Dry

by Neal Shusterman

  It’s torturous getting to the top of the ridge, even though it’s not all that steep and it’s just a few dozen yards ahead of us. My legs are weak and I’m dizzy, but I can fight that. For now. As soon as I get to the top, I hide behind a tree and peer out. The music’s louder and now I recognize the tune. It’s Cashmere by Led Zeppelin. That familiar relentless beat and exotic, yet somehow ominous riff fills the air. Robert Plant’s voice wails above it all like some sort of religious chant.

  There’s a small camper down there—an old one. Rusty. Must have been there for a long time. This is a bug-out—I recognize that right away. Nothing as elaborate as ours, but a bug-out all the same. Two men sit out front in folding chairs. They have weapons—nasty ones—which isn’t surprising. They’re roasting rabbits over an open fire. How stupid to have an open flame when everything’s so dry—but I sense that consequences are not a high priority for these men.

  And then one of them lifts a water bottle to his lips.

  The power of my craving is like an electrical surge. It’s almost impossible to resist. I want to hurl myself down there and grab that water—even though I know I’ll get shot trying. But somehow that doesn’t seem to matter as much to my zombie-brain as grabbing that water. It takes every ounce of self control I have to stop myself and curtail my biological imperative.

  There’s something wrong here, that voice in my head says. I look for something incongruous in the scene to confirm my analysis, and I find it. Because there’s a purse on the ground, items dumped. No sign of its owner. My neck hairs raise. This isn’t just a bug-out, it’s a lair, and we have to stay far, far away. See, I’ve been to plenty of prepper conventions. There are basically two kinds of preppers. First are the ones like me and my family. We arm ourselves and stock up, but only to protect ourselves from the chaos. Then there are the ones who bring the chaos. They wait for things to fall apart. They long for the lawlessness. Feed on it. Because there’s nothing more exciting for them than the moment the world becomes their own personal video game.

  Those are the kind who play loud music in the woods that can be heard for miles, just to see who it attracts. They are the wolves waiting to see what kind of prey comes calling. But just like their open flame, they have failed to consider the consequences. Because if it’s another predator who shows up instead of prey, these two can be picked off with a couple of well-placed shots.

  A twig snaps, and I spin to see Alyssa coming up behind me.

  “They have water!” she whispers—she’s seen it, too.

  “Shhh!” I tell her, because the song is fading. We hold our silence, hold our breath until the next one starts. They didn’t hear us. Dear God, I hope they didn’t hear us. As the sounds of another Zep tune begin to blare, I move Alyssa farther away.

  “We don’t want anything to do with that water,” I tell her.

  “But—”

  I can’t take the time to explain to her now. I grasp her shoulders. I look in her bloodshot eyes. “You have to trust me,” I tell her.

  And she does. Reluctantly, but she does. And we return together to the truck.

  Jacqui’s kept the engine idling to keep the fan on, even though it’s just blowing hot air.

  “We have to get out of here,” I tell her as we climb in. “Don’t gun the engine. Just leave as quietly as you can.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I say, “but we have to leave NOW.”

  For a moment, I think Jacqui might cave and accept my assessment of the situation, but Alyssa feels that she has to explain. That’s not what we need in this moment. What we need is speed and stealth.

  “There are a couple of guys down there. Kelton thinks they might be dangerous.”

  “Do they have water?” Jacqui asks.

  Alyssa hesitates, and that tells the others all they need to know. Jacqui opens the door and gets out of the car. While I can resist my zombie urge, Jacqui’s all about impulse, and I can see her turning. I get in front of her before she can make a mistake that will likely get her killed.

  “We’re maybe an hour away from the reservoir,” I remind her. “Then we’ll have all the water we need.”

  “Sounds like these guys are a bird in the hand,” Jacqui says. “So let’s make them share.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I hiss. “They are not the sharing type, and they have guns that are bigger and badder than my Ruger!”

  And suddenly a new voice enters the conversation. One that’s been mostly quiet.

  “Alyssa . . . I don’t feel so good.” Garrett stands just beside the truck. He wavers for a moment like he’s on the deck of a ship weathering a storm. Then his eyes roll back, his knees give out, and he collapses.

  Alyssa hurries to him. I help her pick him up and put him back in the car. Henry gets out of the way so we can lie Garrett down on the back seat.

  “I think it’s okay,” I tell Alyssa, who has forgotten anything else now but her brother. “His blood pressure’s probably low, and he stood up too fast, that’s all. He just has to lie down for a while.” I hope I’m right.

  That’s when I realize that something has changed. It takes a moment for me to realize what it is. The truck is no longer idling. The engine is off. Not only that, but the keys are gone. And so is Henry.

  43) Henry

  There is no turning back, and no margin for error now. The opportunity presented itself and I took it, simple as that. Now I must follow through. Game theory suggests that success favors the decisive. Taking any action is always better than taking no action at all. So while the others argued and dealt with Garrett, I did what I had to do. Alyssa will not forgive me, I know, but I find that bothers me less than I thought it would.

  I follow the music, crest the ridge, and see the two men in their encampment. I hurl myself down toward them, falling to the ground and scraping my palms. I am on all fours and out of breath. They stand up and look at me, amused that I’ve tumbled into their presence.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a lunch guest,” one of them says, but I’m not interested in their lunch and they know it. Because my eyes are fixed on the bottle of water that one of them holds in his big, hairy hand.

  When it comes to survival, there are harsh rules that go against the niceties of gracious living. Like in an airplane when the oxygen masks drop and everything goes haywire, they always tell you to put on your own mask first before helping others. But what if there’s only one mask, and you’re the one who gets it first? Well, I suppose you feel bad for the others, but whatever you do, you don’t give that mask away. You breathe, and you breathe deep.

  “What can we do for you?” the one holding the water asks.

  “Today . . . ,” I say, too winded to finish the thought, so I try again. “Today is your lucky day.”

  Then I stand up, force fortitude to my legs, and begin negotiations.

  44) Alyssa

  I stay with Garrett, not willing to leave him for a second. Kelton races off to track Henry, while Jacqui desperately tries to hotwire the truck—but it’s just not working.

  “Old cars are easy,” she says. “But newer cars have a damn digital verification chip, and I don’t think I can get around it!”

  I know this is a terrible thing to say, even think—but right now I wish Jacqui had shot Henry when she had the chance. Why would he take the keys? What was he thinking?

  Then the two men from the rusty bug-out come out of the woods in front of us—and I know where Henry went . . . and exactly what he was thinking when he went there.

  “Hey there!” the taller of the two says. “Having some car trouble?”

  In spite of the friendly greeting, there’s nothing else friendly about them. Up close these men are intimidating, and intentionally so. They’re muscular. They look like maybe they’re thirty, although they’re weathered in a way that makes it hard to tell for sure. The shorter one has tattoo sleeves. Not artful ones, but ugly ones. Scrawled words and symbols, and all in the same bluis
h black ink. The taller one has a shaved head and a scar that cuts diagonally across part of his scalp. We’re always told not to judge a book by its cover, but there is nothing ambiguous about these two. Some people lack the imagination to do anything but embrace a stereotype and let it define them. These men lead violent lives, and they’re happy to let the world know it.

  “Easy to get lost when you’re off-roading,” the one with the shaved head says. “Is that what you are? Lost?”

  I quickly look around. Kelton isn’t back from his search for Henry. It’s just me, Jacqui, and Garrett, who’s still unconscious in the back seat.

  “We don’t want any trouble . . . ,” I say, although out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jacqui ready for all sorts of trouble.

  “That’s good, that’s good,” says the inked one. “We don’t want trouble either. But I’m afraid you’re gonna have to step away from our property.”

  “Excuse me?” says Jacqui.

  Then the inked one holds up my uncle’s key chain. “We just bought it,” he says. “Your friend sold it to us for a nice guzzle of water.”

  The bald one laughs when he sees the look on Jacqui’s and my faces. “Yeah, we poured it right into his hands and he sucked it all down. Some of it spilled on his shoe, so he took his shoe off and licked the rubber dry. Damnedest thing. Then he took off down the mountain, one shoe on, one shoe off. Funny kid.”

  And I think how unfair it is that of the five of us, Henry’s the only one who’s had water. Probably enough for him to get out of this forest alive.

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” says the inked one. “Step away from our property.” And he pulls out a no-nonsense handgun.

  He’s not going to use it, I tell myself. It’s to make a point. Like everything else about these two, it’s meant to intimidate. But I will not give in to the intimidation.

  “We’re going to the San Gabriel Reservoir,” I tell him, not moving away from the door. “Let us get there, and then you can have the truck.”

  The inked one shakes his head. “Already a done deal. Nothing more to talk about.”

  “Now hold on,” says the skinhead. “Let’s not be hasty.” And he drags his eyes across me, looking me up and down like I’m something up for auction.

  That’s when Jacqui makes her move. She launches herself at the inked one, trying to grab his gun, but he’s quick. He uses moves on her like the ones Kelton used on Henry—but this guy is stronger, faster. His moves are second nature. Jacqui doesn’t stand a chance. He uses her own momentum against her, twists her around like he’s leading her in a swing dance, and forces her to the ground, pulling her arm at an unnatural angle, leaving her on her knees grimacing and grunting in pain.

  “Play nice, now,” he says, and he doesn’t release her arm, which keeps her incapacitated.

  Meanwhile, the skinhead hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He moves closer. “Sucks for you that your boyfriend sold you out to save himself.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say reflexively—but I wish I had said nothing.

  Because the skinhead says, “Even better,” and he keeps moving closer.

  I try to knee him in the groin, and he reacts by lurching forward, pressing up against me, pushing me back against the side of the car, and leaving my knee no leverage.

  “We could share our water with you, if you’d act a little more civilized. . . .”

  But by the way he’s pressing up against me, I know his idea of civil is not the same as mine. I can smell his breath now. Cigarettes and Doritos. I don’t think I’ll eat Doritos again for the rest of my life. I try to struggle, but I’m so weak from dehydration now, it’s useless. I’ve never felt this helpless, and it’s an awful, awful feeling. Because I realize he can do anything he wants to me now, and I’m not going to be able to stop him.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he tells me quietly. “We’ll go back to our camp, and it’s all gonna be okay.”

  Then suddenly Garrett’s there, jumping out of the car, and grabbing at him.

  “Get away from my sister!”

  He bites the arm that’s holding me—and this burst of energy that Garrett has must give him superhuman strength, because it’s like the bite of a shark, leaving a bloody, gaping wound.

  The skinhead screams in pain and pushes Garrett to the ground. I try to use the moment to break free, but he’s got me wedged so tightly, I still can’t move.

  “You little shit, what did you do?”

  Then the inked one looks at the blood pouring from his buddy’s arm, and he turns, pointing his gun right at Garrett.

  “Nooo!” I yell—

  And the world ends with a gunshot.

  45) Jacqui

  I see what’s happening. I see all of it, and I can’t stop it. I can’t even get up, because the goddamn tattooed bastard twists my arm whenever I try to move. All I can do is curse at him and threaten what I’ll do to him when I’m free.

  I see the other one advance on Alyssa. I see her try to stop him. I don’t hear what he whispers to her, but it can’t be good. Then Garrett sits up in the car, finally conscious, with no idea what’s going on—and seeing his sister cornered by the skinhead, he leaps right into the middle of a situation that’s only going to get worse.

  The skinhead is screaming from one hell of a bite, and the inked asshole, almost like it’s a reflex, aims the gun at Garrett like he’s about to shoot a rat that wandered into their camp. And in spite of the pain I tug my body around, screaming, because if I can throw this guy off balance, his shot will go wild.

  A gunshot goes off, and suddenly his knees give out, and he goes down, and there’s blood on his face—and there’s blood on Garrett’s face too, but Garrett isn’t dead. And I realize that the blood on Garrett’s face, dripping from his mouth, is from the bite he gave the skinhead. But the inked asshole’s blood is his own. He’s on the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead just above his left eye. He shudders once, then goes limp.

  And Kelton stands ten yards away, arm extended, his gun at the end of it.

  The other man freezes up, shocked. “Jesus H. Chr—”

  But he never completes the invocation of his lord and savior, because Kelton shifts his arm, fires again, and the bullet hits the skinhead in that space just beneath his nose. The exit wound splatters blood all over Alyssa’s face. She’s already screaming, so she just continues. I don’t think she has any idea yet what’s going on. All she probably sees in her mind is her brother dead on the ground, because that reality seemed so big a moment ago, it persists even after reality shifted elsewhere. If she lives through all of this, she’s probably going to have nightmares about that moment that never happened for the rest of her life.

  The skinhead crumbles. I get to my feet, and Alyssa finally finds her way back to the real world. She steps over the dead skinhead and goes straight to Garrett.

  “Are you okay? Are you okay?” She wipes the blood from his mouth, reconfirming that it’s not his.

  He nods. And she hugs him in a way that sisters never hug brothers, except when they’re almost shot in the head.

  I go over to Kelton, who still holds the gun, eyes on the two men like they might still be alive, maybe because they kept their brains in their asses. Finally he lowers the gun. I think he might start shaking, or break down in some way, but he doesn’t. Not at all. I hate the fact that he had to save us—but the situation could just as easily have been reversed, with me being the one to save the day. And as much as I hate to admit it, Kelton—who has actual training with weapons—is probably a much better shot than I am.

  Kelton takes a deep breath, and then another. “Get the car keys, and get their guns,” he says calmly. “Then we’ll go to their camp and get their water.”

  “Good thinking,” I say, noting how different this kid is now than the Kelton I met at the beach. I’m not sure which one I dislike less—the goofy loser who can’t fire a weapon, or the kid who can kill two men in cold blood and
not break a sweat.

  Well, none of us are sweating anymore. And we’re not second- guessing each other either. We’re finally in that single-minded place where we do what we have to do, whatever it is.

  Turns out only the inked one was armed. Kelton takes the gun and looks it over. “Desert Eagle with a muzzle brake,” he says. “Much better than mine.” He claims it, and offers me his gun. I hesitate, because I don’t want it anymore.

  “I’ll take it,” says Alyssa. She still has blood splattered on her face. I decide not to mention it.

  “You sure?” Kelton asks.

  She nods. “No one’s ever going to put me in a position like that again.”

  “What about Henry?” I ask.

  Kelton looks at his big, shiny new gun and shrugs. “I’ll save a bullet for him,” he says.

  And for the life of me I can’t tell if he really means it.

  46) Alyssa

  If I think too much right now, I’ll lose my mind. There are two dead bodies in front of me. Can’t think about it. My brother was almost murdered. Can’t think about it. My parents might be floating facedown in the Pacific Ocean. Can’t think about it.

  What I can think about is the water that I know is just up the ridge and down by an old rusty camper.

  “Alyssa . . . ,” Garrett says, just as he said before he lost consciousness before, “I don’t feel so good.”

  “We’re getting water,” I tell him. “It’ll be okay.”

  “But . . . but I can’t get up. I can’t move.”

  His voice is even weaker than before, and I think back to what Kelton said last night. How right before you die, your body will fight it. You’ll have a burst of energy—the body’s last attempt to save itself.

  And it dawns on me that Garrett just had that burst of energy. Which means he could be only minutes away from closing his eyes forever.

  “We have to hurry!” I say to the others, not sparing another thought for the dead men. I pick up Garrett in my arms, and although I barely have the strength to hold up my own weight, I bear his as well, as we make our way toward the campsite.