Fire & Flood (15 page)

Guy reaches his hand toward me, but when I turn to face him, he lets it fall. His jaw clenches.

“Guy —” I start to say.

“May we have your attention?” a voice booms from behind us. Guy and I spin around to see the two men in collared shirts standing near the fire pit. We glance at each other like we’re not sure they just spoke, because before now, you’d have thought they were practicing to enter a Buddhist monastery. “We will now begin the ceremony that marks the completion of the jungle race.”

The man on the right has a swollen belly and thin arms. He lights a match with his even thinner hands and tosses it into the pit. Fire bursts toward the sky and sounds of awe ripple across the Contenders. The man on the left, who’s sporting a wicked comb-over, raises his arms into the air and his voice rumbles. “Welcome to Shevla!”

I gasp as men, women, and children dressed in white robes and ankle-high boots pour out of the jungle and into our camp. The women wear huge, bright jewelry and serious faces as they carry platters of food above their heads. And as they move closer, decadent scents roll off the dishes. Every memory of being eaten by ants, of escaping chimpanzees, of being sucked on by leeches and nearly drowning and racing through the jungle with strange, painted men trying to kill me — they vanish when I smell the food.

The women set the platters down onto tables the men carried in on their backs. I laugh with surprise as small children approach the fire and sit with drums between their legs. They begin to play. The beat is contagious, and before long, the women in white begin to sing strange, seductive songs.

Guy takes my hand.

I look up at him, forgetting the trance Shevla has brought.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asks.

I nod like a child on Easter, a yard of candy-filled eggs just beyond my reach. Guy pulls me toward the tables and we get in line. Four women in white tell us about the food as we fill our stoneware plates.

“Smoked over fire,” a woman says, pointing to cooked fish. “And here, we roast these with spices from the jungle,” she adds, touching a finger to a platter brimming with glistening vegetables.

Guy and I settle in close to the fire and listen to the beat of the drums. The women continue singing, but now they add dancing to their performance. They skip and leap and toss themselves in peculiar patterns around the fire as if the music has possessed
them. I glance at Guy, and notice there’s a smile on his lips fighting to make an appearance. I want to tell him to let it happen, to not be so serious all the time. But I know it’ll vanish the moment I do, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I nudge him with my shoulder.

“Pretty cool, huh?” I say, after swallowing down a bit of charred, buttery fish.

He doesn’t look at me, but the quasismile leaves his face, as I expected. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” He looks down at his plate. “I don’t think these people know about the race. They were probably just paid to bring us food.”

That’s why I’m able to enjoy it,
he means.
Because
they
didn’t do this to us.

Across the fire, Caroline is finger brushing Dink’s hair. He pretends to pull away, but the slight grin on his face gives him away. Ransom is nowhere in sight, which worries me, but I do spot Harper a few feet from Caroline. There’s a guy talking to her. She ignores him completely. Even so, he continues to chat away as if they’re both participating in the conversation. Harper sees me watching and sighs heavily. Against all odds, I smile, and it actually feels authentic.

I’m not sure what Harper’s ideal type would be, but I’m pretty certain this guy isn’t it. For one, he seems way too happy to be here. Or maybe he’s just happy to be near
her
. The guy looks a bit younger than Harper and is extremely tall. His hair falls in messy blond curls that nearly hide his eyes. He uses a lot of dramatic arm gestures as he speaks to Harper, and I can only imagine this annoys her to no end.

“Check out the guy talking to Harper,” I say, attempting to discuss anything that isn’t the race or Levi or the fact that no one has seen Ransom today. “He seems pretty determined to get her attention.”

Guy’s brow furrows as he inspects the blond. “Poor guy.”

I laugh and punch his shoulder. “Why is he ‘poor guy’? Harper is a … is a …”

“Exactly,” he says. “There are no words.”

I roll my eyes and try to keep laughing, to hold on to this small moment of joy. An older man sitting on Guy’s other side hands him a bottle of something. Guy smells it and raises it to his lips. After he swallows, his face pulls together and he sucks air between his teeth as he passes it to me.

Taking it in my hands, I inspect the bottle. It’s round and heavy at the bottom, and flows into a long and narrow neck. The green glass is too dark to see what’s inside. I glance at Guy, and he makes a tipping motion with his hand as if to say
Drink up.
I remember all the things I
don’t
want to remember, and I stare down into the bottle. For three seconds, I wonder what Dad would say about my drinking to kill bad memories. Or about my drinking at all. But then I decide that the second I joined the Brimstone Bleed was the second I had to learn to survive any way I could. And this … this is a ticket to mental freedom.

I tip the bottle back and guzzle until my head swims.

When I lower it and wipe a hand across my mouth, I note Guy eyeing me.

“Great,” he says, shaking his head.

“Great what?” I pass the bottle to the woman next to me, who is all too eager to accept it. “What’s so great?” I ask this question about a hundred times over the next half hour. Guy just shakes his head, which makes me laugh hysterically and hang on his arm. “What’s great, Guy? Me? Am I great? I am, right? Do you want to know why?”

I stare into the fire, transfixed by the flames.

“Why?” Guy says suddenly.

“What?” I turn and look at him.

“You asked if I wanted to know why you’re great.”

I shake my head and look for the green bottle of magic and awesome. “You’re crazy.”

He sighs.

I glance back at the fire. All around it, Contenders dance. Most of the men in white have left, but a few children and women stay behind, singing and beating the drums. The smoke from the fire wraps around the arms and legs of the people dancing and eggs them on. Everything seems to go in slow motion: the
thwump-thwump
ing of the drums, the Contenders’ easy laughter, the Pandoras howling at the moon.

When I glance at Guy to see if he sees what I do, I realize he’s staring at me. “Why are you always watching me?”

His face opens with surprise at my question. I’m a little surprised myself, but mostly, I’m wondering where the damn green bottle is.

“Did you hear me?” I ask.

He presses his lips together and nods his head.

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“Maybe I don’t have the answer.” He leans back onto his hands and looks up at the sky. “Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Because I’m curious,” I say.

“About everything, apparently.”

“No, just about you.” Though I feel relaxed and carefree, this last admission feels like one I may later regret. My eyes find his, but he’s not looking at my eyes. He’s looking at my mouth. Before I can protest, he raises a hand and runs his thumb over my lips. I close my eyes and shiver beneath his touch. I feel him shift beside me, and then his warm palms wrap around my face. I pull in a breath.

And his lips touch mine.

It’s so sudden that I almost don’t know how to react. But that’s okay, because my body understands
exactly
what to do with him.
My back arches and I wrap my arms around him. His mouth is warm and soft against mine. And when his tongue touches the inside of my lips, a clap of thunder sounds through my body. I realize now that neither the jungle, the leeches, the raft, nor the river posed any real threat. The real fear is here.

That I will surely drown in his embrace.

All the things I question about Guy vanish. I don’t care what he’s hiding. I don’t mind that his hands are calloused and his skin is pricked with sweat. I only care that he’s pressed against me. That he’s here.

Our kiss has just started — seconds of bliss, maybe only a single moment — when it’s interrupted by the men in collared shirts.

“May we have your attention?” one man says. The drums stop. The dancing stops. Guy and I pull away and look at each other, breathing deep. I have a sudden impulse to kiss the scar over his eye, or run my fingers over the mangled part of his left ear. Every last imperfection seems to beg for my immediate attention. “It’s time to announce the first victor.”

This gets our attention. Guy and I turn and gaze at the man with the comb-over. He holds something in his closed fist, but I can’t make out what it is. “One hundred and twenty-two people competed in the first leg of the race,” he says. Some Contenders clap and the sound appalls me. “But only one could win the initial prize.”

The man holds up his fist. I notice then how large his ears are, how they redden with his excitement. “Rachelle Gregory, please come forward.”

A short, robust woman on the other side of the fire stands up. Contenders nearby give her congratulatory pats as she moves toward the man. She appears to be Caroline’s age and has feathery red hair … and freckles. I wonder if she hates them as much as I
do mine. Maybe she doesn’t think about them. Maybe I shouldn’t think about them.

The woman — Rachelle — stands near the fire and beams. Her smile is so wide, I’m afraid her face will break. But her rigid posture speaks the truth. She hates it here, and I decide then that I like this lady.

Opening his fist, the man stretches a long green ribbon taut. Then he ties it around her upper arm. A hush falls over the crowd. We’ve been trained so that flags mean everything. They were life preservers in the jungle, something that said:
You’re on the right track; everything’s going to be okay.
And now, at base camp, they’re a status symbol. I spot them here and there tied around the arms of Contenders, young and old. They wear them proudly, their heads held high and their chests full.

But no one has a green flag.

The woman’s smile falls as she fingers the ribbon around her bicep. I wonder how it feels. A few days before we found base camp, our group agreed not to wear the flags. Except Titus, who may very well have solidified the trend.

“You worked hard to win this leg,” the man tells the woman. “And though our resources are limited, those of us working behind the Brimstone Bleed are doing everything we can to help save lives.”

I wait for people to scoff, to mumble smart responses. No one does. I think about what Guy told me, about the Pharmies. Glancing at him, I vow to learn more of the story soon.

“So tonight, we’d like to award you a monetary prize: enough to secure the best doctors in the world. While only the Cure can guarantee health for your loved one, this money will help ensure they get the best care in the meantime.”

The man hands her a slip of paper.

She gasps.

Nobody says anything for a few seconds. Finally, a young boy calls out, “What does it say?”

Rachelle looks up. Tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. “It’s a check for two million dollars,” she says. Contenders who just got done patting her on the back are now looking at her with envy. And hatred.

The man places a hand upon her shoulder. “And now it’s time to ask you a question, Rachelle.” He touches a hand to his thinning hair, then glances out at the crowd. “Are you going to continue the race? Or will you return home?”

Rachelle looks at him with shock. Before this, I’d often wondered if we’d be allowed to leave if we wanted to. Surely, she must have wondered the same thing. And now here it is — a ticket out of this place. I try to decide what I would choose: to return home with the money and hope better doctors can help save Cody, or to stay and fight for a guarantee. The woman’s face tightens, and I can tell she’s asking herself the same thing.

“I want to leave,” she announces.

The Contenders clap at this, happy to have her out of here. To be rid of a fierce competitor.

A woman in white takes her by the arm and the two disappear outside the base camp.
Where are they taking her? To a village? A small airport outside the jungle?
I have a reckless longing to race after them, screaming to wait up, Madox bobbing in my arms.

A small voice inside my head whispers:
Are you
sure
you’re strong enough? Are you sure there’s really a cure?
Worse still:
Is your brother’s life really worth risking your own?

I jump to my feet and storm toward the cabin Guy and I have slept in for the last four nights. Behind me, I hear the man saying something else, and the Contenders grow excited. But I block it
out and keep moving. I have to get away from here. I need time to think.

Finding my usual cot, I nearly collapse onto it. But I stop myself. What makes me deserve this bed more than someone else does? After questioning the value of my brother’s life, perhaps I don’t warrant anything more than the floor.

I grab a plaid blanket and a pillow and lie down beside the bed. Curling into a ball, I pray for the sound of Guy’s approaching footsteps. I want him to chase after me. I need him to find me and hold me like he did the first night. My face burns as I think about our kiss. I squeeze my eyes shut and think about the feel of his lips, the fleeting touch of his tongue. But what does it matter amid the Brimstone Bleed?

It matters more than anything.

I hear footsteps approaching and watch the door.
Please let it be him. Please let it be him.

The door creaks open, and Harper steps inside. Somehow, her being here is even better. I watch her search the floor until she finds me. In her hands are two envelopes. “Tella,” she says gently. “You left before they made their final announcement.”