Текст книги "After the End "

Автор книги: Amy Plum

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

38

MILES

DAD’S SECURITY DETAIL TAKES A PRIVATE JET TO Twin Falls and arrives at the hotel in less than two hours. They introduce themselves as Redding and Portman but don’t need to say much more—I see them standing around security-guarding every time I visit Dad’s office. “Do you have any idea where she was headed?” Portman asks me, leaning over the seat as we speed away from the El Dorado.

I pause. “She was heading toward Salt Lake City,” I admit, feeling a pang of guilt when I think of the expression on Juneau’s face as she drove off in my car. Is this just another betrayal? No, I decide. I’m helping her. Once she talks to Dad, this manhunt will be called off and he’ll go after the people who actually do have the information he needs.

While Redding drives, Portman flips between trucker CB ham radio stations and the police scanner. We’re on the road less than fifteen minutes when a blue BMW is identified as abandoned at an interstate highway gas station about an hour away in the direction of Salt Lake. The plate number matches my own.

39

JUNEAU

MY EYES HAVEN’T ADJUSTED TO THE DARKNESS. I am running blind through low scrub, with my pack thrown over one shoulder and my hands stretched in front of me in case I run into anything. But there is nothing to run into, just knee-high grasses slapping my jeans with a hissing swish, and occasional bushes crackling under my shoes.

I don’t dare look back. I’m certain they saw me under the bright lights of the Shell station, and this pastureland offers nowhere to hide. I see a dark wall rising slowly to meet me, and after a few minutes realize that I’m headed toward a tree line.

I hear shouts behind me and am glad for the waist-high barrier around the gas station’s parking lot. If it weren’t for that, Whit and his men could have driven off-road right after me. But from the sounds of it, they decided to follow on foot. The trees get closer, and my vision is clearer now that the fluorescent glare has worn off.

As I reach the first of the trees, I allow myself a split second to look back, and see two bulky forms lumbering across the pasture, vaguely in my direction, flashlight gleams bobbing up and down as they run. They haven’t seen me, or they would be headed directly my way. I take off through the trees, leaping over broken branches and bushes, headed in no particular direction besides away from them.

The trees turn out not to be woods, but rather clumps of evergreens separated by stretches of barren grassland. There is no good cover—I am exposed.

And then it happens: I step into some kind of hole, and my trapped foot remains stationary while the rest of me keeps going. I am blinded by a white blaze of pain.

Crouching, I use my fingers to pull the dirt away from my foot until it is free. Although I can barely see, I can feel that the hole is a big one. Fox or badger den, I think. Making a split-second decision, I grope around until my fingers touch a fallen branch, and I use it to dig out the tunnel. Driven by fear, I uncover the empty animal den in less than a minute and, dragging my injured foot behind me, gather the nearest sticks and branches.

I throw my pack in the three-foot hole and then lower myself down into it, lying on my side with my pack at my stomach, curling up fetal-style around it. Reaching up to my pile of evergreen branches, I sweep the stack over and around me until I—and the hole—am completely covered. And then I wait.

Now that I am motionless, my ankle throbs with pain. I want to touch it, to feel if something is broken, but I’m afraid that any movement will shift the branches and uncover my hiding spot. I bite my lip until I taste blood. Every crackle of leaves, every creaking branch is amplified in my ears as I listen for my pursuers. And what seems a mere moment after I am hidden, they arrive. One is close by—I hear the plodding of heavy boots. From a distance I hear the other one yell, “There’s no one out here. Like I said, she went the other way.”

The nearby footsteps stop, then shuffle around as the man sweeps the area with his flashlight. A ray of it pierces down through the pine needles into my den. But I am hidden well enough that he sees nothing, because his footsteps get fainter as he moves farther away.

I wonder where Whit is. Probably back at the car, letting his henchmen do his dirty work. Where did he even meet these people? What happened to the peace-loving dependable man I’ve known my whole life? For what possible reason would he have my entire clan kidnapped and imprisoned? And why can’t he just leave it at that? Why does he need me?

Acid rage burns inside my chest. I want to scream but clench my fists instead, so hard that my fingernails dig painfully into my palms.

I stay in the hole for as long as I can. Finally, when I get to the point where I am so chilled and in pain that I’d prefer capture to staying another minute in the ground, I lift my hand and sweep my cover away.

I sit up. Look around. No one is here but me and a surprised-looking squirrel, who begins chittering wildly as I lift myself up—scolding me for scaring him. I brush off the dirt and leaves and test my foot. It is painful, but I can put a tiny bit of pressure on it. I press gingerly around my ankle. The flesh is swollen, but not enormous like Nome’s when she got it caught in the emergency shelter’s trapdoor. “A light sprain,” Esther, our clan doctor, had said. But Nome couldn’t walk on hers, and I am at least able to hobble my way through the grasslands.

My eyes have adjusted so well to the darkness that I easily locate a large branch on the ground and strip its limbs, trimming it to armpit height with the knife from my pack, rounding off the top so that it doesn’t poke me. I try out my crutch and find I can put enough weight on the stick to walk at a reasonable pace.

I look ahead and see a mountain range emerge abruptly out of the pastureland in the near distance, just a few miles away. I can hide there until I’m sure they’ve finished looking for me, I think, and set off in the direction of the towering peaks.

40

MILES

IT LOOKS LIKE JUNEAU GOT DESPERATE ENOUGH for gas to venture off the tiny side roads to the interstate. But why would she abandon my car? The only explanation I can fathom is that Whit caught up with her while she was getting gas. Either he captured her, or she took off on foot to get away from him.

A nagging thought claws at my heart. Everyone she knows has betrayed her. Her mentor, her parents, and now me. I can’t imagine how it would feel to be completely on your own, with no one you can trust. She opened up to me. Told me all about her bizarre past. And what did I do? Turned her over to my dad.

But . . . (1) it’s not like he’s going to do anything bad to her. He’s a businessman, not a thug.

And (2) she freaking used me last night. She tricked me into kissing her and drugged me. All for her hocus-pocus Yara delusions. I wonder what I even said to her while I was “under the influence.” Something about Whit following her and catching her. And another tidbit about serpents and city near unpotable water. Which she handily interpreted as the Snake River and Salt Lake City.

That was kind of clever, actually, I think. She is a smart girl. She just has her crazy alternate universe mixed up with reality, which is kind of sad.

What’s wrong with me? I get kicked out of school just before graduation, I botch up my one chance to earn some respect from my dad, and I’m falling for a lunatic. I wish I could just wipe the slate clean and start back at square one. If I hadn’t cheated on the test, I would be graduating and getting ready for my freshman year at Yale.

I have to prove myself. I know how Juneau thinks better than these play-it-by-the-rule subservient goons of Dad’s do. As soon as I can get away from them, I’ll continue the search for her on my own.

I ride the rest of the way in silence, trying not to think about her honey-colored eyes.

41

JUNEAU

I’VE PACED MYSELF AT A FAST HOBBLE ACROSS THE pastureland and stay as close as I can to the clumps of trees so that I’m not an easily spottable lone figure wading through the seas of knee-high grass. I see up ahead that at the base of the mountain there is a curtain of trees. Hiding will be easier once I am among them.

I look up at the position of the moon and find the constellations. It’s around midnight.

Setting my sights on a small stream that flows out of the wooded mountainside, I do my hop-limp-hop toward the water. When I reach it, I follow it just past the tree line, and, once hidden among the evergreens, slump to the ground and scoop several handfuls of water to my lips. It is ice-cold and delicious. Filling my canteen, I allow myself a few minutes to recover but know I can’t stay here for long.

I lie back, nesting my head in a pillow of leaves, and close my eyes. I am deep-breathing, trying to restore myself enough to be able to trek for a few hours, when I hear the crunching of boots on twigs. I shoot up into a sitting position, grab my bag, rifle through it, and in three seconds am on one knee, pointing my crossbow in the direction of the light that bobs toward me through the woods.

How did Whit’s men manage to get so far in front of me? I didn’t see anyone else on the pastureland leading up to the mountain. I kneel there, one eye closed, the other peering through my crossbow’s metal sight, when I hear a woman’s voice.

“Don’t shoot. I’m totally harmless.”

I keep my finger on the trigger, ready to fire, and watch the flashlight approach until the person stands five feet away. The light points straight into my eyes, “Yep, it’s you,” she says, and then angles the light up at her own face. “See?” she says. “I’m just a woman. Not an ax murderer.”

I grab my improvised crutch and use it to push myself up into a standing position as the stranger approaches, but keep the crossbow pointed in her direction.

“Looks like you’ve hurt your foot,” she says, staring at the crutch. “Well, we better get you back to my house. Would it be easier if you put an arm around my shoulder?”

“Who—who are you?” I stammer.

“My mom named me Tallulah Mae, but you can call me Tallie.”

I stare at her. Who is this woman who just appeared out of nowhere? I don’t think she’s with Whit—I never saw any women with him in the Readings. And from the way that she waits, arms crossed, for me to say something, I can tell her attitude is impatient rather than menacing. She throws off her hood and a cascade of elbow-length red curly hair springs free. “See. A normal, unthreatening, thirtysomething woman. Not a serial killer bone in my body, I swear.” And she gives this grin that wipes any lingering doubt from my mind.

“There are some men after me,” I say, half whispering, and dart an anxious look over my shoulder toward the pastureland.

“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m ninety-nine percent sure they won’t follow us, and my house is just five minutes upslope. Now come on, let’s get you indoors.” And she drapes my arm around her shoulder and helps me hobble much more quickly than I could on my own.

As we follow the stream uphill, I don’t see anything slightly resembling a house or any sign of civilization. And then, all of a sudden we are approaching a large log cabin. “Wow, I didn’t even see that coming!” I exclaim.

“Camouflage,” she says proudly. “I’ve planted trees strategically around the place so that even if lights are on, you can’t see them from the base of the mountain.”

We come around a clump of bushes and I get a full view. It stops me in my tracks. “Your house is built over the stream?” I gasp.

The main section of the log cabin is two stories high, but there’s a windowed room—like a closed-in balcony just as wide as the house—that stretches over the rushing water and is supported by stilt-like wood columns on the far bank.

“Yep. You’d think it was just whimsy, but in fact it’s terribly practical to have running water so close.” Smiling, she opens the door and helps me totter through. Her jade-green eyes sparkle, and the smile on her bowed lips is genuine and friendly.

“Let’s see about this foot now. I’m going to be really careful,” she says, and eases my tennis shoe off my hurt foot. I wince as a lightning bolt of pain passes through my ankle, but the shoe is off and now Tallie’s peeling back the sock. “Well, now. It looks like you might have a sprain here,” she says, touching the swollen skin lightly. “But if you were able to put a tiny bit of weight on it, which you did, then it must not be too bad. Let’s get you over to the couch and ice it.”

She leads me into the space, which I see is one big sparsely furnished room lit brightly by a half-dozen oil-burning lamps.

She eyes me merrily. “Don’t usually like guests. But you’re a special exception.”

“Why’s that?” I ask. I hobble my way across the room and lower myself onto the couch, swinging around to prop my hurt foot on the cushions.

“Because I was expecting you,” she says matter-of-factly, staring straight at my right eye.

“But why?” I ask. “And how did you know where to find me?”

“Do we have to share all our secrets right away?” she asks, and pulls a metal box from a corner cupboard. She starts rummaging through it. “Let’s see. Ace bandage might come in handy. Skin’s not broken, so we don’t need disinfectant. Ah, here,” she says, and pulls out a plastic pouch the size of a paperback book and begins squishing it in her hands. She presses it against my ankle, and I gasp in surprise.

“It’s ice-cold!” I say, and put my hand on the first-aid box to see if it’s some kind of refrigerator. But no—the metal is room temperature.

“You’ve never seen an ice pack?” Tallie says, a grin stretching across her lips.

I shake my head.

“Okaaaaay,” she drawls. “I thought you were supposed to be from the future.”

“What?” I ask, mystified.

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “By the way, I told you my name. I still don’t know yours.”

I sit staring at her. What is going on? Who is this stranger who claims to have been expecting me? If she’s not with Whit, how did she know I was coming? Her body language suggests friendly, not dangerous. But I’m still wary.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just pick a name. Hmm . . .” She leans her head to one side, considering. “How about Frederica? Fred for short?”

I can’t help myself. I laugh. “I’m Juneau,” I admit.

Tallie nods approvingly. “Suits you better than Fred. Goddess or city in Alaska?”

“Alaska,” I say, wondering how many times I’m going to have to clarify that. In my clan no one questioned our names. The children were all named after Alaskan towns. It bound us to the past. “You are your own little cities of the Promised Land,” my father used to say. “The hope for the future of the earth.” My chest constricts as I remember this—just one brick in the wall of lies they built to keep us from discovering the real world. I still don’t understand, I think, and exhale deeply before noticing that Tallie is watching me with a concerned look on her face.

“Are you tired? Hungry?”

“Both,” I respond.

“Let me see what I can get together,” she says, and heads toward a door on the river side of the house. As she opens it, I hear flowing water. I turn and lean over the couch to see that the room over the river is the kitchen, with a sink and counters, cupboards, and a wall full of knives and utensils. Tallie opens a trapdoor in the floor and winds a crank beside it, pulling up a metal cage filled with food.

She turns her head to me, and with a quirky smile says, “Best refrigerator a girl could ask for.”

My mouth drops open. “That is ingenious!” I say.

“Why, thank you very much,” she says, flipping her hair back over her shoulder as she leans in to pick some things out of the cage. “You’re not vegan, are you? Vegetarian?” she calls.

“No,” I yell back. Vegetarian? I think, smiling to myself. If only she could see me skinning and gutting a caribou.

After a few minutes Tallie returns with a tray. “How about a couple of cheeses, some homemade bread, and cured ham?” she asks.

My mouth is watering, but I just stare at it and search her face once more.

She puts the tray down with an amused expression and pops a piece of cheese in her mouth. “See? Not poisoned. Not even spoiled.”

I relax. “Sorry. I’m not in the most trusting mood lately. Honestly, this looks like the best meal in the world.” I spread some butter on the bread, lay a piece of ham on it, and raise it to my mouth, but then freeze at the sound of a knock on the front window. “Oh no!” I whisper, dropping my food in panic. But Tallie is up in a second and walking toward the sound.

“Don’t worry, Juneau. It’s just a raven. It’s probably hungry.”

“Don’t let him in!” I yell, and rise to my feet before crumpling back down to the couch, gasping with pain and holding my ankle. But it’s too late. She opens the window to place a piece of bread on the sill, and he squeezes past her and into the house.

“Well, aren’t you cheeky?” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

“Tallie, you have to get him out of here,” I urge. “He has some kind of location device hooked to his leg.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” she says, and putting both hands out, traps Poe on the ground and rolls him over. “There’s nothing on his legs.”

The flashing red light is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief, but my stomach still churns with anxiety. “Come here, Poe,” I say. Tallie releases him, and he hops over to me.

“So you know this bird, like, personally?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

I pick Poe up and comb through his feathers, but there is nothing attached to him: no note, no tiny machine. Someone must have removed the bracelet. But why?

“He’s going to have to stay in here. We can’t let him go now that he’s seen where we are,” I say, pulling him onto my stomach. I pet him like a cat, and he nestles his head against my arm.

Tallie stares at me with knitted brow, finger posed pensively on her lips. “People often call me strange. But your bird paranoia problem”—she gestures with her chin toward Poe—“takes the cake.”

“It’s not—” I begin.

“Shh,” she urges, shaking her head. She closes the window, flicks the lock closed, and lowers the wicks of the oil lamps, dimming the room’s light to a warm flickering glow that reminds me of nighttime in my yurt. “You eat. As for me, I’m usually in bed by now, but I’ll wait until you’re done.” She walks over to the bedroom corner and pulls some clothes out of a dresser drawer. “I never have guests, so I have no use for walls. Which means if you’re overly modest, you might want to turn around, ’cause I’m about to get naked.”

I focus on eating, giving her privacy, and in a few minutes she walks back wearing flannel pajamas. She catches me smiling and says, “Like I said. No guests. I wear what I like.”

I swallow my bread and nod toward a rifle resting in a rack over the door. “Is that for hunting?”

She shakes her head. “I’m too squeamish to kill anything unless it’s about to kill me. It’s more for protection.”

“From what?” I ask.

“Oh you know. The usual,” she grins. “As you noticed, I’m living a bit off the grid,” she explains. “No one knows I’m here.”

“Why?” I ask. “Are you running from the law or something?”

She shakes her head. “You’re the guest, so I get to grill you first. But I’m not even going to do that until tomorrow morning. You done with the food tray?”

“Yes. Thanks,” I say as she clears it away. She pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over me.

“You sleep now. The door and windows are locked, although I have a feeling that if the people after you were headed this way, we would have already heard from them. But, as to not take any chances, I’ll take this to bed with me.” She grabs the rifle from off the wall and lays it on the ground next to her.

I pull my crossbow over from where it’s propped on my bag and place it next to the couch. It’s cold comfort, and less powerful than Tallie’s shotgun, but I feel safer knowing it’s by my side.

42

MILES

IT TAKES A LITTLE TALKING TO CONVINCE THE state police to let me take my “stolen” car without pressing charges or filing a missing persons report. Portman, who happens to be in the same war veterans’ association as one of the patrolmen, finally persuades them that it was all just a teenage love spat, during which my girlfriend drove off with my car and then was picked up by friends. The gas station cashier claims she had her headphones on and didn’t notice a thing.

“You better get home to your father now,” Redding tells me as they pull away. He looks resigned, as if he knows I’m not going to obey him. And he’s right. Getting home to Dad is the last thing on my to-do list, unless I do it with Juneau in tow.

I turn the keys in the ignition and notice the gas dial swing up to full. So Juneau must have filled the tank before she ran off. I walk up to the station and knock on the bulletproof glass. The girl behind the window ignores me, so I knock again. She looks up. I flash her my most charming smile. She slips her headphones off and pops her gum at me.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “I thought you were those cops again.”

“Yeah, that car’s actually mine. My girlfriend drove off with it while we were having an argument.” I decide to stick with Portman’s story. It worked on the cops. “I know you told the police you didn’t see anything, but is there anything at all that you remember that could help me out? It’s late, and I’m worried about her.”

The girl smiles widely and says, “I actually just said that because I didn’t want to have to make an official statement.” She goes on to tell me that she saw everything, including two guys returning a half hour later without the girl and yelling at each other for a while before driving away.

“What direction did they go?” I ask.

“South toward Salt Lake City,” she responds.

“Thank you so much,” I say. She shrugs and slides her headphones back on.

So it happened as I had hoped. Whit’s guys didn’t succeed in finding Juneau, yet she hasn’t come back for my car. That means she’s still out there somewhere. I step over a knee-high concrete wall into the pasture and look around. Trees in the distance, with mountains even farther past them. She could be anywhere. And the point has already been established that my wilderness survival skills are laughably lame next to hers.

Unless she wants me to find her, like she did in Seattle, I have no hope. And after she overheard my phone conversation with Dad, that’s just not going to happen. I rub my face sleepily with the palm of my hand. I know she’s heading for Salt Lake City, but unless she hitchhikes, there’s no way she’ll make it there tonight. I’ll just have to hope she’s too scared to hitch a ride with strangers, I think, and then realize the irony of that thought.

I climb in my car and start driving southward, ready to stop at the first hotel I see.