Distress Signal

by Mary E. Lambert

  Lavender’s head throbbed. Her face and neck hurt from yesterday’s sunburn. In fact, it was probably time to reapply her sunscreen, but her arms wouldn’t work. She couldn’t even search for a pebble like the others, because if she squatted down, she wasn’t sure if she would get up again. Resting her forehead against a nearby pine tree, she took deep, even breaths, trying to stave off the crushing fatigue and looming panic.

  “Here.” Marisol stuck a pebble in her hand. “You should try it. It really is better than nothing.” Lavender tightened her fist around the rock.

  “Let’s keep going,” John said. His voice was already less raspy than it had been only a few minutes before. “If we want to reach the top before night, we shouldn’t stop too long.”

  As they began climbing, Lavender slipped the pebble between her dry lips. Moisture filled her mouth. It helped. Lavender tried to take even breaths without any sudden gasping or inhaling. She didn’t want to choke to death on a rock. She didn’t want to die, even though it was sinking in that she was closer to death than she’d ever been in her life.

  With every grueling step, Lavender continued searching for a trail. She scoured the mountainside for any sign of human life: a trail, a tent, a bench—even litter would have been a welcome sight in that moment, some sort of tangible proof that they were not the only four humans left on the planet.

  There was none.

  No wrappers.

  No plastic bottles.

  No wadded-up papers.

  Normally, Lavender would have loved to see such a beautiful, pristine landscape. It was a miracle to find a corner of Earth so untouched.

  But the very remoteness of the area filled her with a nameless dread. If they didn’t reach the mountaintop and find a trail, or see a ranger station, or get a radio or cell signal, then all hope was lost.

  She poked the rock around with her tongue. The pebble was a lumpy oval with some rough patches and some smooth. As much as she hated to give Rachelle credit for anything, it was helping.

  But Lavender did not thank Rachelle. She didn’t say anything. As the afternoon wore on, even Rachelle gave up on speech. They were exhausted, weary, and scared.

  Then there came a part of the hike so steep that Lavender wanted to cry. Here, a few of the angles had to be a for real ninety degrees, and they were no longer hiking but scaling rocks. Lavender’s hand—raw from the splinter—hurt with a sharp, stabbing pain that only increased when she had to pull and tug against boulders.

  She was ready to quit, when John called out: “The peak! I can see it. We’re almost there.”

  He was just a few feet ahead of her, standing on the edge of boulders so steep that it made her stomach drop.

  “Be careful!” she called to him. “Don’t stand so close to the edge.”

  “Come on,” he called down to her. “You’ve got this.”

  But Lavender was utterly exhausted. With barely any food or water all day, she was nearly at the end of her stamina. Next to her, Marisol looked equally frail. Rachelle was just ahead of them, perched on a rock a few feet above their own. She twisted to look at them.

  “You guys, he’s right. I see it. We’re so close to the peak.”

  “Go on ahead without us,” said Marisol. She flopped her hand in an exhausted wave, shooing Rachelle away.

  “No, not without you,” Rachelle said. “Leave no man behind.”

  “What?” asked Lavender. She tried to clear her head with a little shake. It didn’t help; it only made the pounding worse.

  “Something else my grandpa used to say. I think from when he was in the army.”

  “Why are we talking about your grandpa?” Lavender asked.

  “Because we’re not leaving you behind.”

  “Why do you even care?”

  “Because you look like you’re about to pass out,” Rachelle retorted. “I’m not leaving anyone when they look like that. So get your butts up here, both of you, or John and I will drag you the rest of the way up the mountain.” When neither Lavender nor Marisol moved, Rachelle turned around and called, “John! Come back.”

  Rachelle gestured to him. He’d been leaning in the shade of a large boulder, waiting for them to catch up. Now he climbed back down. Lavender didn’t know how he did it. She couldn’t imagine making that climb once, never mind twice.

  Lavender rolled the pebble around in her mouth, trying to moisten her throat. She was parched. Her mouth was a desert. The Sahara was a tropical paradise compared to her.

  With a thud, John landed on the ground in front of her.

  He reached in his backpack and grimly handed Lavender his water bottle. The last sip still swished around in it. She shook her head. She couldn’t drink the last of the water.

  But he just held out his arm until she took it.

  Spitting out the pebble, she unscrewed the cap and let the last bit of water drain into her mouth. It was the single most generous thing anyone had ever done for her, and it gave Lavender the strength to force herself to her feet even as Rachelle limped over to Marisol and heaved her up.

  Once she started moving, a little of Lavender’s energy came back to her, and she found the strength to make it over the last few boulders. Maybe it was because Rachelle and John helped, calling encouragement and holding out a hand anytime a little extra effort was needed. They took a few rests, but Lavender did not make the mistake of sitting, leaning, or slumping over again. She knew they might really end up having to drag her if she did that.

  At the last stop, when all four of them had a perfect view of the mountain peak, she turned to Rachelle and said, “Thanks for helping me. I know you don’t like me.”

  “You don’t like me,” Rachelle said.

  The first thought to pop into Lavender’s mind was I don’t.

  They had never been friends. Rachelle had rubbed Lavender the wrong way since the first time she’d shown up at Wellson Elementary. When she’d introduced herself to the class on her first day as a new student, she’d stood in front of everyone and said, “My name is Rachelle Winchester, and my parents enrolled me at this school because they’re old friends with the principal.” She could be a smug little know-it-all.

  Now Lavender found herself wondering whether Rachelle must have felt the same way about her. Before she could muster enough energy to ask, Rachelle answered the unspoken look stamped across Lavender’s face.

  “You don’t have to like someone to do what’s right,” Rachelle said. “Doctors don’t have to like their patients. Teachers don’t have to like their students. Waiters don’t have to like their customers.”

  “But it helps,” said Marisol, “when people like each other and are nice.”

  “Yeah,” John agreed in a faraway voice, “it does.” And Lavender wondered if he was thinking about his parents.

  Studying the three faces around her—streaked with dirt and scraped from running through the wilderness and chapped from the dry climate—Lavender felt a wave of affection for these three. Straightening her shoulders, she heard herself make a sudden vow: “Get me out of the wilderness alive, and I’ll never lie again and I’ll like all of you until the day I die. Seriously, you’ll be my best friends no matter what. I’ll have your backs for-ev-er.” She didn’t care if they believed her; in that moment, she knew she meant every syllable of it.

  “Dramatic much?” Marisol asked with a weary smile, but Lavender heard a familiar teasing tone—the one Marisol used with her best friends. And Lavender found herself smiling, too. Marisol staggered a few steps forward. “Come on, we can see the peak. We’re almost there. I just know we’re going to see our campsite or find a trail or a backpacker or something. I can feel it.”

  A light, bubbly feeling rose up in Lavender’s chest. It took her a few seconds to recognize the emotion. It was hope.

  They crested the last rise, only to find a barren mountain peak.

  “Where’s the camp?” Rachelle asked, looking in every direction. “We should be able to see it from here.
I know this is the mountain we could see from our campsite.”

  Lavender turned in a slow circle, checking in every direction. Spread out below them was an incredible view. If she’d had food and water and a map, maybe she would have appreciated it. Mile after mile of spectacular scenery … as far as her eyes could see there were mountains, trees, rock spires, and—she took it in with a feeling of despair—a vast untouched wilderness.

  “Stay calm. We all just need to stay calm,” John ordered, and Lavender wondered if he was talking to Rachelle or to himself. “We knew we might not find someone here, but I bet the reception will be better. I’m going to try my phone. I’m sure we can get a signal from up here.”

  “And I’ve got my radio!” Lavender said.

  Lavender dug it out of her backpack and turned it on with shaking hands. Nothing.

  She held her breath as John powered up his cell phone. It felt like an eternity as the screen lit up and slowly turned on. The display shone: 3:43 p.m. Their twenty-four hours were up.

  If Marisol’s mom’s TV shows were right, they weren’t ever going to be found.

  John began dialing 911 over and over again.

  There was no answer. There was no signal. Still.

  Lavender tried her radio. Same result as before. The last remaining bubble of hope in Lavender’s chest burst and oozed into something dark and heavy and terrifying, weighing down every limb. She collapsed onto her knees and rested her forehead on the hot ground. So that was it.

  “There has to be a trail. Some sort of trail. We just didn’t cross it,” John said, dashing a little way down the peak. “Maybe on the other side of the mountain.”

  Lavender stayed glued to her spot in the dirt.

  She heard Marisol say, “Didn’t Mr. Gonzales say that some areas mark trails with little piles of rocks or spray paint on rocks and trees? Maybe we didn’t see the trail because we’re expecting to see a path, and we just weren’t looking for the right thing.”

  Meanwhile, John was growing frantic. “No! No! No!” he said as he sped by her again and rushed in another direction, still vainly searching for a trail, a path, a campsite, a backpacker.

  It was useless. They were doomed.

  Lavender couldn’t make herself get up to help. There was no point looking for something that wasn’t there. Her head pounded. Lavender flopped onto her back. It no longer mattered if she could get up. She would never move again. This was it.

  Using her backpack as a pillow, Lavender studied the clouds overhead. The sky was still thick with them. They were moving quickly, racing across the sky, furling and unfurling in billows like puffs of smoke. She wished she could reach out and scoop the particles into her hand. Instead they taunted her. Thousands of feet above her, out of reach, she could see them—huge bursts of ice particles. She was going to die of thirst, while looking at exquisite works of art made of water.

  Life was cruel.

  And short.

  Well, hers would be short. Sixth graders were supposed to worry about being bored in school and having too much homework and if their crush liked them back and who to invite to their birthday party. Sixth graders were not supposed to be worried about whether or not they would have enough food or clean water or how they were going to die.

  Lost in her own thoughts, Lavender ignored the others. She had no idea how much time had passed when a shadow fell across her face. Marisol was standing over her.

  “Any luck?” Lavender asked, already sure of a negative answer. “Did you find anything?”

  “No,” said Marisol. “But thanks for all your help.” She plopped into the dirt beside Lavender.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just too tired and thirsty to move.”

  “How do you think the rest of us feel?” But Marisol leaned back, planting her head on the backpack next to Lavender’s. “Scoot over. Give me some room.”

  “Where are Rachelle and John?” Lavender asked.

  “John decided to try digging for water. He remembers seeing a survival show where people in the desert dug a hole at the base of a tree or something and found a puddle of water.”

  “Wouldn’t it be all muddy and gross?’ asked Lavender.

  “Who cares? At this point, I’d drink mud water.”

  “Me too.” Lavender paused.

  “I’d drink anything,” Marisol said.

  “Even urine?”

  “Honestly, I thought about that. I’ve heard sailors used to do that if they ran out of water.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Me either.”

  “What if it means the difference between life and death?” asked Lavender.

  “Then I guess we’re going to die,” said Marisol with a weak attempt at a chuckle.

  Lavender tried to laugh, too, but she couldn’t. She was afraid if she showed any hint of emotion, she was going to be swallowed up by all of them—but mostly despair.

  “Where’s Rachelle? Is she helping John?” Lavender asked.

  She felt, rather than saw, Marisol shake her head.

  “What’s she doing?”

  Marisol sighed. “She’s losing her mind. I think she might actually be having a breakdown. When we couldn’t find any trails or anything, she just went berserk. I tried to help her, but she told me to leave her alone. I think she was crying, but there were, like, no tears. It was freaky.”

  Crying without tears.

  That sounded bad. They must be really dehydrated if that was the case. Lavender had two choices: She could just lie there until something killed her or—

  “I should probably get up and do something,” Lavender said. “Like help John dig.”

  “Yeah,” said Marisol. “Me too.”

  Neither of them moved. They lay there in silence. Lavender didn’t know what Marisol was doing, but Lavender was watching the clouds again. They had morphed into new shapes, startling in beauty and a haunting reminder of everything she was about to lose. She closed her eyes for a minute, just remembering, listening to the sound of Marisol’s breathing and wondering how long her parents would keep looking for her after she gave up. She missed them, but she was fiercely, selfishly glad that she was not alone on this mountaintop. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” Lavender said.

  Marisol didn’t say anything, and Lavender allowed her own eyes to drift closed. A few seconds passed, and Lavender heard her friend shift. Marisol’s hand closed around one of Lavender’s own.

  Exhaustion pushed on her, and Lavender drifted into an uneasy nap with Marisol beside her. Eventually, John joined them. The sound of his heavy, defiant footsteps pulled Lavender from her light sleep. She cracked open an eye and studied him.

  John was scowling. His hands were dirty and covered in mud. He was dragging his backpack on the ground by one of its straps. When Marisol sat up and asked in a tired voice if he’d found anything, he threw his backpack with so much force that Lavender worried it would sail right off the mountain.

  Then he tossed himself into the dirt next to them and said, “I give up. All those survival shows are just a bunch of rotten lies.”

  “If it was easy, more people would do it,” said Marisol.

  Lavender said nothing. She was starting to get cold again. It made sense that the temperature would be even lower on top of a mountain. They had all been so convinced that they’d be rescued once they reached the top that none of them even considered what it would be like to stay overnight at that elevation.

  But after a long rest, Lavender’s head hurt less. She was still exhausted, hungry, and, most of all, thirsty, but she felt good enough after her nap to push herself up. She stood too quickly and for a moment, the entire world spun, but after a few deep breaths, everything righted itself.

  “What are you doing?” Marisol asked.

  “Firewood,” said Lavender. After her long rest, it turned out that she wasn’t ready to just give up.

  “Good idea.” Marisol dragged herself to her feet. “I can feel the temperature dropping.”
/>   “Need help?” John asked. His voice was still hard and angry.

  “No, we’ve got it,” said Lavender. “We rested while you were working.”

  “Cool,” said John with as much expression as an amoeba. Lavender had a feeling that she could have told him that she was going to sprout wings and fly them all to safety and she would have gotten the same unconcerned answer.

  Lavender and Marisol walked all around the mountaintop, collecting any sticks, twigs, dried leaves, and shrub they could find.

  “Ouch!” said Marisol, suddenly dropping the stick she’d reached under a bush for.

  “What? Are you okay?” Lavender asked.

  “Yeah, it’s just the prickles from skinning the cactus. There were all these super-fine, tiny thorns that got stuck in my hands. We could avoid the bigger ones, but the almost invisibles ones got everywhere, and they really hurt if I brush them the wrong way against something.”

  “Thirty-seven,” said Lavender.

  Marisol picked up the stick, more gingerly this time. “What?”

  “That’s your score. I’ve been keeping track of how many times you complain about the prickly pear thorns.”

  “Ha! Well, I was counting, too, while we climbed the mountain. I was just too nice to say it out loud.” She gave Lavender a very serious look. “One thousand two hundred and eleven. That’s how many times you’ve complained about the cut on your hand.”

  They were still making up fake numbers when they returned to the peak, where John was stretched out. He’d wiped some of the mud from his hands and flashlight. Lavender could clearly see what he’d done, because now the dirt was smeared across his shirt—not that his T-shirt had been clean before …

  John was still lying on his back, face toward the clouds, turning the flashlight on and off. On and off. On and off. On and off.

  Marisol, her arms full of firewood, stopped beside him. “Aren’t you worried about wasting the battery?”

  “Actually,” Lavender cut in, “it’s not the worst idea. If you wait until dark and then turn it on and off three times real fast, then three times only leave it on longer, and then three more fast times, that’s the international distress signal in Morse code. If a plane or helicopter comes close enough, maybe they’ll see it and know we need help.”