OF COURSE JULIA FORGOT ABOUT that other factor, terrain. She should have clicked over to the topographic map, because the three miles in the ravine are almost completely uphill, and the rain has turned the soft earth to muck. Every step is an effort—her boots sink deep into the mud, making them hard to pull out—her bamboo walking stick is rendered useless, so she has to reach out to the trees to keep herself steady. A couple of slips and falls have left caked mud all up and over her pants.
And, as Irene had noted long ago, the plants become stranger the farther she treks into the interior. Thick, squat trees with furry bark, primordial ferns sprouting just about everywhere, indigo mushrooms with caps almost a foot wide, a nearly bioluminescent fungus that looks like ocean coral embedded in dead trees, massive green leaves sprouting up out of the earth almost five feet tall, and she nearly steps into a cluster of red pitcher plants that look big enough to eat small animals.
Julia stops a moment, rests under a leaf big enough to use as an umbrella, just to take a break from the downpour. Pulls the hood of her poncho back, tries to tighten the knot of her face mask, but it slides off in the process. Goddammit. Not that it could have done any good—her skin must be crawling with all sorts of bacteria—but for a token gesture it did make her feel a bit easier.
She wonders if she still has a silent follower. Probably not—even a child would have enough sense to take shelter. Her calves ache; water has crept into her boots.
She shouldn’t have pushed it. Time to get back to the resort, take a shower, regroup. She pulls out the GPS, changes her waypoint to the resort. Damn, power has fallen to twenty percent. It must drain faster the lower it goes. She’s going to have to hustle to make it back before she loses her GPS. If it’s even possible.
Is it even possible?
She clicks over to the topographic map. Not good—looks like there are a series of steep hills between her and the resort from her present position, plus the snaking blue line of the stream. If her GPS loses power, if she got lost . . . how long before someone would even look for her? And no one, except for maybe her silent follower, knows where she is. Here in the depths of the jungle, she has no sense of direction, no way to see the ocean. She runs a wet hand through her hair.
“Shit!”
She kicks the stalk of the plant she’s standing under, puts her hand on her forehead. Calm down, Julia. If she just makes it to the stream, she can follow it downhill, then just pick up the trail to the resort. The stream’s only about . . . She checks the topographic map. Looks like a half mile. She should be able to make that on the power she has left if she picks up the pace, heads back now.
She notices a strong, acrid smell, like she just walked into a chemistry lab. She looks down and sees the stalk is broken where she kicked it, thick white sap oozing out.
She feels dizzy all of a sudden. The earth seems to tilt under her feet; black spots start at the corners of her eyes, and her stomach roils. She has to reach out for a nearby trunk to stay upright.
Then a rush of pure, unadulterated hate overcomes her—hate for Aunt Liddy for sending her here, hate for herself for agreeing, hate for Ethan for leaving her and putting her in this desperate situation in the first place. Hate for other things too, nonsensical things—bombs raining from the sky, and a cage, and a boat in a small harbor, and a syringe, and a scalpel covered in blood. A shivery darkness seems to creep out from her heart, down her extremities into her fingers and toes—black, consuming, cold, and deadly, but something ancient about it, too. A foreign sentience.
The next clap of thunder is deafening.
I spy with my little eye.
It’s a voice that’s inside and outside her, above and underneath. The air seems to compress in her lungs. Heavy as water. Thick as sin.
“I don’t . . .” Julia turns, trying to find . . . what? Her skin itches, her eyes itch, her blood itches. She yanks the poncho up and over her head, throws it on the ground. Rain hits her skin, which feels like it’s melting.
“I don’t . . .”
Something that begins with d.
Her tank top burns; she can practically feel her skin bubbling—there’s the stink of charred meat. She tries to pull her shirt off, but her fingers are swollen, shaking, and it’s hard, so very, very hard to keep her balance. The fumes. Something about the fumes. She takes a few halting steps away from the plant, nearly falls over, catches herself on a vine hanging from an overhead branch. Her left palm burns fiercely where her skin touches it. She lets go, pushes herself to take a few more steps, anything to get away from the smell that’s now searing her nasal cavities.
The ground beneath her gives way and she stumbles face-first into a pool of thick, algae-covered muck, gets a mouthful of it. It tastes metallic, like iron. She spits it out, tries to push herself up, but her palms just sink too, the mud making soft sucking noises.
A massive black centipede scuttles out from under a small fern—the thing is six inches long, maybe ten, with mean-looking pincers and the slightest dusting of white fuzz along its serpentine spine. It wisely skirts the muck, sensing exactly where the firm earth ends and the death trap begins.
“I spy with my little eye,” says Julia, her voice hoarse, although she doesn’t understand why she said anything at all. It was in her head and now it’s out of it, thoughts and words one thing.
The centipede pauses, turns its head toward her, raising its antennae. It lifts part of its body up in the air, smelling . . . something.
“I spy . . .” Her eyes so puffy she can scarcely see. She tries to get herself upright, her feet searching for something solid, but they find nothing, and the boots are so heavy, like concrete blocks. She’s sinking. She can feel herself sinking.
Another massive clap of thunder.
And then the centipede scurries toward her, right along the surface of the muck like a water strider. It clambers onto her shoulder—she can feel the burning, tickling sensation of hundreds of tiny feet on her bare skin. It curls around the back of her neck to her other shoulder, seems to start a trail down her spine but thinks better of it, and returns to her shoulder. Antennae tickle her ear.
Julia gags. This could very well be where she loses her mind.
And then there’s a rustling of brush in front of her, like a large animal is prowling—the white tiger—only no, it’s a girl that emerges and stands before her, pale skin, wet blond hair in clumps. A thin cotton dress that clings to her small body. She stares, preternaturally still.
Julia wants to speak but her tongue is too swollen, too thick.
The girl cocks her head, curious.
Julia coughs, the fumes now in her throat, which is starting to swell too. The centipede ticks up the side of her head; she can feel it running over her hair, until it pauses again.
The girl slowly walks forward, crouches at the edge of the muck. She reaches out a pale arm and the centipede jumps onto it.
I have truly lost my mind.
The centipede then runs up the girl’s arm, settling onto her shoulder like a trusted pet.
The black spots in Julia’s eyes grow larger. She reaches out for something, anything, to try to pull herself forward, but her arm is starting to go numb, and she misses, falling back in the muck again. She watches her poncho sink, the mud taking it. Damn thing was useless anyway.
It’s hard to keep her head up, and there must be a fire inside her lungs, because every breath is extraordinarily painful. A bad allergic reaction to something for sure. Done in by a leaf. Julia would laugh, only she can feel her heartbeat starting to slow. At least there’s a witness. Maybe they can ship her body with Irene’s, a twofer.
The only pang is Evie. How long before Ethan remarries, plugs in a substitute mother?
Not long.
The girl keeps watching her, examining her, saying nothing. Sheets of rain still fall in torrents, but the girl doesn’t seem to care.
Hard to breathe. Impossible to breathe. Death. Death starts with d. Also deceive, and decay, and darkness.
Julia’s eyes close.
Then she feels small, fierce hands gripping her arms; she feels her body being pulled forward. Julia manages to open her eyes one last time. The centipede is gone, but the girl is there, really putting her back into it as she heaves hard, pulling Julia out to firmer ground, grunting with the effort.
Julia is able to push herself up, barely, and crawl a few feet farther before collapsing. Her breathing becomes shallow. At eye level to the ground, she sees leaves, and dirt, and a tiny brown frog that regards her with a serious frown. White fuzz dots its back. Everything around her is distant, surreal, like it’s someone else dying, like her body is just a cavern she’s temporarily inhabiting. She can already feel the current tugging her out to the deeper waters, the opaque, cold depths that even the hottest sun has never reached.
The girl’s muddy bare feet come into view, but Julia can’t move her head. Her vision starts to blur. The girl kneels—blurry knees poking out of a blurry dress. She feels the girl open her mouth, tastes the mud on her fingers. She can hear the girl chewing. Then her head is tilted back, her mouth is opened wider, and the girl spits something into it—a nasty taste, a thick sludge. She starts to gag, but the girl clamps her mouth shut, holds her there with a strength that seems impossible for someone so small.
Julia lets her eyes close, her lids so heavy, so heavy. She hears a bird chirp despite all the rain, its call getting response from another. Goodbye, birds.
Evie . . .
And then all goes dark.