Dead River (8 page)

He’s like an image in a dream I keep running to, though every step closer brings me one step away. Though his arms are around me, they’re not keeping me safe. It’s almost like they’re pushing me toward the waves, too. I try to wrench myself free and move to the center of the raft, but everything is forcing me toward the water. Or maybe it’s just that the river is pulling me to it, wanting to hold me closer. Another wave kicks up and splashes us, jerking the raft to the side. We’re in another rapids, and suddenly I’m over the edge and Justin is holding me by the arms. My body is in the water, and, strangely, it’s not bitingly cold. It feels warm, almost inviting, but I still clutch for something to get me out. Michael reaches over the side, trying to pull me back, shouting, “Hold on! Hold on!” Someone calls, “What the hell is going on?” I can tell that nobody knows what’s happening. I feel the pressure on my legs, under the water. As strong as Justin and Michael are, they’re no match for the hands that are under the water, clutching me. Pulling me down.

“Don’t let me go,” I whimper to Justin, and he strains to say “I won’t,” but I can tell he’s confused, unsure as to why he can’t hoist me back into the raft. I weigh half of what he does. He obviously can’t see what I can feel. The dozens of
hands on my legs and waist, pulling me down until I can’t fight anymore. Slowly I let go and take one last, strangled breath before sliding under the surface.

It’s strange: once the water wraps around me, even the rush of it around me sounds like only one word, being whispered in my ear over and over again.
Welcome
.

I’m drowning.

In my head, I’m screaming. It feels as though I’ve been launched through a pinball machine. Like my body is careening at breakneck speed, being tossed every which way, and I have no control. I try to move my arms in another direction but I’m beaten into submission by a force much more powerful than me. Something jams against my cheek, pushing my head back so far that the bones of my neck grate against one another. I try to force it away, flailing my arms wildly, but then I hit against another hard thing. Everything is rocketing in only one direction, and I have no idea what lies at the very end. I don’t think I’ll find out. I know that before I reach the end, I’ll be dead.

My lungs are beating against my chest, exploding. My heart thuds in my ears. I look up, toward the ripples of sunlight. They’re just a blur now, because I’m moving too fast. I need to get there. Somehow. I reach my hand out, but instead of propelling myself upward, all I do is bring back a handful of soft, mucky stuff, like a tangled mane of hair. Like my mother’s hair. I make another attempt to scramble upward but I find myself just sinking deeper, and
the lights above begin to fade with the burning sensation in my lungs.

The last thing that enters my mind is that it’s funny how we try so hard not to be like our parents, because that never works out. I’m going to die here, in a river. Just like her.

Chapter Eight

F
irst there are the whispers.

I did …

What the …

That’s the …

I keep still, listening, but the words never come together to make sense. They’re just words, as if read from a dictionary, phrases that never mean anything. The morning’s biting cold stings my cheeks. I’m still wearing that impossibly uncomfortable wet suit, but instead of being near-frozen, I’m sweating underneath the layers of wool clothes. I open my eyes, and all I see is the gray, sad sky and black, bare branches above me. A large crow glides overhead, cawing ominously.

I’m alive. Amazingly. I must be. If I were dead, my head wouldn’t hurt as much, would it?

I sit up. As I do, my head throbs, begging me to rest, but I push against gravity and straighten. When I’m erect, my hair whips over my eyes. I pull it back, but it’s slimy in places, gritty in others, and knotted like seaweed. Where is my helmet?

The whispering continues, which is odd because I’m alone. But then it changes somehow—was it not whispering but the sound of rushing water? I look around. Water moving everywhere, all around me.
No, no, not more water!
I want to retch at the sight of it. When I swallow, there’s something thick and gritty in the back of my throat. The water laps at my toes, almost as if it’s trying to touch them, to grab me and pull me back toward it. I’m sitting on a small island right in the middle of the river.

I scan the horizon for cheerful yellow rafts. When we set off, there were dozens. Now I can’t see a one. I search the riverbanks to either side of me, but the only witnesses to my peril are tall pines, bowing to me in the stiff wind. I curl my knees up to my chest and hug them.
Where the hell is everyone?

I crane my neck to scan the island, but it’s just brambles, moist sand, pieces of driftwood that have found their way here on the waves. One lone, bare tree with sprawling branches and a trunk the size of a small car sits behind me. It takes up most of the real estate on the island. Other than that, nothing. My backpack is gone. There’s a draft on my back now and I tenderly bring my fingers there, running them over the neoprene. Great. There are slashes all down my wet suit, almost as if I’ve been mauled by a bear. I probe around with my finger and find blood. My hand is covered in blood. I turn around and there’s a small puddle of it under my backside. Suddenly I’m aware of the sting.

Frantic, I search the river again. Nothing. No one. I’m
alone, in the middle of the rapids, bleeding. No. This is not good. My heart begins to pound so hard, I can almost hear it.

“Well, look who’s wandering among the living.”

I jump at the voice. Not that it’s scary—it’s just that two minutes ago, when I surveyed my surroundings, I was alone. Or at least I thought I was. The tree, though, has a large trunk, so maybe he was behind it. Yes, of course. Plus, my head hurts, so maybe I have a concussion and am not seeing things clearly. I turn, and a boy is loping toward me, easy, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His light brown hair is falling in his face and he has this sheepish grin, like he’s up to no good.

He sits down beside me and begins to pick at the line of white pebbles left by the tide. Those pearly little pebbles, the damp sand, our feet side by side at the water’s edge—something about this scene gives me an instant shot of déjà vu that almost sends me reeling, like I’m falling through time and space. I catch myself, and by then he’s studying me, that quirky smile melting into amused curiosity. “You talk?”

The voice. It’s unsettling. Something is not quite right about it. It’s an easy drawl, nothing like Justin’s or Hugo’s or that of any of the guys I know, and yet it sounds familiar. Anyone in this predicament, stuck in the middle of a river, would speak with a little bit of urgency. But then again, he’s not the one who’s bleeding.

My lips are so cold they tingle to life when I open them to speak. “I’m … hurt.”

He nods and inspects the wound on my back. “Sure are.”

He reaches out to touch it and I squirm a little when he comes in contact with the wound. “Ouch.”

He doesn’t apologize. “Tore up that little monkey suit of yours, too, huh?”

“It’s a
wet
suit,” I say miserably. “And a rental. I’ll probably owe them an arm and a leg for it.”

He’s still inspecting it. There isn’t a look of disgust on his face, or horror, so maybe it isn’t that bad? I can feel his fingers stroking the fabric, which is really awkward, so I flinch away just as he says, “For that thing? Wouldn’t trade you a piece of steamin’ horse manure for it.”

I stare at him. Who the hell talks like that? And weirder yet, why does it seem like I’ve heard this all before? “Wait. Do I know you?” I ask, but I already know that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been on the rafting excursion with us. All of the other people were older, and he’s probably no more than twenty. He has a cologne-ad-pretty face with perfect features, just the right amount of stubble, and long eyelashes—a face that’s hard to stop looking at, and even harder to forget. And he’s not wearing a wet suit. In fact, he’s not wearing much at all. Faded, ripped jeans and a worn plaid shirt, open, untucked, and with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s not wearing shoes. No shoes. It can’t be more than forty degrees out today. Even Justin would have a hard time with that. “Aren’t you freezing?”

He laughs. “No on both counts, kid.”

At first I’m like,
Yeah, he’s right, I’d remember a dude like him
, but the second he calls me “kid,” the feeling hits me stronger
than ever. I try to find the connection but my head is throbbing, making thinking impossible. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re in the middle of a river, I’m gushing blood all over the place, and maybe the tide is changing and this little island won’t be here an hour from now. “Look. I’m a little freaked out. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. You wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?” I ask.

He grins at me, a slow grin. Why does he do everything slowly? And of course he doesn’t have a boat. He doesn’t even have
shoes
.

All right.
Think think think
. “How did you even get here, if you don’t have a boat?” But I already know the answer. I echo him as he says, “I’m a powerful good swimmer.”

He grins, and that’s my cue to freak out. How did I know that?

“So, wait. I
do
know you?”

He shakes his head. “Listen, kid, you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Relax for a minute.”

“Relax!” I start, but then I stop. No, I don’t know him, of course; I just hit my head or something and I’m not thinking straight.

He leans back, digging his palms in the dirt behind him. He’s tall, like Justin; he stretches out with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and his feet touch the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t recoil from the cold of the river. I notice that his toes are a rather pleasing shade of brown. He has a tan. How can a guy in Maine in May have a tan? He doesn’t look like the type to frequent tanning salons; he looks more
like Justin in that regard. The manly-man type. But even the manliest of men can end up utterly screwed by nature. Rule number one: Nature always kicks ass.

“Um, look. I can’t relax. You may be a
powerful good swimmer
, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and freezing, and I’m sure my friends are looking for me, so I need to get back to them. Can you help me?”

“Sure thing.” Then he grimaces. I look down and for the first time I notice he’s holding his arm, limp in front of him.

The blood is all over his hand. My blood? I lean forward. No, there’s a massive gash on the top of his forearm, stretching almost from his elbow to his wrist bone. It’s deep, too; the blood is a dark, thick purple. I gasp. “Oh my God.”

He laughs at me. “It’s nothing. Old war wound.”

He’s off his rocker. It’s fresh. And it’s bleeding everywhere. “No, you need …” I look around but there’s no spare fabric anywhere, and I can’t very well ask him to remove his worn shirt, since it’s probably as thin as paper. Grimacing, I reach down and pull off my water shoes, then remove the outer layer of socks. They’re damp, but they’ll have to do. I wrap the first sock around his arm as a tourniquet. It’s tough to tie because he happens to be kind of muscular there. Then I clamp the other one over the cut. It’s instantly saturated. “We’ve got to get you help.”

He looks at my handiwork. “Thanks, kid. But it’s just fine.”

It’s really not just fine. We’re both bleeding. We’ll probably die here in a puddle of our own blood. “How did you do that, anyway?”

He shrugs. “Don’t remember. Jumping in the water, I guess.”

“To save me? You pulled me out?”

He stares at his arm. “That I did, but … I don’t …” He looks confused, sad. “I don’t remember lots of things.”

“Well, thank you,” I say. My sock is now dripping with blood. Little crimson drops begin to puddle on the sand. “Oh God. That’s really bad. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He laughs. “Unwind, girl. You want to see bad, you should have seen your back.”

“What?” I shriek. Is it possible my wound is as bad? Um, worse? All this time I’ve been sitting here, I’d almost forgotten about it. It didn’t even hurt much. I crane to see my injury, but I can’t make out anything. In fact, I can’t even feel it anymore.

He’s still laughing.

I glare at him. “It’s not that horrible, is it? You were joking? Don’t. Do. That. You freaked me out. I thought I was dying.”

“Unwind, girl. You need to—”

Suddenly thunder begins to rumble in the distance, and I realize that the clouds are black and heavy with rain. Across the river, a thin mist has crawled in, sliding between the trees. My eyes are drawn toward the right bank, where a figure stands, half hidden by the pines. I squint to see, but my head throbs as my eyes struggle to focus in the thickening fog. It’s a large guy, like Justin, but I already know it’s not him. Justin would be trying to find a way to help me. This person is standing still, and it would almost be like a fragment of a photograph if his eyes weren’t trained right on us.

I feel a hand slide into mine, fingers lacing with my own. Next to me, the boy swallows. He’s lost some of his tan. Since he obviously enjoys cold weather, I’d expected his hands to be warm, like Justin’s. But they’re cold, like stone. Unlike stone, though, his fingers quiver slightly. There’s something wrong.

“Who is that?” I whisper.

He sits up, then pulls me to my feet so fast that I gasp in surprise. I’m stunned because it’s the first thing he’s done quickly. That easy smile is gone. I open my mouth to say “Well, now who’s wound up?” but he speaks first, his words clipped and emotionless. “Nobody. Let’s get you out of here. And, Kiandra—”

He grabs hold of my wrist and looks at me with intent, dark eyes. I want to ask him to let me go, I want to ask him how he knows my name, I want to ask him so many things, but the force of his eyes on me has rendered me speechless. Instead, I just nod, under this strange, dizzying spell.

“You have to go home. And don’t you ever come back. It’s too dangerous.”