It takes us about twenty minutes to make it to what’s left of the electric fencing.
Even after we heard the screams coming from the roof, we kept going. We left our snowshoes back at the factory, so there’s a limit to how fast we can travel.
Fannon moves even slower than I do and slips and slides all over the place. I kind of wish Smentkowski had volunteered to come. He is good in the snow. I’m beginning to think that Fannon only came with me because he has a psychotic death wish or something.
What keeps me going is that we’re Rachel’s last chance. We can save her. Help her.
The way that I didn’t help Allie.
And there is Steve.
Ugh. Focus.
I have to stop thinking about Miller’s kissing and Allie’s death and try to focus on what we’re doing here. I can’t atone for what happened, and there’s no time for romance. I’m surviving to ensure that Allie’s film gets seen and that Rachel gets to the hospital.
We have to reach the van.
I make myself keep walking through the tall trees that surround the camp.
I’m totally out of breath but trying to be as quiet as I can, taking in small, shallow gulps of air, desperate to be silent.
The way that Smentkowski described it made me think that once we hit the trees we’d be safe and protected. Back on the roof that made sense to me. We’d be safe once we got out of the open. But it’s completely dark in the forest. No doubt those things have chased away whatever wildlife should be out and about. We pass splotches of dark stains in the snow and a few blue gloves tossed here and there but no other people. We are alone out here. Except for those things.
It’s quiet and still.
It feels even more dangerous than before.
We huddle near the trunk of a thick ponderosa pine.
Paul dropped the iron wheel right after we came down from the roof. I can’t exactly blame him. Still. That leaves us with one gun.
We have one bullet left.
One.
My feet.
They’re in my Wellingtons, and they’re the only part of my body that isn’t soaked through with wet snow.
Don’t get me wrong. My toes are freezing. But they’re dry.
And that’s something.
Never. Never ever. Never been so cold.
Fannon slumps over against the tree. “What do we do now?”
“We . . . we go . . . straight,” I say, trying to sound confident. At least as confident as someone with chattering teeth whispering in the complete darkness can sound. But I see his point. It’s dark where we are. Like a closet. Or a serial killer’s creepy basement. Clouds cover the moon once again, and even if they didn’t we could barely see the sky through the thick trees. The beam from the flashlight extends no more than a few feet ahead. There are no familiar landmarks. No easy way to navigate.
Still. We can’t stand here and freeze to death.
“Come on,” I tell him.
I’m a few paces from Fannon, who won’t get a move on it. I turn my flashlight and point it right at his face, and I can see the warm breath leaving his mouth and his chest moving up and down. He’s got the blankest expression on his face. He’s just there. Waiting. Like he’s stargazing. Or doing yin yoga. Or waiting for the rapture or something.
“Maybe we should go back,” he says.
I know why he’s saying this. I don’t like being out here either. In the dark.
“We can’t go back. We said we’d get the van. We have to do it. Fast. For Rachel,” I add.
He nods and catches up so that we’re walking side by side. Shining the flashlight in front of us, everything looks the same. Like we’re passing the same scenery. Wide tree. Skinny tree. Tree with strange knobby features. Over and over on a loop.
We might be lost.
It’s oppressively silent. My ears strain to hear something. Anything.
Every once in a while, the moon breaks through the snow clouds and we get a bit better view of the scenery. We’re in a thick part of the forest. There are a series of wide dark blobs off in the distance on our right side. It’s probably the trailers from the employees-only section of the camp. I bet we’re about a mile or so north of our bungalow. A few streams of black smoke rise into the night sky, maybe from campfires that have burned out.
“You ever had any indication that your dad would do something like this?” I whisper to Fannon. It’s an insensitive question, but I’m desperate to fill the silent space.
“Aside from the occasional fat-lady joke, no,” he answers.
It’s quiet again. Then Fannon adds, “I mean, my dad has always wanted to do something big. Groundbreaking. More than running the family company and making antibiotics that are slightly better than the ones we used to make. But he is always really big on ethics. It’s hard for me to believe that he would . . . Anyway, he’d never talk to me about his plans.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He thinks I’m a loser.”
“At least he thinks about you.” Those words escape my icy lips before I have much time to think about them. They give away more than I intend.
“Your dad ignores you?” Fannon asks, sounding genuinely interested.
“No,” I say. “Ignoring someone is sort of deliberate, you know. It’s something you do on purpose.” I sigh. “My dad is a big corporate lawyer. Both he and my mom work all the time, but in my dad’s case he also started sleeping with his paralegal.” I pull my wet coat around me as tight as I can. It’s a pointless gesture since the thing isn’t doing a lot to keep me warm.
“I get that,” Fannon says through chattering teeth.
“You do?”
“I caught Volstead in bed with my dad at our summer house.”
“Oh. Ouch.” This explains a lot though. Why he kept asking for Volstead. It was much more personal than a stupid kid who wanted to get out of being treated like a normal camper.
“Yeah.”
We come to a part of the forest where the tree trunks are narrower and spaced a bit farther apart. At least it’s a confirmation that we’re not lost and that we’re probably getting closer to the road.
“What about your dad and the paralegal?” Fannon asks.
Christine. Ugh. I try to sound casual. “They got married. She’s a stay-at-home mom now. My dad has a new family.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah,” I say. But I smile almost in spite of myself. We’re kind of kindred spirits.
Fannon sighs as well. “I guess people are complicated. A lot of layers.”
My smile falls away. This reminds me of home. This is how Mom describes Coach. “My mom always says that too. That personalities are like onions and in order to get to know people you have to peel back the layers. To see what’s underneath. But what do you get when you peel back the layers of an onion? More onion. It’s not like the first layer is onion and the second is chocolate cake. What if people aren’t that complicated? What if our parents have already shown us everything that we need to know about them?”
“And what’s that?” Fannon asks.
“That they’re selfish.”
“What if we’re selfish too?” he asks.
“I . . . I think we might be.”
We’re quiet again for a minute.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he says.
Allie. I’m sorry too. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He sniffles. “It’s thanks to her that I’m still alive. Thanks to you. And Smentkowski. I used to think fat people are . . . well, I pushed you in that chocolate fountain. You know what I thought. But now . . . Allie told me that you’re a hero and she’s right. If I live, I’m going to be different.”
In spite of the cold, I feel my face heat up. I remember the camera in my pocket. I have to finish Allie’s last movie. “We have to live.”
I have to make sure that the world remembers her. That I remember her.
But we’re in almost total darkness. Like a void exists beyond the beam of the flashlight.
It’s not much of a shot.
My flashlight catches on the trunk of a ponderosa pine. Its bark has been roughly clawed off, and its lower branches droop down almost to the ground. Pine needles float in a shallow pool of blood. I jerk the light away and pray that I don’t throw up again.
“Some night, huh?” Fannon says in a soft voice that sounds like the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
“What would you normally be doing?” I ask. I need something to focus on to avoid thinking about the fact that I’m basically a walking ice sculpture. And I’m curious how you spend the holidays when your family has been on the Who’s Who list for four generations.
Fannon’s teeth chatter. “Well. Normally my parents would probably be throwing some kind of holiday party. For all their friends. I guess. If you can call people that you sit with on boards or work with on charities your friends . . .” He trails off. “But we have a twelve-piece orchestra on the veranda. My mom hires this chef who makes the most delicious fruitcake.”
I force myself to keep walking. “Fruitcake is supposed to be gross.”
“This isn’t. It tastes like Christmas.”
I smile. “So fun, then?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “There’s the usual old men on their third martini asking for updates on your college applications, but otherwise it’s fun. How about you?”
Step. Step. Another step. I sink a bit into the snow each time I move. “We used to have fun. BCE. In the Before Christine Era. This time of year, my dad would usually be coming home from some big trip. We’d pick him up at the airport, and he’d always have special presents. Then we’d make Mom’s fancy cocoa. Maybe watch a movie.”
“And now?” Fannon asks. He’s out of breath. “In the CE?”
I’m tired too, but we have to keep moving. “I get a lecture from Coach on how cocoa has too many calories and too much sugar.”
“Nice.”
After a minute, Fannon says, “So you and Miller, huh?”
I almost giggle. In spite of myself. In spite of the fact that I’m on the verge of suggesting that we might be lost. I desperately want Steve to be The Jock with a Heart of Gold. I want a shot at a happy ending.
Then I see it.
The dark stains in the snow.
I put my arm up to stop Fannon from walking farther.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head and point at the spots on the ground.
Blood.
It’s deep, black-red blood. Fresh. Wet. Recent.
I don’t even dare to look at Four’s face. I’ll scream if I see that he’s as terrified as I am.
Can you force your heart to beat?
From just beyond the end of our light, ice breaks and cracks.
Someone . . . or something . . . draws in a breath.