the sound, but running is almost impossible knee-deep in the lake, smoke taking over my burning lungs. I cough and sputter.
I always pretended that if I were in this kind of situation, a survival do-or-die, I’d be the doer who gets
crazy powers of strength. I’d be the kid who lifts the car off the toddler or the girl who leaps across the five-foot crevasse to reach safety. It’s what I tell all my friends. But the truth is, my feet are soggy and heavy and I don’t have any crazy powers of strength. In fact, I have barely any strength at all.
Then, by some miracle act of the universe, the dense woods on the edge of the lake thin into a clearing. The Survivor Guy camp. And then I run, splashing, flapping, yelling for the helicopter to wait for me. I fall, dunking myself, my eyes stinging from the swamp and smoke. But it’s okay. Because when I finally crawl out of the water, lightheaded from the effort, the helicopter is still there, blades beating, up on the shore.
Twenty-Eight
Someone materializes in the smoke in front of me and I’m running so fast that I can’t stop before we collide. We land hard on the swampy ground.
“I found Isabel!” It’s a voice I recognize.
“Adam?” I say. He’s pushing me off of him and I’m trying to untangle myself, but then we hit heads and my forehead pounds.
He grabs me by my shoulders. “She’s stuck, Ali. I can’t get her out.”
The helicopter is so close. No more than half a football field away. I can see it. The sound of the propellers is deafening. Can they see us? Adam pulls me toward the ruined camper, where Isabel is stuck halfway through one of the tiny vents on the collapsed roof. She’s sobbing, calling for her mother. Adam and I each take an arm and pull until she screams in pain. It’s like we’re in a movie, because all of this can’t be real. And the world is shifty and unbalanced with the smoke and the helicopter and rushing wind taking all of the sound from the swamp, leaving only the dangerous thumping of my heart.
“Ali, you have to go and tell them we’re here!” Adam says into my ear. “Tell them we need help!” Isabel is screaming now. How can they not hear us?
I start toward the helicopter so fast I trip over my own feet. Then I’m up, galloping toward the blinking lights, leaving Adam and Isabel behind, hoping I can find them in the smoke again, pleading with the universe that we all get out of this safely. But then the wind changes, the smoke whirling and swirling around me. The red blinking lights are moving, lifting upward, and it hits me like a wall of flames. The helicopter is leaving.
