Downburst (5 page)

I shake my shoulders and stick the paper back in the wallet before dropping the whole thing into my pocket. Then I rest my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes, reaching for my necklace. Instantly, Aura’s face fills my vision, and I have to look outside again. I try to think about something else, but I can’t keep my mind away from this morning, from all that blood.

Who were those men that killed her? They looked like they belonged to a gang, but not any gang I’d seen around Winnipeg. Their heads weren’t shaved, and they were too far east to be Shredders. What did they want—were they trying to rob her? No, they took her money
after
they slit her throat.
They wanted it to look like a robbery
, I realize
. That’s why they dumped her purse and broke her cell phone.
A chill settles in my chest. Will the police figure it out, or will they just assume what the men wanted them to, that it was a mugging gone wrong?

The answer makes me squirm in my seat. They’re not going to figure it out. The men were too careful, the whole thing too calculated. There’s only one person who can identify them, and that’s me. But, of course, I never will, so they’ll get off scot-free, and I’m the one who has to worry about being blamed for it.

Gripping my pendant more tightly, I look out the window, stare at the highway rolling away beneath me, and think about all of the reasons I absolutely cannot go to the police.

The rest of the day goes by in a sluggish blur, marked by the rumbling whir of the engine and the monotonous vibrations of the wheels, broken up only by our single pit stop. I continue to ignore the glares of the initiates next to me, continue to watch the road, trying anything not to think about Aura, about what will happen if I mess up and they find out I’m not her.

Finally, we reach our stopping point for the night and check in to our hotel. I’ve only stayed at a hotel once—on my school trip to the Twin Cities—but even I can tell this place is nothing to brag about. Torn carpet. Weak lighting. Peeling paint. Still, compared to Joe’s, it’s not half bad.

“We’ll meet in the lobby tomorrow morning at six,” Jeremy tells us as he hands out the keys to our rooms. “Don’t be late. We want to make an early start.”

As soon as I get to my room, I head straight for the shower. Without pausing to take off my clothes, I turn on the handle and step under the warm spray, vigorously washing away all the mud, scrubbing my skin hard, forcing her face to go away. When I emerge an hour later, I discover my roommate, the blonde girl with lots of makeup, tapping her foot on the chipped tile and waiting with a towel draped over her arm.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. I thought we weren’t allowed to say anything until we got to the camp. I don’t really care if she speaks or not, but I’m certainly not going to apologize, especially since she’s been scrunching her nose at me all day. Leaning forward, I snatch the towel from the rack directly behind her head and, ignoring her sputters of indignation,
wring out my hair.
Then
I walk over to the bed, peel off my clothes, and burrow into what I hope are clean sheets, throwing the wet towel on the floor and instantly closing my eyes.

I wake up a few hours later, gasping for air. I’m used to nightmares, but this one was especially bloody, and it takes me a while to go back to sleep.

Around four o’clock in the morning, my roommate’s alarm clock goes off. Not quite comprehending, I squint at her as she gets out of bed, flips on the light, and walks over to the counter. None of the initiates have any luggage—probably another reason Jeremy mistook me for Aura—but this girl has found a way around that, and I watch, eyes slowly widening, as she removes makeup, travel-sized body spray, hair gel, and even a miniature straightening iron from her pockets.

After watching for a few minutes, I roll over and pull the blankets above my head. But not before I’ve decided on her name—
Diva
.

At ten to six, I crawl reluctantly out of bed. I splash cold water on my face, tie back my dense hair, kinked more than usual from lying in bed, and pull on my wrinkled clothes. The jeans are still damp, but at least they’re not coated in mud.

By this time, Diva’s blindingly blonde locks have been perfectly straightened and smoothed. She adds yet another layer of mascara to her lashes and then checks herself out in the mirror. When she sees me looking at her, she scowls. I blow her a kiss and leave the room.

Once we’ve all gathered in the musty lobby, our counselors lead us back out to the van. This time they assign me to the middle row, though for some reason Gander and I are punished with sitting next to each other for another eight hours.

Damon takes us to a drive-through for breakfast, and as we return to the highway, Jeremy passes back limp egg sandwiches and watery orange juice.

Just as I’m handing a tray of cups to the people behind me, Damon hits a pothole, and the juice flies from my grasp, dousing the neck and shirt of the person in the back seat. That person happens to be Diva.

“Idiot!” Diva screams. “Freak! What’s wrong with you?”

Aponi whips her head around. “That’s enough,” she scolds. “You shame yourself.” It’s the first time I’ve seen her frown. Usually the stud on her lip is rising with the curves of her mouth. Diva’s face grows dark red, and she wipes furiously at her shirt with a pile of napkins.

I look away, meticulously unwrapping my egg sandwich.
Good thing I didn’t get her hair wet. She might have clawed my eyes out.
But it’s hard to forget that second thing she called me, hard to push down the memories, and I feel my back stiffen.

Around me, the other initiatives are shifting in their seats and staring fixedly at their sandwiches, the compulsory silence heightening the tension in the van.
It’s not because of what she said,
I realize.
It’s because she
said
something.
And for the first time I wonder why we aren’t allowed to speak, why it’s so important.

I look at the people sitting in the row in front of me—Titan, Charity, and Bullseye. All of them have their heads bowed low, like athletes in a locker room before a game, hands clasped between knees, lips rolling under teeth, and as I watch their hunched shoulders, my stomach clenches. I remember now. Jeremy said the period of silence was for mental preparation.

That leaves just one question.

What exactly are we preparing for?

I am running.

I pass lightly over twigs and branches, landing on the rich moss. The trees keep the black path moist and the air heavy. It’s dark, quiet. Only the soft thudding of my feet and the whisper of my breath. Tiny swirls of cotton dance around my head. One of the puffs lands on my eyebrow, and I swish it away. To my left, the sun pierces the thick canopy, soaking a section of leaves in light. They shimmer, iridescent, green.

Up ahead, the trees end. The world beyond is golden and welcoming, and I run faster, springing off the balls of my feet, bursting from the cover of the forest, vaulting onto the dirt road. Fat, splotchy clouds break up the glare above, and the new blades on the cornstalks whish as I go by.

A redwing blackbird springs from the grass by my feet and charges at my head, protecting his nest. I raise my arms in defense and shoot more power into my legs. The bird follows me for several paces then flies to a watchful post above. I see his proud silhouette against the bright sky.

I turn onto a new road, following my usual route, and the corn gives way to softer crops. The tall grasses bend easily in the breeze, the strong wind nudges the small of my back, and ahead of me, the dirt path extends forever. On both sides, fields follow fields. A collapsed barn. Trees waving in the distance. Small towers of gray wooden beehives. A congregation of horses. These are my only companions.

The wind dies, and the sweat drips into my eyes, down my back. The air is suddenly scalding. Each blistering breath smothers my lungs, and my feet pound the taupe dirt while my mind directs my panting.
In. Out. In. Out.
My legs shine, and I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks.

In the field to my right, a long smear of vibrant yellow leaps out against the green crops. The color of July. I leave the road and enter the meadow, slowing to a walk as I’m surrounded by lemon and goldenrod. My sweat attracts the flies, but I wave them away and brush the flowering crops with my fingertips. I drink in the dandelion sunshine, the hum of the bees. Pure serenity. The wind picks up again, and I welcome the coolness against my flushed cheeks, breathing deeply.

Smoke burns my throat.

I snap my head behind me and see a column of swirling slate. Immediately, I turn and run in the opposite direction. Around me, the mustard flowers begin to fade, their gray stalks crumbling as I rush past. I run faster, but the smoke stays with me. The wind drives the fumes into my mouth and nose. I splutter and wheeze and keep running as everything grows gray and hazy. I can’t even see the dead field. All I hear is the crunch of the dry, withered plants beneath my feet.

At last I reach the forest and plunge into the trees. The light is even grayer and dimmer under the leaves, but the shade offers no relief from the heat—or the smoke. My shirt clings stickily to my skin. My hair is stiff and wet. I want to stop and rest, but I can’t. I have to keep moving. I run until my feet throb.

It’s no use. The dark plumes find me. They swallow the trees, curl around my feet, entwine themselves about my torso. Hideous black tattoos appear in the mist, twisting the smoke into a giant snake. The tattoos slither up the gray scales, coiling together to form the monster’s eyes and teeth, and then the snake opens its mouth and digs its fangs into my flesh.

“No!” I scream. But my blood is already flowing, purple torrents pulsing down my chest and onto the ground, the only color against the gray.

And now I’m just like them.

I jolt forward, almost hitting the back of the seat in front of me, and gape at the faded blue fabric until relief slowly oozes into my veins. I’m in the van. It was only a dream.

I glance at the other passengers, wondering if I screamed out loud, but none of them are looking in my direction, and I lean back against the seat. No one noticed. Well, almost no one. A peek to my right confirms Gander’s smirking face—he probably felt me start awake. I scowl at him and turn my attention back to the view from my window.

Outside, the forest continues to roll bumpily past, just as it has for the past five hours since we left civilization and took to the back roads. As I peer through the glass at the endless pines, I think of my dream and shudder, tell myself to breathe deeply. Then I see something and sit up straight. It’s a house. I crane my neck to look ahead. I think there are more of them.

“We’re here!” Jeremy calls from the front.

I keep my forehead glued to the window as more and more homes come into view and we enter a town. The town is small, but it’s still bigger than
Williams
with its population of barely two hundred. And unlike Williams, there’s no flat farmland here. Just dense, suffocating forest.

In a matter of minutes, we drive straight through the village and stop at the edge of a lake. Jeremy orders everyone out of the van, and Damon and Aponi usher us toward a small convenience store to use the bathroom. My legs feel like goo, and I have to stretch them slowly.

While I wait my turn in line, I see two men talking by the coolers. I strain to make out what they’re saying, but they’re not speaking English, or even French. Instead, it sounds like some kind of Indian dialect. We’re further out in the boonies than I thought.

When I walk back outside, Aponi is handing out energy bars. I wonder why our counselors are giving us such exorbitant snacks, but I’m hungry, so I rip it open quickly.

“Alrighty,” Damon pronounces, “the fun is about to begin!” He motions grandly behind him at a line of backpacks and forest green one-man kayaks.

“Everyone grab a pack and kayak,” Jeremy directs, “and walk it over to the beach here.”

Finally.
Shoving the half-eaten energy bar into my pocket, I join the group and pick out a kayak. Then I hoist a pack onto my shoulders, pick up a paddle and a lifejacket, and carry the vessel down to the water. It’s not as heavy as a canoe, but it’s not exactly lightweight either. That means we probably won’t be going on a long trip, just paddling out to a campsite. I’ve done that scores of times on 4-H excursions to
Voyageurs National Park
.

I admire the kayak as I set it down next to the others. Our counselors may have fed us fast food and booked a cheap hotel room, but they aren’t holding back here. These are good quality watercraft, not sea kayaks by any means, but certainly worth upwards of seven hundred dollars. Slick design, equipped with skegs, they look like they’re built to handle some surf, maybe even some whitewater. I want to see what’s inside the backpack, but none of the other initiates are opening theirs, so I don’t either.

“Okay, everyone, load ’em up,” Jeremy instructs.

One glance tells me the compartment in the stern won’t be big enough to hold the large backpack, so instead I slide it into the space for my legs. I’ll just have to hope the gear inside has been waterproofed. I lower myself into the seat, adjust the foot braces, and grab the paddle.

When I look up, I discover that I’m the only one in my kayak. Most of the others are still struggling to find a spot for their backpacks—Dum is attempting to shove the remaining two-thirds of his pack inside the hatch even though it’s in as far as it can go
.

“All right,” Jeremy says when the others are finally ready. “In your backpacks you’ll find a topographic map, a compass, and the coordinates for the campsite. It’s approximately sixty-four kilometers northeast of here. You have until tomorrow night to arrive.”

Sixty-four kilometers?
I feel a pinch in my gut. That’s got to be around forty miles.

“You can work together if you wish,” Jeremy continues, “but remember, you are still observing the period of silence and you
must
arrive with your kayaks. Once you reach the island there”— he points across the lake—“you may look inside your packs.”

I squint at the speck of land and estimate it will take a good thirty minutes to reach it. Maybe more. The water looks choppy.

“Okay, then,” he concludes, “I think that does it. Oh, one more thing—remember, if you show up late, you’ll be sent home. If you don’t show up, well … ” His voice trails off. “Let’s just hope we see you tomorrow night.”

I stare at him.
What does he mean? What will happen if we don’t show up?

As Aponi and Damon begin pushing the kayaks into the lake, Jeremy walks over to me. “It’s probably against the rules,” he says, “but I thought you might like your knife.” He holds out my switchblade, and I take it from him numbly, putting it in my pocket, wanting desperately to ask.

“Don’t get lost,” he winks. Before I can react, he walks behind my kayak and shoves it into the water. “Happy sailing!”

I automatically begin to paddle, aiming the bow for the island, but all I’m thinking about is what will happen if I run into trouble. Would they actually leave me out here? I’m a good kayaker, but forty miles is a long way to go.

I force the thought out of my head and concentrate on catching up with the others. After a few minutes, I finally connect to the tail end of the small armada. Surprisingly, it takes some strenuous paddling to match their pace. Somehow, all of the initiates, even Diva, know how to kayak, the steady strokes of their paddles belying their earlier clumsiness. And they’re fast. It’s all I can do to keep up with them, and in ten minutes, I won’t even be able to do that, not at this speed.

Ten minutes was too generous. In two minutes, I’ve dropped five feet behind the group. In four minutes, it’s twenty feet. I take deep, thrashing cuts at the water as I fall further and further behind and as the pressure bubbles higher and higher inside of me.

Seriously, what is going on? One minute these kids have no idea what they’re doing, and the next they’re kayaking like pros. It doesn’t make any sense—even Dum is making this look easy. Aren’t any of them worried about what Jeremy said? We’re traveling into the Canadian wilderness, and there’s a chance no one will come looking for us if something goes wrong!

When the closest person is a good hundred feet in front of me, the pressure suddenly surges up my chest, and I thump my paddle hard against the water. It makes a satisfying smacking sound, and I do it again, letting the shuddering sensation run up my arm as I swat the oar again and again on the water. My kayak rocks back and forth, but I keep thrashing as the frustration froths out of me.

This is all Aura’s fault.
Suddenly, I see her face in the lake, and I whack at it with my paddle. The images from yesterday spin fast around my head. I whack at each one, but another just takes its place. Black tattoos. Blood-stained knives. Blank brown eyes. Blotchy wallets. The dark cyclone swirls to include Diva and Gander and Jeremy and Joe and the police and …

I stop and double over, struggling to shove it back down, my breathing uneven, my whole body tight. A choking sound escapes my lips, and I sit up and jab my spine against the backrest. This isn’t getting me anywhere. It never does.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the paddle again, this time using it the way it was intended, and with each dip in the lake, I do what I do best. I push it all away from me, bury their faces under the waves. I can’t think about Aura or why this doesn’t make sense. I can’t think about anything except moving forward. I paddle on the right and then on the left. Right, left, right, left. All I know is the movement of my arms and the tossing swell beneath me.

I’m the last one to reach the island. I paddle around it until I find a small bay with a nicely sloping beach. I don’t see anyone else. Either they’re on another side, or they’ve already moved on. I slide up the wet sand and step out of the kayak, pulling it up on the shore behind me. It’s time to see what’s in my pack.

I drag the backpack out—luckily, it isn’t too wet—unlatch the flap, and loosen the cords. At the top of the pack, as promised, is a waterproof topographic map, and below that sits a compass, a ruler, and the paper with the coordinates. I pull out the rest of the equipment: a sleeping bag, water purifying tablets and a water bottle, soup mix, granola, two freeze-dried meals, a mess kit with a small pot, a pocketknife, a flashlight, toilet paper, matches, and a bivy shelter.