by E. R. Arroyo
I lean my head against a tree and stare at the sky, wondering what the other side of that wall of clouds looks like. Are there stars? Is there a moon? I like to imagine the universe is intact and only our little world is in shambles.
I wonder.
Chapter Eleven
I feel a pinch on my cheek and swat at it. It stings a little at first, and then more. My eyes flutter open, with a heavy haze obscuring my vision. I touch my cheek and feel something small there. I grab the thing and force my eyes to focus on it...an insect. I have no idea what kind but it’s black, with a sort of shell for a back.
It pinches my finger and I toss it on the ground. The stinging in my face grows more painful, and I realize I’m sitting in the wilderness in the middle of the night. I look over my shoulder at the sleeping soldiers.
I have no way of knowing how long I’ve been out, but luckily I haven’t let the boot tip over. A lot of the water has leaked out, though.
I pick up a small piece of wood and toss it several yards, then look at the men again. No one moves.
Carefully, I get to my feet, holding one arm out to steady myself. I grip the boot with the other hand, holding it away from my body.
I keep my eyes glued to the gruff one, the boss. I can’t make out his face, but he seems familiar somehow. I take a step, and watch. Then another and another, until I’m mere yards from the tree, but I’m going to have to come out into the clearing to get there. The idea of standing in the open right next to all these men that are hunting me seems idiotic.
One of them starts to stir, but I can’t tell if his eyes are open or if he’s simply tossing in his sleep. He lets out a snort and a huff and I take another step. I’m still near the tree line, but nothing’s between him and me.
Another starts up, possibly awakened by the other, and I realize I’m not going to make it all the way to the mouth of the tree. I reach out and touch the bark with my calf. I’m right there, touching the tree that Dylan’s inside, but I’m at the wrong end. And getting to the other end means getting closer to the sleeping dogs.
A third man shifts in his sleeping bag, making a loud rustling sound. I’m almost caught, I just know it. Suddenly, he smacks his own face and yells, “Ow.” He throws something away from him, and I think maybe the hard bug got him too.
He sits up. I’m running out of options, but I freeze. It’s dark, maybe he can’t see me. He fumbles for something, patting the ground.
I look back at the tree and see the hole the clumsy one made; it looks large enough for me to squeeze through. I set the boot on the tree and climb as quietly as I can. I crawl up the bark toward the hole, shuffling the boot along with me.
I keep my eyes on the soldier. He’s still trying to find something, and from what I can tell, he still doesn’t see me. Then his head darts my direction and I freeze, certain I’m caught. I start preparing myself to run, tensing all my muscles, but he doesn’t come after me. Instead, he keeps patting around.
I make it to the hole and lower my feet in, then my hips and midsection. When my shoulders don’t fit through, I realize I’m going to make noise. There’s nowhere to go but in. As the first rays of the morning sun peep through the cloud bank, I’m out of time.
I press on a piece of bark and it breaks, getting the man’s attention again. I slip both arms and the boot inside the tree and look at him one last time to see him slip on a pair of glasses.
I tuck my head inside before he can look my way again. At least I think so.
I back away from the opening as quietly as I can. The bite on my cheek has progressed to burning; I touch it with my fingertips and feel swelling. Great, toxic bugs. If it’s hurting me, maybe it’s hurting the guard, too. Maybe he won’t come after me.
Apparently I’m wrong, because I hear footsteps on the other side of a thin, rotten layer of tree bark. I’m completely still, trying to quiet my breathing but it’s no use. So I hold my breath--I have to take control of my body. I imagine a flat tire and how slowly it loses air. I part my lips and let the air seep out, imagining my lungs are the tire. A long, slow release. I inhale the same way, slowly, then exhale again. I feel my body relax and my breathing quiets down.
His feet move away, and I release a soft sigh. The man grumbles something and shuffles around in his sleeping bag, hopefully going back to sleep. But I’m not sure.
I look up and allow my eyes to focus on Dylan in the darkness. He’s somehow shifted to his back, so at least he’s not completely gone.
I move the boot ahead and crawl toward Dylan’s feet, passing the hole again. There’s not room for me on either side of him, so I’m forced to crawl on top of him. One of his legs comes straight down the tunnel, and the other lies off to the side a little.
I position my right knee on the outside of his leg, and my left knee on the inside, and continue crawling. I set the boot near his armpit and realize I can’t scoot any farther like this. Blush warms my cheeks, making the insect bite sting. I shake my head, thankful Dylan is unconscious, and swing my left leg over his hip. My legs straddle him, while my torso is hunched forward with my spine against the top of the hollow.
I pull the cloth from my pocket and dip it in the boot, which barely has any more water. Dylan’s trembling lips are already parted, so I squeeze the liquid into his mouth. His shakes aren’t violent anymore, and I think they might be from the cold, not the drugs.
I dip the cloth again and squeeze more water out. I wipe the sweat off his forehead and cheeks, then drip some more in his mouth. Next, I dab his lips with the cloth.
Swallow, I think, not knowing if the water is doing any good.
As if obeying my silent command, he swallows softly and pulls his lips together tightly. My heart leaps inside my chest as I dip the cloth again and touch it to his lips. A moment later, they part for me, and I give him more water.
I can barely see him, but I can tell his eyes are still closed.
I dab his face again and drop some more water on his tongue. He swallows again, but still in a subconscious way, which is fine by me. At least I know he’s getting the water.
I feel a rock or loose bark digging into my knee, and I reach down to move it. On the way down, my hand grazes across Dylan’s chest. I feel goosebumps and realize I need to try to warm him up. I set down the cloth and rub both of his arms slowly up and down, then his chest and abdomen.
I guide his hands to his belly and I lie down on top of them, trying to cover as much of his skin as I can. My hands rest on his shoulders and I move them back and forth to create friction.
Before long, I find a place to rest my head on his chest. Despite the cold, his breaths are steady, and they lull me back to sleep.
I wake with my hands under my head and my legs dangling over Dylan’s. I can’t imagine being tired enough to sleep this much after sleeping all night in the woods. Dylan’s body isn’t trembling, and his arms are no longer underneath me. He must’ve moved them.
His hands move again and I realize where they’ve gone; they’re on my lower back. I pick my head up and look at him--there’s plenty of sunlight now--and he’s looking right at me, almost smiling. Almost giddy.
“Hi,” he says, too loudly.
“Shh. Dylan, we have to stay quiet. They’re here.” I wipe my eye, trying to wake myself up.
“Who’s here?” Still too loud.
“Dylan, please. Trust me.” I place a finger on his lips. “Shhh.”
He looks me in the eye, still grinning despite my urgent panic. He moves his hands up my back, across my shoulders and lands with his hands on each of my elbows, lingering there with a caress. I ignore the shiver that chased his fingers up my body and focus on him.
“You’re so beautiful. I’m so happy you’re here with me.”
He’s not getting it.
I shimmy farther up so my head is right above his, and I cup my hand over his mouth and lean in. I whisper in his ear, “Dylan, please. Be quiet.” I realize the withdrawals aren’t over yet. He’s c
ompletely delirious.
He whispers against my hand, “I want to take you on a date.” At least he’s whispering.
“What’s a date?” As long as he’s whispering, I might as well humor him.
“It’s where a guy takes a girl he loves. Or,” he seems confused for a moment. “Or he wants to love her, but he isn’t sure yet if she loves him, too. Or...something like that.”
“What happens on a date?”
He takes a deep breath. “Well, I think you have to ask her father for permission first and then you take her out. How does a picnic on the beach sound?” He’s speaking like a small child, innocent and matter of fact.
“It sounds nice, Dylan.” This subject is strange, so I change it. “How are you feeling?”
“Can I meet your father?”
“I don’t think so, Dylan. I’m sorry.” He knows my father’s gone.
“No, don’t be silly. I’ll meet him tomorrow.” He rubs the skin just under the edges of my sleeves.
I have no idea where he’s coming up with this stuff. I can’t resist the curiosity, and there’s a good chance now’s the best time to ask. I take my hand off his mouth.
“Have you thought about this stuff a lot?” I continue to speak directly into his ear.
He exhales and his breath blows my hair, which I suddenly realize is a matted mess in his face. I’m surprised it’s not suffocating him. I go to move it, but he beats me there, pulling it away from his face and laying it across my neck. He pats it down a few times and lets his fingers linger on my skin. If I bat his hands away, he might stop whispering. I tighten my jaw.
“Of course. Every day.” It’s too loud again.
“Shhh,” I remind him. Every day?
“I’m sorry,” he says in an exaggerated whisper, picking up a lock of my hair and moving it again.
“It’s okay.”
I don’t know what else to do or say, so I turn my face from him and wish I could crawl out of this pit. It’s light outside. The men are probably long gone, but how can I be sure?
The confinement is getting to me. I’ve had my body pressed against another person’s for far too many hours. And his hands have been on me at every opportunity. I have to get out of here soon. My fingers move idly from anxiety, and when I realize they’re moving against Dylan’s skin, I stop. It wasn’t an intentional gesture, and he’s not himself right now, but I told myself I wouldn’t encourage this...problem.
Confusion and annoyance aside, I’m happy he’s awake now.
All the parts of my body making contact with Dylan are already on edge. I’m tense. When leaves outside the tree crinkle, the remainder of my body comes alive with electricity. I feel a piece of hair--probably the same stubborn piece--fall back into Dylan’s face, and he moves it again.
“It just keeps falling,” he says with laughter bubbling up from his chest. I replace my hand on his mouth.
“Shh,” I whisper as softly as I can. I hear the movement again, trying to picture how far away the source must be. Why don’t I hear voices? They’ve not been the most silent of hunters thus far.
Dylan moves my hand and his lips graze my ear as he whispers, “Can we get up now? I’m hungry. This bed isn’t very comfortable.”
I pull back and look him in the eye, pleading silently. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the next sounds seem closer.
Dylan takes a breath to speak, but I can’t let him. I touch his lips with mine, squeezing my eyes tightly. Good idea, Cori, but so much for my ground rules. Maybe he won’t remember.
I open my eyes to find Dylan perfectly compliant, his eyes closed, his expression relaxed. It worked, now I just have to keep him this way. When he starts to open his eyes, I kiss him again. He half-grins, a picture of calm. I let my shoulders relax, and listen for more movement. I hear none.
I kiss him on the cheek absently, still careful, still listening. I look at his lips, his nose, his cheeks. I can’t remember ever being this close to a person before.
I can’t look away, but I can’t look at his eyes either. And I know he’s looking at mine. When did I become such a coward?
My arms are shaking from propping myself up, and I’m worried my elbows are digging into him. I still don’t hear anything outside.
I shift my weight to the right and Dylan scoots onto his side to accommodate me. I place my index finger against my lips to remind him to be quiet. He nods and looks around us, with a childlike suspicion growing in his eyes. He probably thinks it’s a game, judging by the way the corner of his mouth keeps trying to turn upward, but he stops it before it turns into a smile.
I’m starving, and I’m sure he is, too. But with movement out there, we really ought to stay put, at least a bit longer. I rest my head in the crook of Dylan’s elbow and close my eyes. Mostly because I want to avoid his gaze, which hasn’t left me in minutes.
Hours.
Days.
Years.
I cannot escape it. There’s nowhere to go. And there’s nothing to do except give into the exhaustion.
My mind is a flurry of information. Sensations, instincts. Memories, assessments. I remind myself to assess.
Assess what? My surroundings.
My eyes pop open, and I am alone. I can’t believe I fell asleep again. I need food or I’ll never overcome this fatigue. I look up and down the tunnel both ways and don’t see Dylan. Panic rises in my chest, my heart beating faster.
I crawl out of the tree as quickly as I can, scraping my elbows along the way. About the time I reach the opening, I realize my boot is back on my foot. The lace is single-knotted. I tie doubles.
“Dylan,” I whisper harshly into the brush I’m facing. No movement.
I crawl into the bushes and try to look through the holes between leaves. No soldiers that I can see.
I decide the coast--right here, at least--is clear. I rise from the underbrush and half-crouch, half-stand while I continue looking in every direction. I don’t see guards, and I don’t see Dylan.
There are plenty of footprints but there’s no way to tell which are Dylan’s. A surge of panic rushes through me as I consider the possibility that he’s been caught. If he’s still loopy, he could have wandered out there and right into their hands. But then wouldn’t they have found me, too?
I have to find him. He could have gone in any direction. In his right mind, I’d say he would have tried to seek out water. But the odds are he’s still not in his right mind. It’ll be evening soon and he still doesn’t have a shirt. I brush off a pinch of guilt and start moving.
I’m careful how I place my feet, trying my best to keep quiet. I don’t want to follow a particular set of tracks exactly, because I could be following my pursuers. Instead I work outward, keeping my eyes open.
After ten minutes, the woods get thicker, so I rule out that direction and turn back. I don’t want to get too far from where we started, just in case he comes back.
I pass back by and keep walking, heading the direction of the pond. There are several huge bootprints in a muddy path, and I realize I didn’t do a very good job of covering my own tracks yesterday. Luckily I’m light-footed, and tried to stay out of the mud.
Or maybe they’re tracking me now. I look back, checking each direction.
I keep moving, this time staying on sticks and leaves, choosing noise over tracks as the ground gets muddier the closer I get to the pond.
I hear a tiny, almost unnoticeable splashing sound ahead, and I duck behind a tree, waiting. It comes again. I have no choice but find out what it is. There’s a chance it’s Dylan. Also a chance it’s them. And a very, very small chance it’s an animal. But I have to know.
I step toward the noise, balancing my feet on the overgrown roots poking out of the ground. I skip across a divide and cling to another tree.
I smell the water and hear a faint trickle from wherever the water is coming from. Though I didn’t see a stream yesterday, I hear one now. As I take a deep breath, I inhale the scent
of dirt and wood. Remembering the smells of concrete confinement, I think, Dirt smells like freedom.
I peek around the corner. Next to the pond, a bare-backed man crouches with his hands in the water. I start toward him, thinking it has to be Dylan, but stop myself when I notice a pile of clothes on the ground next to him. Soldier’s clothes.
My balance falters and my boot lands on a twig, snapping it in two. My heart leaps into my throat chasing a gasp, and I clap my hand over my mouth to contain the sound.
I press my back to the tree, hoping I’ll go unnoticed, but I hear movement behind me. If I run, he could shoot me. I’m certain he’s armed. But why is he alone? Trying to picture all of the guards I saw the day before, I can’t remember one of them having that shade of skin and that color hair.
Who is he? Footsteps come closer to me. I’m caught. It’s over now. I can’t go back. They’ll kill me, or worse.
So I run. I’m starving, thirsty, clumsy, and loud, but I have to run. I won’t go without a fight. I don’t look over my shoulder; I can’t risk it. After jumping over a pile of broken limbs and ducking under a low-hanging branch, I come to a clear area and sprint, knowing this is my chance to get a lead. I beat Sean, I can beat whoever’s chasing me.
I move my legs as quickly as I can. My ankles hurt, and the boots are unforgiving. Don’t get caught, I repeat over and over in my head.
His breaths are labored, but steady. He’s breathing in through his nose, and out through his mouth with the exact same puff sound on every exhale. He’s calculated, he’s calm, and he knows his body. But he’s slower than me. Without looking back, I can tell he’s falling behind.
I’m running out of level ground, approaching more thick woods. As soon as I cross the tree line, I’m going to break left and try to lose him.
But I can’t stand it, I have to look. I’ve put enough distance, so I glance back. The moment I start to focus on him, my foot catches on something and I topple to the ground, rolling over myself and bumping into a tree. Stupid.
I’m winded, but I force myself back onto my feet. Before I’m even steady, the man’s body collides with mine. I turn away from him but his hands close around my arms and I see nothing but white hot rage. I thrash against him, kicking back and hitting him on the shin. He lets out a groan that sounds familiar. And he doesn’t let go.
