Survivor Girl

by Erin Teagan

  “STOP!” The smoke catches me deep in the throat, smothering my words. “WAIT!”

  But the lights are getting smaller now and I know they can’t hear me. My eardrums beat with the sound of the helicopter’s propeller even after it has flown away, its departure sending debris across my back and into my eyes and mouth. They’ll come back, I say to myself. They’ll be back for us. But when the sound of the helicopter is gone, I can hear something else.

  Flames. Popping. Hissing. Devastating.

  I’m back on my feet, queasy, faint, and blind, my arms outstretched, looking for anything. Adam. Isabel. The wrecked camper. There’s a red glow coming through the trees now. The wildfire is here and I’m running through the black smoke, trying not to breathe it in, heat wafting from the woods. Hot enough to scorch a pizza.

  “I can’t get her out!” It’s Adam and his voice is so different—desperate, unsure, pleading.

  I change direction, following the sound of it. “Where are you?” I call.

  “Here!” he shouts, and he’s right in front of me. Two more steps and I’m standing next to him. “Let me crawl in and push her from below,” Adam says, giving me Isabel’s little hand.

  “I missed the helicopter, Adam,” I say, squeezing until she squeezes back, a faint pulse. The failure of everything, getting lost in the woods—missing the helicopter—settles into my chest with the smoke.

  Isabel coughs and I hug her, pushing her face into my shirt. She’s not screaming anymore. “Isabel?” Why isn’t she talking? “Isabel, are you hurt?”

  She coughs a hacking, damaging cough. There’s a roar from the trees behind the camper and I can see flames, feel the wind of the fire. I yank at Isabel. “Adam, push!”

  I don’t know if he hears me but suddenly Isabel and I are falling from the camper, in a clump, hitting the ground hard. She’s crying and Adam reappears and we’re scrambling away from the fire, both of us trying to hold Isabel and run at the same time. We fall again and I pull Isabel from his arms, yelling over the wind and fire for her to wrap herself around me so I can carry her.

  A floating ember sparks by like a falling star in slow motion.

  “We have to find somewhere safe,” I say, but I don’t even know what that means when you’re in the Great Dismal Swamp with a fire burning fast and furious.

  “Mama!” Isabel pushes me away, coughing and lunging out of my grip.

  “Isabel, stop it!” Are her eyes not stinging from the smoke? Can she not feel the heat in her lungs yet? A spark lands on her pink sleeve and I swat at her, putting it out. She eyes the smoking pinprick in her shirt and howls, taking off toward where the dining tent should be.

  “Mama!”

  “She’s not here, Isabel. Stop!” But she’s fast for a four-year-old and we’re basically running blind. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  I look over my shoulder and see that the crackling and creaking and rumbling is upon us, flicking its fiery tail on the camper.

  “You’re going to get us killed!” I scream, and I can feel Adam by my side, both of us chasing a kid with a death wish in the middle of a wildfire. And even though part of me wants to freeze and cry for help until someone finds us, the other part of me wants to survive this thing.

  Isabel stops. “You’re not allowed to say”—she coughs again, rubbing her chest—“kill.”

  I try not to take deep breaths of the hot and burning air.

  “I don’t feel good,” she adds.

  A bolt of fear shoots through my body, because I know from my books that it’s the smoke, not the flames, that kill so many people in fires. I pick her up, spinning around, looking for something, anything. Could there be masks in the hospital tent? A flaming leaf lands in front of us and I stamp it out, Isabel sobbing over my shoulder. “Mama.”

  “We need to get to the lake,” I say to Adam.

  He takes off the button-down he’s wearing over a gray T-shirt and tells Isabel to cover her mouth and nose with it, and we start toward where I think Lake Drummond is, at first walking, burdened by Isabel’s weight, but then as the fire gets louder, I jog and finally run. My mind drifts to Claire and Dad and what they’re thinking right now. I stumble into Adam, running beside me, then regain my balance and force myself to think of only one thing.

  Survival.

  We can’t be too far from the lake, and I wish on all the stars in the universe that I’m headed the right way. Please let it be close. Isabel wipes her nose on my shirt and then all of a sudden we’re falling again. Hard. Over something hollow.

  “Canoe,” she says, and lets go of me. I hear her clamber into it.

  I try to picture where the canoe was before the fire. Jake had just taken it out. But did he return it to the storage area back by the dining tent? Had I stumbled that far? Or did he leave it on the bank of the lake, where he wasn’t supposed to? Adam and I each grab a side and pull it across the earth as I grope for the water with my boot. Please let the lake be here. Please. “You still there, Isabel?” I ask, uneasy now that she’s not in my arms.

  “Yup.”

  “Get low and don’t move. Everyone put your shirt over your face,” I say. Adam is silent except for his loud breathing.

  Through my shirt, the air smells like a burn pile of wood and leaves and grass, and there’s an orange glow all around us, flickering like a Halloween strobe light.

  “We have to hurry,” Adam says.

  There’s a splash and I feel water on my shins. But there’s no time to celebrate. “Are there oars in there, Isabel?”

  I feel her body move to the front of the boat. “Nope.”

  Probably lying in the mud next to where we found the canoe. There’s no time to run back. Soft flakes of ash start to fall around us like snow and I grab Isabel’s hand and pull her out. “Hey!”

  “Get wet, you guys!” I shout. But they don’t move fast enough. “Come on! Before something lands on you.”

  We roll and splash ourselves in the water, soaking our clothes through. It feels good, cool on my hot skin, but doesn’t help my lungs or my watering eyes. We help Isabel back into the canoe, and then we float away from the bank.

  Twenty-Nine

  With the fire comes a windstorm, sending waves of blistering heat in our direction. I splash water on Isabel, tucked inside the canoe, and submerge myself in the lake. The water is covered in a layer of soot, splashing into my face, sticking to my skin. Ash lands hot onto my head, probably burning holes in my hair. That’s not going to be a good look, if I survive this mess.

  The lake bottom sucks my feet in with each step and I’m thankful I’m wearing hiking boots and they’re tied tight. I worry there’s quicksand, and then I worry about muskies and longnose gars and—

  “My eyes hurt,” Isabel says, sitting up, teetering the boat from side to side.

  Adam helps her put his shirt over her whole face. “Here. Hold it there.”

  She flops back into the canoe and I dunk my head underwater to get my hair wet. When I come up, I get a glimpse of the shore. It’s aflame. Fire is licking the water, crawling onto the set. I push harder against the lake bottom, taking us deeper.

  The smoke is black. Dense. Everywhere. I gulp some water from the lake and immediately spit it out. Am I losing it? It’s like my body is taking over for me, my lungs desperate for relief. Even this far out, flaming debris surrounds us like stars. I tell Isabel to jump in.

  “You’ll be safer in the water.”

  A leaf lands in the canoe, smoking. Isabel scrambles out of the boat and into my arms, grabbing me by the neck. She wraps her legs around my waist and even though the water feels warm now, we’re shivering.

  “Let’s stop here,” Adam says, after we’ve waded out a few more feet where the water is chest deep, just far enough that I don’t feel like my eyebrows are going to singe off my face.

  I hate how he’s so quiet.

  We catch our breath and stare toward the shore. The fire is devouring Dad’s camper and everything ins
ide of it. My clothes, my cell phone, Grandpa’s book. And then it moves across the walking bridges like a living, breathing thing that doesn’t like to get its feet wet. Isabel whimpers into my neck. “Where’s my mama?”

  “With my dad,” I say. Hoping it’s true. “Did they make the helicopter, Adam?”

  Isabel reaches for Adam and he takes her onto his back. “Your mom is a medic, Isabel. She’s going to be okay no matter where she is.”

  I dunk my head under again, the tears coming, and for some reason I can’t let Isabel see. I need to be brave for her, even though I’ve never been the brave one before.

  Underwater, I picture my own mom, at graduation, when I wouldn’t let her hug me after I got my certificate. I brushed past her to where Harper was standing with her family. And when Harper’s mom leaned in and said congratulations, I hugged her instead. My face burns with the memory. I blamed Mom for everything for so long. She probably thinks I don’t even love her anymore.

  Something thuds against my leg and I’m jolted back to the present. “Did you feel that?” I say as I resurface, water in my eyes.

  Adam shakes his head. “Lots of fish in the lake.”

  I shiver. Isabel repositions Adam’s shirt over her face. I feel woozy in all the smoke, my legs tingling. My lungs burn and my eyes tear. A flaming pine needle lands in Adam’s hair. I smack it hard, putting it out.

  “Hey!” he says. “What was that for?”

  I smile, because hair on fire or not, it felt pretty good to finally give Adam a smack.

  “We should flip the canoe over,” I say. “We can hide underneath.” Like our own little shelter.

  I tip the side of the boat with both hands, but it wobbles back upright. Adam is just standing there, staring at the fire. Silent. I snap a finger in front of his face. “A little help?”

  But he’s not paying attention. He’s watching the set disappear in a frenzy of smoke and flame. We hear the sound of trees exploding with the heat, whole branches on fire, debris flying into the lake. It’s so fast. I just can’t believe it. What if we hadn’t found Isabel right when we did? What if we had walked the wrong way in the blind smoke and ended up in the woods instead of the lake?

  “Lucy,” Isabel says. “Pudding. What about my animals?”

  “Laura got them out,” I say. “I think.” Ugh. I meant to only say that in my head.

  But what if she didn’t get them all out? What if there wasn’t enough time? It’s almost too much for me to bear. I shudder, picturing us sharing a lake with Lucy, the half-ton alligator.

  “Did Jake get out?” I ask. “Does anyone know?”

  Adam shrugs. “I’m not sure. My dad did, though. First chance he got.”

  Isabel covers her mouth again with his shirt. “But Pudding will get hungry, and what if she doesn’t know there’s a fire?” she asks, muffled.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to leave you behind,” I say to Adam. “If he knew you weren’t there on the helicopter—”

  “Let’s just tip the boat, okay?” he interrupts. And with one big push, the canoe is overturned, and the three of us duck underneath.

  Isabel coughs and cries from getting water up her nose and in her eyes, but it’s easier to breathe here, out of the heat from the wind, protected from the ash raining down on the lake, coating the water.

  We are safe. For now.

  Thirty

  We’re quiet for awhile. All three of us, Isabel draped over Adam, me holding on to one of the canoe seats to keep it steady over our heads. My arms are starting to feel numb. My brain is blipping from one paralyzing fear to the next. What if the helicopters never come back? What if Dad didn’t make it out? What if he did, and left me here? What if I never get to tell Mom I love her again? What if I die here and I can’t tell her how I got everything wrong? Because I know things now. Things I was too stupid to see before. And then everything combines into one giant ball of panic, settling into my stomach, hard as a rock.

  “Want to play a game?” I blurt out.

  Adam stares at me, shifting Isabel on his back. “No.”

  Isabel doesn’t even answer.

  I can’t just stand here bobbing in the lake. The water is so dark. It’s nearly up to my chest and I’m exhausted. “When do you think it’s going to be safe to move closer to shore?”

  Adam lifts an edge of the canoe and I see that even though the fire is moving fast, it’s still hot and dangerous on land, the smoke deadly, the wind scorching.

  “Okay,” I say. “So, not anytime soon.”

  I try not to imagine what might be floating around me. Try not to imagine what a swamp muskie bite would feel like, or what I’d do if Pudding popped up under the boat with us. I mean, where would an animal go during a wildfire? Straight to the water, right?

  “What kind of game?” Isabel asks, whisper-quiet in the dark of our canoe cave.

  I’m looking at the water around me, wishing I had x-ray vision to see through the chocolate murk. Is that a ripple? Did something just brush up against my leg again?

  “Uh, how about twenty-questions?” I bounce in place, making little waves in the water, lifting my feet from the soft lake bottom. I wonder if there are leeches in the swamp. Or eels?

  “I’ve got a question, Isabel,” Adam says, his voice strained. “Why didn’t you come out when everyone was calling you? Did you think it would be funny?”

  I don’t like his tone. “Stop.” I reach for Isabel, who takes my hand. I pull her onto my hip. “It’s not her fault.”

  “We could have been on that helicopter.”

  “But we’re not,” I say, holding her tighter. “You could have left. You chose to stay.”

  Adam plunges into the lake, staying under for a long time, and I hope he doesn’t grab my leg or something to scare me. Because I’ll kick. Hard.

  “I didn’t mean to hide for so long,” Isabel says, her lip quivering. “But everyone started sounding so mad, like I was in trouble, and then when I wanted to get out, I couldn’t because my foot was stuck, and . . . I just want my mom and George Kensington.”

  I picture Dad and Claire running from the fire, looking for me. Looking for Isabel. Overwhelmed by the thought of losing us. A sob escapes my throat.

  Adam resurfaces, wiping his face. He won’t look at me, at Isabel crying loudly into my chest.

  It feels like my throat is swelling shut from the hopelessness of everything and I breathe deep through my nose, coughing from the smoke.

  “Sorry, Isabel,” Adam finally says, patting her on the back. “It’s not your fault. It’s not. I just . . . wish we were out of this place.”

  I look out from beneath the canoe and I see that the fire has blazed through the clearing, past the little canal with the walking bridges that divided the Survivor Guy camp in two, and is inching onward. I wonder how long we’ll have to wait for rescue.

  The set is a blackened pile of smoking debris. “I think we can move closer to the shore now,” I say.

  Adam turns around and stares through the gap at the destruction. There’s no way anything could have survived the fire. I search the singed set for the animal cages, but I can’t make them out.

  I help Isabel move to my back and it takes Adam and me working together to flip the boat back over. Nobody talks. Isabel doesn’t ask for her mother anymore. She doesn’t protest when I put her in the canoe and we start walking through the water to shore.

  “Everything’s gone,” she finally says.

  The smell of burning overpowers us as we get closer. Adam secures the canoe into the muck near the shore and we climb in, the higher ground too hot, parts of it still smoldering. I lift a floppy Isabel into my lap. She’s soaked and shivering, even though the air feels like a hundred degrees. I feel for the bandage on my head, relieved it’s still there even after being in the lake.

  It’s the perfect time to say everything’s going to be okay. That rescue will be here soon. That we’ll get reunited with Dad, and Claire, and drink milkshakes
and eat french fries as we drive away from the swamp.

  But I’m not lying anymore. Hiding the truth doesn’t help anyone.

  So I pull her closer and push away the matted hair from her eyes.

  “Want to know why it’s so great you get to skip kindergarten?” I say.

  She stirs but keeps her face hidden in my arms, sniffling and hiccupping.

  “Finger painting,” I say, getting a look from Adam. “Because there’s always that kid in your class who eats it or smears it on your favorite light-up shoes or gets it in your hair. And then before you know it everyone loses their finger-painting privileges. It’s not fair.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell Isabel that kindergarten was all parachute games and reading chairs and new friends. And when I got off the bus at the end of the day, Mom and Dad would both be there, because Survivor Guy was still new and exciting and had barely any viewers. That’s when Mom still thought Dad was funny. We all did.

  Isabel looks up at me, her eyes swollen. I put the shirt back over her mouth. The air is still sharp with smoke.

  “And if your mom gives you your favorite kind of cookie in your lunch box, like with extra chocolate chips or something, the teachers make you finish all of your vegetables first. Even if it’s your birthday.”

  Isabel cries into my armpit. “I love extra chocolate chips.”

  The swamp is gray and still, the wind gone with the fire. It’s dark even though it’s barely past six o’clock and the sun won’t set for another couple hours. Adam and I exchange a glance when we hear a rumble of thunder in the distance.

  “You’re lucky, Isabel,” I say. “I bet your tutor will let you have all the finger paints and cookies you want.” But really, I’d do anything to go back to when life was all about Play-Doh and coloring and getting grossed out when your parents held hands. When, if you made your best friend mad, you gave her your favorite sticker and went right back to being best friends forever. I never knew how good I had it.