Nowhere Wild (13 page)

Izzy clawed at the bedcovers, attempting to pull them closer. Cold air leaked around the edges in a dozen places where there shouldn't have been edges. She coughed and shivered. The air drawn into her lungs tasted of mildew and lake water—nothing like the potpourri she kept next to her bed in her room. She shifted again. Something hard rubbed against her side. Nylon crinkled beneath her, breaking the final strands of the illusion that she was safe, at home, in her old bed.

She opened her eyes and sat up. Her lower back throbbed in protest. Above her, the thin roof of a tent bloused as her hair brushed against it. She glanced left, then right. A rock wrapped in an old filthy sock lay against her back. She was alone. Alone, and where? The face of a boy came to her mind, along with a name.
Jake
. Where was he?

She straightened her tunic and exited the tent. Jake lay on the ground, between a large log and a fire that burned low. The overturned canoe offered him little protection from the elements. His eyes were closed, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. A backpack doubled as his pillow. Izzy did not disturb him.

She crept into the forest a few meters and squatted behind a tree. Her urine burned as she peed. She winced. She recalled the ride across the lake and the vomiting that had accompanied it. The dry heaves had continued unabated, even when nothing remained in her stomach, as if her body was cleansing itself of everything related to
Rick all at once. Her stomach rolled again from the very thought of it. Disjointed images of the previous day flashed in a blur. There were more memories than could possibly have fit into a single day: the wolverine; her ill-fated attempt at escape; Rick's attack; her attempt to . . . put an end to it . . .
Angie would have understood, right
? The boy's sudden appearance. She glanced up, toward the lake. They had crossed the lake, hadn't they? Rick was on the far side now, wasn't he? He had the other canoe, though, and he knew this area. He'd be coming, and coming soon. He wouldn't let her go. Not that easily.

She finished her business, wiped with a few leaves pulled from a nearby maple tree, grabbed an armload of sticks for the fire, and returned to the camp. Jake remained asleep.

She set the sticks on the coals. The wet wood smoldered and smoked before finally catching. She held her hands close to the fire, till the heat from the flames went from comforting to searing. She moved backward a step and studied the boy.

Bits of his story fluttered through her mind. He said he had been lost in the woods since before the flu. He hadn't
seemed
to know anything about what had happened. How could he not know? Was that really possible? Or was he up to something? He had touched her the previous night. His hands had been on her legs. He said he was just trying to warm her up.

Just like Rick.

But she had been so cold—so very cold. After she had warmed up, he had slept outside, with no protection from the elements, while giving her the tent, despite there being more than enough room for both of them. Rick would never have done that.

She turned her attention to his face, partially obscured by a tangle of thick, dark hair. Her rescuer. He had pulled her from the water . . . She could still feel the lake's frigid fingers wrapping around her ankles, fighting him for her life. She could still
remember the taste of the water as it pushed down her throat, into her lungs. The boy had saved her and gotten her away from Rick. For that, she was grateful. She wanted to trust him.

The sun began to rise to her right, not to her left as it had been for all these months. They
had
crossed the lake. The boy had said Laroque wasn't far from here. She glanced into the woods. She could head south and find her own way. Without supplies—no food, no slings, barely any clothes, no compass, no way to start a fire—the idea seemed ludicrous. But Rick was coming, and the boy had the things she needed. She could grab what she required and be long gone before he awoke. Now that she was across the lake, she could survive on her own out here, given the right tools. She had planned and trained for a moment just like this. She began to move.

She stood and backtracked to the tent. Her “blankets” had been the boy's extra clothes. He wouldn't miss them. She grabbed the jacket and a pair of his pants. Both were far too big for her. The jacket sleeves extended past her fingertips. She could have fit two of herself into the waistband of the pants. She rolled up the pant legs till they only just brushed the ground when she stood. She'd find some way to make a belt later. For now, she'd simply hold on to a belt loop to keep them up. He had left a pair of old running shoes inside the tent as well. They fit like clown shoes on her tiny feet. She wrapped the laces around her ankles ballet-slipper style to keep the shoes on.

She crawled out of the tent. The boy snored under the canoe. His food canister sat a short distance from the bow of the canoe. She crept toward it. He wouldn't notice if she took a few small bits, she reckoned. Just enough for a couple of days—enough to get her through to Laroque. She grabbed the canister. Empty. Her heart sank. She set it back down.

Fine
. She'd have to find food on her own. Fish. Or plants. Rick had at least shown her some of what was edible, so she could add
them to their diet without poisoning them both. Now that the snow was gone, surviving in the forest was so much easier than it had been in the winter. She could do this.

She stole a look back at the woods. Without a compass and a map, she'd have no idea where she needed to go. In fact, she had no idea where she was now. What if Laroque was to the west, not the south? What if she wasn't just two days from it? If she missed it altogether, how far was it to Thompson? Another week? There were roads, weren't there?

If she could just find a road and follow it, it'd take her home, right?

If she could hold a straight line south she'd make it, one way or another.

Clasped to a plastic ring on the boy's backpack was a compass. If she had that, at least she'd have a chance.

She edged closer to the boy, barely making a sound as she tiptoed across the ground. A simple carabiner held the compass in place. She extended her arm. The metal clasp released easily from the webbing. She slid backward. The boy did not move.

Now, with the compass in hand, doubts began to creep into her mind. Without a fire and shelter, every night would be brutal. In her original escape plan, she had the plastic tarp, and the flint and striker. She had tried, at the cabin, to start a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together, but had never even gotten the tip of the spindle warm before her muscles gave out. Rick had once started a fire with a bow and drill setup, but he had only done that to prove to himself—and to her—that he could. He had never revealed the secrets of that tool to her.

She glanced back at the boy's pack. In that pack was everything she would need to survive. If she could just wait until he wasn't looking, she could take it and run. She would just bide her time until
that opportunity presented itself. Then she could go wherever she wanted and not be at the mercy of Rick, or this boy.

She glanced at the compass in her hand. If he caught her with it, he would know what she was planning. She had to return it to the pack before he awoke.

She slithered back toward the boy. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Every step seemed louder than it had before. She knelt beside him and reached for the pack.

Jake's first thought was that the worst had happened—a black bear had picked up the remnant odors of the cooked fish and discovered the camp. His instincts kicked into full gear. He thrust his hands up over his face and rolled away from the perceived threat, expecting at any moment that the sharp claws of the black would rip him to shreds.

A shriek of panic caught his attention. He glanced up at the tent, worried that the bear had gone after the girl.

Instead of a bear, Jake saw only the girl. She fell backward, away from him. Jake scrambled to his feet.

“You scared the bejesus out of me,” he said as he collected himself. He stepped forward to offer her a hand up. She sat back on the ground and did not accept his offer.

“Sorry,” she said as she shied away from him. Jake studied her. She had dressed at some point in a pair of his pants and his only jacket. One hand hooked fingers through a belt loop. The other held something black. She tracked his eyes and moved her hand out of sight.

“It's okay. Really. I'm not going to hurt you.” Jake eased a step backward. To his right, the fire burned higher on fresh wood. He tipped his head toward the fire pit, then bent to warm his hands.

“Thanks for getting the wood. I'll go see if I can't get us a fish for breakfast. There's hot water in the pot there if you're thirsty, or
even if you're not. You need to rehydrate if we're going to get you out of here in one piece.”

“Sure,” she said.

Jake shook his head and smiled. The girl wasn't very talkative—at least not first thing in the morning. Amos had been the same way.
Mornings
, he had said,
are for workin', not yappin'
. But she was alive and mobile, and that was something he had only hoped for the previous evening.

Jake reached down and grabbed his pack. He had stowed the fishing rod back in its case after dinner the previous night. Everything had its place in an orderly camp. Disarray meant leaving things behind when you had to move quickly.

When he picked up his pack, he immediately knew something was missing.
The compass
. Somehow it must have come loose. He scanned the ground beside his bed. Not there. He checked the carabiner on the webbing, half-expecting it to be broken or sprung. Aside from a little tarnish, the clasp remained in perfect working condition. He spun around, hoping to spot the compass among the leaf clutter. He had checked it while waiting for the previous night's dinner to finish cooking, to get a good fix on his location before dark. He remembered clipping it back to the webbing. He always put it back.
Always
. It had been there just a few short hours ago.

Only one thing had changed since then—and she had been right beside him when he awoke. He turned to Izzy.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Where is what?”

“The compass.”

“What compass?”

Jake had seen something in her hand, and now he knew exactly what that had been.

“Hand it over.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Jake stood and put his hands on his hips. The girl cowered, sliding farther away from the fire, little by little, ready to rabbit. Jake chewed the inside of his cheek. Taking his clothes was one thing. She needed those, and unless he was wearing them, he was carrying them. He should have put them on her the previous night.

Taking a person's compass out here, however, was like sentencing them to death. On the lake the previous day, when land disappeared in every direction and the sun hid behind storm clouds, only the little needle on the compass had prevented them from being lost among the waves for hours. For all these weeks in the middle of the woods, it had been his most important tool. Now this girl he had rescued seemed ready to cut that lifeline. As much as he wanted to help her, he couldn't allow her to endanger them any further. His temper rose.

“Do you know how to use it?” he asked. “I mean, do you really know how to use it? With a map? Without one? Because I do. I've come through a hundred kilometers of bush with that, and I plan to follow it all the way home if I need to. If you know how to use it, and can lead us both home faster than I can, then by all means, keep it. I'll follow you all the way. But if you don't know—if you only think you know—then you should give it back to me. I'll guarantee that we'll be in Laroque in three days, and once we're there, I'll buy you one of your own.” She didn't move.

“You're going to have to trust me, Izzy. Whatever happened back there—whatever he did to you—isn't going to happen with me. I'm going to take us home. You have to believe me. But I can't do it without that compass.”

Izzy still didn't move. Jake wanted to rush forward and grab it out of her hand. But if he did that, she would never trust him, or worse, the compass could break in the scuffle. Whatever this girl had
gone through—whether what she had told him last night was the truth or not—had broken her. He couldn't piece her back together by
telling
her to trust him.

Jake turned away from her and pulled the fishing rod out of his pack.

“I'm going to get us some breakfast. You decide what you want to do. I'll be over there.” He pointed to a large rock that jutted into the water like the prow of a ship. She held her position.

Jake forced himself not to look back as he moved away from the camp. He took long, purposeful steps. If she was gone when he finally did turn around, he would have to decide whether to chase her down or let her go. Without the compass, he reckoned he could
probably
make Laroque—but probably wasn't nearly as good as knowing for sure.

He leaped onto the rock, edging closer to the water. Still, he did not look back—not until he had cast the lure as far out into the lake as he could manage. Only then did he turn to learn of her decision.

Izzy stood there, beside the canoe. She bent down to where he had set his pack, then popped right back up. One hand remained on her hip, holding her pants up. With the other, she gave him a little open-handed wave, showing him her empty palm.

She bent back down, picked up the kettle, and poured herself a cup of hot water.

Jake turned his attention back to the water, exhaling slowly. He'd have to keep an eye on her, but at least she hadn't run. Not yet anyway.

After a breakfast of a couple of perch, Jake broke camp, stowed the tent, and placed everything but the sleeping bag in the canoe. Izzy helped, putting the dishes she had cleaned where he instructed. Jake doused the fire, then checked to make sure they had left nothing behind. Izzy was rooting through the contents of the canoe when he returned.

“Where's the other paddle?” she asked.

Jake shrugged. “It must have fallen out back at the cabin. Didn't see it,” he answered.

“I can paddle,” she said with a bit of a snip. She folded her arms in front of her as if she wouldn't move unless she, too, had a paddle.

Jake shook his head.
Patience
, he told himself. “I'm sure you can. We'll keep an eye out for one if we come across any more cabins. That sound okay?”

Izzy gave a slow nod. Jake pointed to the canoe.

“Grab on. Let's go.”

Izzy helped slide the canoe back to the water's edge, then hopped in as Jake pushed the bow into the water. She wrapped her body from toes to neck with the sleeping bag. Jake grimaced. It would never get dry at this rate.

“Be careful with that sleeping bag. It's the only one we've got,” he said. Water sloshed over the bow as soon as he said it. Wet dots appeared on the nylon shell.

“Do you have a blanket or something I can use instead?” she asked. She lifted the bag clear of the bottom of the canoe.

“No. Just the bag.” Jake ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He leaned forward, wrapped the bag back around her, then pulled the tent fly from his pack and wrapped her in that as well. “We'll just have to make do.”

He smiled at her as some sort of apology for snapping. He'd try to dry the bag again before nightfall.

Jake checked the sky. The heavy cloud layer had thinned overnight. The rain and the wind, at least, had moved on. Perhaps, he thought, they'd actually see a day worthy of summer today. The clouds and rain had been around for so long that he had almost forgotten it
was
summer.

“Waves are better today,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Izzy shifted lower in the canoe, resting her head on a strut. Jake shook his head. This canoe was far too small for even someone her size to stretch out in. Bill had built it for one person, two at the most; two paddlers, sitting upright, not one stretched out like cargo.

Jake steered them westward, guessing that the river to Laroque lay within a few miles in that direction. Without an accurate map and a position fix, trial and error became his next best option. The lake was dozens of kilometers long, east to west. If they hit the entrance of the Churchill, he'd know he'd guessed wrong, and have to turn back around. His gut told him he wasn't that far off his goal. He just didn't know for sure which direction they needed to go. If they didn't hit the river by lunch, he'd turn them around and try to the east.

Jake waited for his rhythm with the paddle to set before he dared return to his questions from the night before. There were so many, and now that they were back on the water, he couldn't distract his thoughts. He needed more answers.

“Izzy?”

She twisted in the sleeping bag to face him. “Yeah?”

“Why were you running away from Rick? Was he—” Jake couldn't finish the question.

She paused for a moment before she answered.

“Does it matter?”

“Does it matter?” Jake echoed. Of course it mattered. He had been shot at. He had nearly died crossing the lake in weather not fit for a boat twice the size of their small canoe. He now had a girl in his boat, one he barely knew—one who had, just an hour before, tried to steal his compass. He needed to know exactly what sort of a mess he had gotten himself into.

“If he was hurting me or not hurting me? Does that make a difference now? Would you turn around and drop me back there if I said he wasn't hurting me?”

“No.”

“Then I don't really want to talk about it. Not right now.”

She looked at him briefly before diverting her eyes to the nearby shoreline. She said no more. Jake clenched the shaft of the paddle and forced himself to think before speaking.

“Fine.” He pulled the paddle through the water and scanned the lake ahead. “You're welcome, by the way.”

His mind wandered back to parts of her story: the gangs in Thompson, the flu and all the people killed, the details of the past year she had glossed over. She said her parents had died. She said that Rick's wife had died. Just how many others had died? A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? More? How many would it take for the kind of chaos she described to kick in? It was nearly eight months since she'd left town for the last time. Would those gangs still be there? If it were all true, it would explain so much.

Izzy fidgeted in the bow, then sat up to face him.

“He lied to me, Jake.”

Jake stopped paddling.

“He told me I'd be safe with him, Jake. I was never going to be safe with him.”

Jake couldn't hold her gaze. He watched a drop of water slide down his paddle and splash back into the lake. That one statement told an awful truth. For a year she had lived with a man she feared—a man she was dependent upon for survival. A man who had no qualms about taking advantage of his power. Living like that, Jake thought, would be impossible for him to do. He had watched his mother and his grandfather die, living with fear that he would be left alone without his family. Even with all that, he had never really doubted he would make it out—that his situation would end with rescue. He had always believed in himself and his ability to survive. His survival was all within his power.

She believed nothing remained to go back to. She had lived with a horror he couldn't imagine—being trapped with Rick, a man Jake had only seen from a distance but already knew was evil. A man willing to kill to keep what he believed was his.

Jake scanned the water for any signs of humanity. Small waves lapped at the hull.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you. It's just—there's just so much I don't know about what happened. I didn't see what you saw. I didn't have to do what you did. I just want to get home. Back to Thompson. And now—now you tell me it's not—it's not safe there either. And yet you want to go back.”

“You wouldn't have recognized the city when we left. It was like some third-world country. No power. No lights. No heat. No gas. Maybe it's better now. Better than this anyway.”

Jake imagined the city, once fifteen thousand people strong, devoid of life.

“That was last October?”

“Yeah, late October.”

“Did you happen to see my dad? He's a little taller than me, with a green canoe, and would have been heading south through here, looking for help. Bush hat. A blue two-man tent.”

“There were lots of people in the bush back then, Jake. I don't remember anyone like that. Besides, we were hiding most of the time. Every time we saw someone coming, we hid or we ran.”

“Not everyone could have been bad.”

“No, not everyone, but you couldn't tell the good from the bad by looking at them. Hiding was safer. You never knew who you could trust. I was pretty scared most of the time. Rick figured out what to do. So we survived.”

“So I was your first chance to leave, to get away from him?”

“No—not the first chance.” Her eyes drifted to the bottom of the boat. “The guy Rick took this canoe from—”

“Bill Six Rivers?” Jake stopped paddling. “You met him?”

“You knew him?”

“Since I was a kid.” Jake paused. “
Knew
him? Wait. He's—”

“He was a good man. He tried to help me. Rick killed him.” Izzy paused. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

Jake's chest locked tight. He forced the air from his lungs with a profanity and slammed the paddle against the water. The sound of the impact ricocheted off the trees onshore before dissolving across the waves.

“He and Rick knew each other. From before the flu. Bill said Rick was responsible for what happened to his daughter.”

“Cammie? She . . . died. A couple of years ago. Long before the flu.”

“Bill blamed Rick for it. He was going to take me home to make sure the same thing didn't happen to me. They argued. Rick shot him.”

“
Bastard
.”

Cammie's suicide had shocked them all. Jake had been a freshman. Cammie had been a junior. Jake had been over to her house a dozen times. He had been to her funeral. The whispers had divided the school. Her boyfriend had been white. The word
rape
had spread like wildfire. Nothing raised tension in school faster than racial issues. The boyfriend had been blamed, but never charged. Now Jake knew why. It hadn't been the boyfriend. It had been the boyfriend's father.

Jake looked at the rifle strapped to his pack. It hadn't been out of its case since he decided to try and rescue Izzy without causing a confrontation. Now he second-guessed that decision.

He should have just lined up the first good shot he had and taken it.

He gritted his teeth.

It wouldn't have been that easy.

Nothing about this trip was easy.

They exchanged a look that told Jake she knew exactly where he was emotionally. They had no need to go into it deeper, to dump each other's troubles onto sympathetic but already burdened shoulders. She was young, and Jake had spent the night worrying he would have to take care of her the whole way back, that she would be some lifeless, useless passenger. She wasn't. She was alert and competent and mature beyond her years. There was a reason for that, Jake thought. She had survived for months in the most brutal of circumstances.
An average person doesn't last a week out here,
his father's voice whispered to him. An average person doesn't make it through everything else she had described, either, Jake thought.

He looked at her again. Only a bit of her face poked out from the sleeping bag. She no longer looked like a little girl to him. She looked older and stronger. She smiled nervously back at him.

“Three days?” she asked as she turned her attention to the shore.

“Less than that if we get you a paddle.”

“That'd be good.” She hunkered down below the gunwale to stay out of the breeze.

Jake checked behind him for any sign that Rick was back there, following them. The lake remained empty.

He paddled on.