14

000.172.00.21.19

4.18.2149 – 13:04

Going to walk through a pack of wolves. Need water. Thirsty. Sleeping and bleeding a lot. I’m invincible.

I don’t say the Clock is mine. I don’t trust Skelley Chase’s word anymore and I doubt he’ll wait to publish my biography until the Clock zeroes out. When he publishes it, the world will know our secret and Reid might lose medical care. He may even be put to trial like me. The less attention I bring to our Clock, the better.

Shoving the journal into my pack, I take one large bite of Mother’s banana bread. It crawls down my throat with a thin coating of saliva.

Buckling the pack around my shoulders makes me lightheaded, but I wait with my legs dangling over the edge until my vision straightens out. The animals haven’t noticed my movement yet.

I slide over the rock edge on my stomach. The bending of my spine cracks open my dried back wounds. I gasp, but hold in any sound.

The cave waves good-bye, painted with blood. My clothes are soaked and crusty. I grasp the stone for holds with shaking arms and chilled fingers. Everything is weak, except my motivation. My mind is foggy from pain and illness, my body is tired from hunger and cold, and my muscles have never been of much use. I have to move fast or I’ll fall.

I let out a small pant as I shift down, trying to bend my rope-burned neck to look at my feet. My elbows and knees release tiny pops. Most of my weight rests on my toes as I work my way to the ground because my fingers and muscles seem incapable of squeezing the rock like I tell them. They’ve been sleeping too long. Bleeding too long.

I’m fifteen feet from the ground when the rock beneath the tip of my boot crumbles. The jerk of my body weight rips my limp hands from their holds. I slide along the cliff face and connect with the ground, hard. A small cry escapes when my legs buckle and I land on my side, banging my head against a nearby boulder. A black flash blinds me for a moment, but all I can think is, Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.

Heat spreads through my body from raw agony. I whimper, praying my sounds are muffled behind the boulder. My pack is sideways and the straps pull against my throbbing wounds. I lie on the ground for a few minutes until my breathing regulates and I’m sure the wolves aren’t running to eat me. My hands and the right side of my face are grated and tender.

I push myself to my knees and lean back on my heels. I place Reid’s sentra in my left skirt pocket then take Father’s knife from the pack, leaving the sheath inside. The blade still holds smears from when I wiped off my blood.

My world stops spinning and slowly, tenderly, I pull myself to my feet with a grimace. I’m still alive—with almost six months promised to me. These wounds will heal. I won’t die of infection or pain.

God got me out of the cave. I couldn’t do this alone. I’ve never been strong enough to descend a cliff with a fever and wounded body. My perseverance must be coming from Him.

With a deep breath, I creep between the boulder and the cliff. A small peek through a crack reveals the animals mulling around the clearing. Some coyotes sniff at old bones. A few wolves lie on the ground with their heads on their paws—Grey is one of them. Where are the bears?

My motivation is smeared somewhere on the rock and I start to shake. I can’t do this. What if they’re still hungry? What if I was wrong?

Over-thinking—never something I’ve done before. But my impulse is a little broken today.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose. My energy seeps into the frozen dirt the longer I stand by the boulder. I straighten my pack and it scrapes my wounds. I have to start somewhere, right, God?

My eyes open and dart to a lump on the ground between the boulder and cliff. My rope. I look up. This is near where the Wall Keeper fell. My rope must have been caught in the closed door until it opened again for the next victim.

I stuff it in my pack, tangled and unorganized. I’ll coil it later. Right now, I’m just thankful to have it back.

The lazy animals settle in the afternoon sun.

Don’t think. Not the wisest motivational thought, but enough to make me move. I squeeze between the boulder crack before I can back down and walk toward the beasts—not tiptoeing because that makes me nervous. Not thinking because I know I’ll panic. Just regular heel-to-toe steps, slowed to a near crawl.

They continue about their business. I’m a few feet away from the first coyote. He balances on three legs and licks his paw. I stare straight ahead, but monitor his movements through the corner of my eye. He watches me pass.

My pace increases, but I will myself not to run. Every muscle tightens with each coyote and wolf head that looks up. I meet none of their eyes. Grey is ahead. He’s staring at me. I barely breathe, clenching my tongue between my teeth to keep from muttering like a maniac. Before I even reach him, Grey lifts the corner of a lip and releases a wet snarl.

God, God, God . . .

My fist clutches my little knife and I keep walking. Faster. Faster. Movement behind me tickles my ears—licking sounds. I imagine the pack preparing to charge. After all, I still smell like dinner. I smell like human. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m covered in blood.

I break my statuesque gait and peek over my shoulder. A line of coyotes and wolves lick my dripping blood off the ground. I suck in a breath through my teeth. The smell of dirty, matted hair reaches my nose. Gag.

I return my gaze forward and reach my left hand into my pocket. I inch the sentra out enough so the lens aims toward the wolves. The small movement captures Grey’s attention even more. I press the button and push it back into my pocket as it makes the grinding sound to expel the picture.

Grey raises himself to all fours, but he takes his time. A tiny wheeze interrupts his snarls and his front leg buckles. Could he be wounded from his plummet from the rock face?

Serves him right for shredding me like a round of cheese.

Six months, right God?

My fear dissipates. There’s no logical reason for it to leave—I’m still surrounded by carnivores craving human flesh—but the fear is gone. Completely. My muscles relax, my stride turns normal, and I look Grey in his cold reflective eyes.

“I’ve been promised six months.”

He snarls.

Chin up. Deep breath. I stride toward the forest. Grey doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. I enter the line of trees, kicking aside a skull on my way. Grey’s growls die with the light once I’m among the forestry. The other animals remain on the tree line, bored and wandering. My heartbeat quickens, like my apprehensive nerves are working again. A headache pounds. I press my palm against the scrape on my scalp.

Keep walking.

Breathing grows difficult. I slow my pace and suck in air, pushing the licking sounds out of my mind and surveying my newest scenery. The forest had looked thin from my thumbprint cave, but now that I’m in it, the thickness increases a few yards in.

I duck beneath spiky pine branches and weave through oaks. My hair snags old spider webs and their strands snap like miniature harp strings. I brush a hand over my head to rid it of any spiders, but regret the movement as my bandage slides over the cuts on my head.

Though I hurry through the forest as best I can, pain reminds me of my needs. I need to care for the wounds. I need water. I need heat. I need to eat. My stomach gnaws on my small bite of banana bread like cow cud. It’ll have to do for now because I mustn’t stop until I’m well into the thicket—well away from this cliff trap.

My legs feel clumsy after not using them for so long. I trip on branches more often than I step over them. Pushing aside curled parched ferns with my shins takes as much effort as bending the stiff tree tufts in my path.

I won’t last long.

My muscles already shake when I brush forest dust off my bandages. My determination to walk to safety competes with my need to rest.

A river. That’s all I need. I’ll stop at the river, but I don’t hear the rush of a single water droplet. There must be one near. Where do the wolves drink? They can’t live off blood.

I stop trekking as if to allow my stupidity to slide off my shoulders. I can’t go to the river. If it’s the lone source of water, that’s where the wolves will go. I need to get away from them.

“But I need water.” The forest gobbles up my voice and I resume my painful walk. I wiggle my fingers against the knife in my hand, reminding myself it’s there.

Water. I can’t stop thinking about it and, now that my mind is fixated, the word turns into a chant. Water. Water. Water. I swallow, but my saliva disintegrates into the dry folds of my throat. The forest air smells like dust, which aggravates my thirst.

Water. Water. Water.

I stumble and catch myself on a tree. The bark is lined with sap. I pull my hand away and rub the goop on my skirt.

The light doesn’t change as I walk. Is time even passing? I stick and unstick my fingers with every few steps. The movement is like a clock ticking away the mindless time. My eyelids droop and I stop trying to lift my feet over the dead branches claimed by winter. Something crawls along the back of my neck. I swat it and grimace.

God, where am I even going? Where can I go? I don’t know what’s ahead or what’s above. I don’t have a purpose other than leaving the wolves behind. Where do You want me to go?

He urged me to go in the forest and He knows I need to find the river. I have to keep walking until He gets me to it. “Can we find the river today?” I ask with the little breath I have to spare. “I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow.”

The light is fading. Or are the trees thickening? I blink upward. Dust falls in my eyes. As I rub them with my fists, I stumble. My momentum propels me forward, but I can’t see and collide with a tree. I spin, disoriented. My hands and knees meet the underbrush. Sticks poke through my already torn leggings and the impact jolts my shoulders. I lower myself to the forest floor. It’s so good to be down.

Rest. Calm. Silent.

Wolves.

I lift my head with a groan. The foul beasts won’t let my mind relax until I’m safe away from them. I squint ahead and my breathing pauses. A glint. A flicker. Sunlight blinds my eyes for a millisecond.

I’m on my feet, running with the last bit of energy in my limbs. A branch slaps my face, but I break through without slowing. I stagger onto a stretch of mud in a clearing. Mere yards ahead, a lake laps a ragged shore in welcome. The sun glints off its surface like a polished pocket watch and the canyon wall stretches high in the distance. To the left, the forest inclines up rolling hills. Out of the canyon, maybe?

I fumble for my water pouch, hands shaking, and walk toward shore. My breath quickens and my throat grows even drier, yearning for liquid. I glance around. No wolves, but the mud sports hundreds of paw prints. Are they from wolves or coyotes? Either way, something occupies this stretch of lake on a regular basis.

I should get water and leave, but the thought of walking any further weighs my heart like an anchor. Tears spring up like daisies. I don’t allow them to fall . . . yet. I don’t have time for a breakdown.

The lake stretches away like a glorious carpet, flanked by thick forest trees until it curves out of sight. I kneel down, resisting the urge to leap in. The water is smoky with dirt. I hold the pouch poised over the surface. Water to my left looks a little cleaner so I scoot over a few steps and dunk the pouch, averting my eyes from floating gunk. If the animals can drink it and survive, so can I.

The first gulp is cool and desperate, like heaven in liquid form. I gasp and take another sip. The heaven feeling fades when something slimy slides down my throat. I gag and lower the water pouch. I cough twice before spitting pathetically in the lake. The desperation of my thirst isn’t enough to stop me from imagining frog eggs hatching in my stomach.

Mother used to boil our water before she and Father installed a kitchen pump. Boiling kills all things dangerous—including frog eggs. I thank God for her logic in packing her coffee pot for me. She thought of the danger of drinking frog eggs.

I lean back on my heels. The pressure on my legs moves me to a sitting position. My bandages are so dirty they almost blend with my clothes. They smell rancid. I need to wash. Just the idea saps my energy. The lake is already blurry to my vision. I need to rest. I need to find a place to rest. I need to clean. I need to eat. I need a fire.

Which comes first?

A shiver sends me hunting for wood. Forget the wolves—I’m building a fire here. I’m not heading back into the woods where they can lurk behind trees. They’re afraid of fire, right? Or is that from storybooks?

“I guess I’ll test it.” I’m growing more comfortable with the sound of my voice echoing off the blank atmosphere.

Dead branches line the edge of the lake. Even though it snowed recently, the tiny flakes never made it through the treetops and the branches are dry. Winter wind must have been fierce because my supply of fallen wood is endless. I gather as much as I can through the pain of bending and stretching. Every time I want to rest I force myself to pick up one more stick. I need enough to last through the night and, if there’s anything I know how to do—other than sewing—it’s how to build and maintain a fire.

The fire takes mere seconds to set ablaze. A couple blank pages from Reid’s journal spur the kindling. I’d like to think it would have started without the help of paper, but I’m more concerned about my low supply of matches than my pride. I have fewer than thirty.

The blaze grows. I build a second fire a few yards away. With plenty of wood to keep both going strong through the night, I feel more protected sleeping between them.

The mud is cold when I sit down—half frozen and half wet. I shiver and my wounds twinge. I stare at my injuries. They’re swollen and smell like something dead and decayed. They must be infected. What do I do against infection? The longer I stare at them, the faster my heart races. If the Clock isn’t mine, I could die in my sleep. Tonight. All because of these wounds.

I can’t sleep yet. I mustn’t, despite my body’s exhausted pleading. My small pouch of threads and needles tumbles out of my bag as I try to find it. I grip it tight.

It’s time to sew.