Fire & Flood (5 page)

I glance around frantically, looking for someone to tell me what to do. The Contenders have formed a long line, the kind you see at the start of a marathon. A few yards down from where I stand — I see him. My throat tightens when I realize his cold blue eyes are locked on me. It’s the guy from the Pandora Selection Process. The serial killer–looking dude who I thought was going to kidney punch me. He glares in my direction like he might take this opportunity to finish what he never started. I raise my hand in a small wave, hoping it says something like:
See? Look how friendly I am!

He lifts his own enormous hand. For a moment, I brighten. I think maybe that — even though it looks like he hates every fiber of my being — he’s going to wave back. But he doesn’t. He holds
up two fingers — his pointer and his middle — places them under his eyes, and then points in front of us.

Oh no he didn’t. I think he basically just told me to pay attention. I’m still processing this when the woman’s voice rings in my ear.

“Go!”

It sounds like a stampede.

The Contenders run fast and hard, and the sound makes me feel drunk with energy. If I don’t start running, I’ll be trampled. Someone shoves me from behind and I almost fall. I don’t need another push.

I run.

I forget every fear I’ve held on to, and I run.

Breath rushes in and out of my lungs and my legs burn beneath me. I have no idea where I’m headed, and I’m sure no one else does, either. Somewhere out here is a blue flag, and I need to find it. The woman said the flags would lead to base camp and that we have two weeks to get there. Base camp sounds good, like it might have hot food and soft beds. So I run toward what I imagine could be the direction — straight ahead.

It seems many others have the same idea. Some race beside me, but most race before me. I don’t worry about catching up. Not yet. I just keep a hand on my satchel, ensuring the egg isn’t hurt by slapping against my thigh. It helps if I imagine I’m running for us both. If I imagine that right now I am my Pandora’s protector and maybe if I do well, someday soon the tables will turn.

After several minutes, Contenders start to slow. I begin to feel my first shock of confidence as I pass one person after another. No one would ever accuse me of being an athlete. I was always the girl who’d rather cheer from the sidelines than participate in something that’d make her sweat. I’m not a softball star or a volleyball champion or someone who knows her way around a basketball court.

But I can run like the wind.

I use every bit of speed I have to gain the only edge I may ever get. It isn’t long before there are only a few people left in front of me. I push myself harder, flattening my hands and slicing the air.

I pass a few more people, leaping over dead logs and the widest array of plants I’ve ever seen. Large leaves brush against my ankles and smaller ones kiss my cheeks. I wonder what creatures call this jungle home and how many of them rest beneath the same plants I’m stepping on. There are so many things to be afraid of in this jungle, but as I run, my blood pumping hard in my veins — I feel no fear.

I run for what feels like two hours before slowing, even though I know it can only have been minutes. Sweat pours down my face and drips onto my brown scrubs, leaving dark starbursts in their wake. Gross. I hope there’s laundry at whatever base camp we’re supposed to find. I throw my hands behind my head and try to walk off the stitch in my side. I’m not sure whether this actually helps, but I’ve seen runners do it, so what the hey.

When I glance around, I see only two Contenders. They’re fairly far away from where I’ve paused. For a moment, I’m thrilled. I left most of them behind, and for the first time, I feel like I may actually have a chance. I may be small, but I’m fast. And this is a race, after all. But when they both disappear into the foliage, a bolt of panic shoots up my legs.

I’m alone.

I think about chasing after the last person I saw. There’s no reason we can’t travel together for two weeks, then run for the finish line at the last minute, right? I run my hands over my freshly shorn hair and drop down onto my knees. Even if one of the other Contenders agrees to search for base camp with me, could I even find a fellow Contender at this point? Best bet is I’ll race after them and end up getting myself lost. I decide to stay put but reason
that if I see another Contender soon, I’ll run my tag team idea across them. Deal? Deal.

Oh Jesus. I’m already talking to myself. Or thinking to myself as if there are two of me. Is that the same thing? I’m not sure. But I do know I’ve been alone for two minutes and I’m already losing my shit.

I slide from my knees onto my butt and nestle the egg into my lap. I’ve got to think. If I were a base camp, where would I be? I can only imagine that we’re on one side of this jungle, and it’s on the other. So we’d have to cross through the jungle in order to get there. That’s exactly what’d they want. To drag the Contenders through the worst of the jungle — the middle.

I don’t know who “they” are, but I feel like I’m onto something. If the camp is on the other side of the jungle, then I can just as easily get there by going
around
the jungle as I can by going through it. The trek may be longer, but I won’t encounter as many obstacles staying on the perimeter. At least, I think. No, that sounds right. It does.

Hot damn! I have a plan!

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I stand up. Holy mother of God, it’s hot up in here. It’s not a sweltering heat. In fact, it’s probably less than ninety degrees. But it feels like a
wet
heat, the kind that makes you perspire just by breathing. None of that matters, though, because I have an idea on how to get to base camp that doesn’t involve getting killed. Every few minutes, I have to laugh at what I’m planning. Because I used to sit on our blue-and-yellow, floral couch eating cheese and crackers and laughing at those
I Survived
shows in which people would take vacations to the jungle and end up fighting off wild animals.

“Idiots,” I’d say, crunching another cracker. “Who tafes vaca to the friggin’ hungle?”

And now here I am. Some people say life has no sense of humor. Please.

Something snaps and I freeze. A few yards ahead, I swear I see a man. It looks like he’s wearing face paint and trying hard to remain hidden. A second bolt of fear blasts up my spine. I glance around to see if there are others, and when I look back, he’s gone. Or he was never there to begin with. Which is probably more likely. A half hour into this race and I’m already hallucinating things.

I rehook my bag over my chest, repeat that there’s no strange man, and walk toward my right. Before, I ran straight ahead. But now that I have the plan, I need to cut across the jungle and find the perimeter. I’m not sure how I’ll know when I’ve reached this so-called perimeter, but I’m guessing the foliage will be thinner. Yeah. I’m going with that.

As I march across the jungle, lifting my knees high to keep from stumbling, I begin to list just how many things can end my life. If I eat the wrong thing … death. If I don’t find water … death. If a saber-toothed tiger stumbles upon me on an empty stomach … death. Granted, I don’t think saber-toothed tigers actually exist anymore. But if they do, they live here.

Sound is everywhere. Some I recognize: birds calling and bugs buzzing. Others, I’m uncertain of. Like the rustle the ground makes when something is slithering beneath it, and the high-pitched scream of an animal I can’t name. Even the trees seem to whisper as creatures dive into their leaves. The smell of earth fills my nose, and everywhere I look, pops of color rest against green. There are flowers the color of ripe oranges growing along a thin, spiraling vine. Other flowers are purple and yellow, and there’s a robust spray of something blue that’s shaped like avocados. I want to touch everything and nothing at once.

I make it about a half mile before the sky splits open. There’s no lightning, no thunder. Just rain. I run for cover, certain I can find something to use for shelter. But everything I think can work looks terrifying to crawl beneath. There’s a wide plant that can do the trick if it weren’t decked with black needles. And another that shoots up and over like an umbrella that I’m certain shelters killer somethings or others. I imagine all sorts of insects and animals have the same idea I do — seek shelter — and I suddenly realize rain’s not so bad. Not in comparison anyway.

It seems there is less green growth near the base of some trees. I suspect that has to do with lack of sunlight. Whatever the reason, I crouch down and lean against a tree trunk, the wet bag heavy in my arms. Rain still pelts me, but it’s not as harsh here. I think about continuing to walk while it pours, but something tells me staying dry is important. Reaching my arms out, I gather some rain in my cupped palms and quench my thirst.

I sit for what feels like hours. The rain doesn’t cease. As best I can, I try to cover my bag with my body, shielding it from getting too wet. Already, it feels like the egg and device are my ticket to winning, and I can’t risk either getting damaged. When I can no longer handle the shaking in my arms — or the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me — I close my eyes. And despite all odds, I fall asleep.

When I wake, everything is blanketed in dark. It’s a dark like I’ve never experienced. I can’t see what’s five feet in front of me, but I can hear the rush of rain and smell thick, musty scents I don’t recognize. My head starts to pound. I didn’t think about this part of the race — the night.

I’ve never liked the dark. Not as a child, not now. And this … this is almost unbearable. Blood pulses in my ears, and I push my hands over them to stifle the sound of my own heart thumping.
Within seconds, I’ve imagined every worst-case scenario. Most of which involves being eaten by something.

Once, when we still lived in Boston, my mom took me to hot yoga. It’s normal yoga, but for masochists. In it, they teach you to retain control of your mind and body in uncomfortable situations. This is as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been, so I swing my legs beneath me to sit cross-legged. Then I place my hands on my knees and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Something tells me this doesn’t work when you’re in the middle of a jungle at midnight.

An ear-piercing shriek penetrates the night. Though it sounds like it’s a mile away from where I sit, I imagine it’s only inches. Moments later, another shriek emanates from the opposite side of the jungle. The two animals call to each other. Back and forth, back and forth. If I were watching this on TV, I would find it awe inspiring. But here — sitting in my damp clothes on the forest floor, blind to what’s around me — it’s so overwhelming, it makes me cry.

I brush tears from my face and think of Mom. When Cody and I were little, she would sing to us. It was a special occasion, her singing. She’d only do it when we were sick. Not for a sore throat or a bruised knee, but for the bedridden times when even soup and hot tea and warm blankets didn’t help. I can’t count the number of times Cody or I feigned an illness to rope my mom into singing.

There’s nothing else I can think to do.

I pull my egg out of my bag and nestle it in my lap. There’s no telling what this thing holds, and part of me is afraid to find out. But for now I try to forget that and just imagine it’s something normal, like a chicken.

I draw in a big breath.

I’m not the world’s best singer, but I’m not the worst, either. And so I sing for my Pandora, blocking out the sounds of the
jungle, forgetting why this may be a bad idea. I just run my hand gently over the dull shell — and I sing.

Because I can’t see anyway, I close my eyes and picture my family as I’m singing. I remember the time my parents brought home a blue parakeet, and Cody and I released it six days later. I almost laugh when I think about the face my Boston best friend, Hannah, made when I told her I loved the goth kid from biology class.

I lift up my Pandora so that my lips brush its shell. I sing every song I can remember the words to. And when I can’t sing any longer, I lie on my side, keeping my arms wrapped tightly around my egg. When I feel myself drifting off once again, I nuzzle my head against my egg and imagine how wonderful it will be when my Pandora hatches. How I won’t be alone anymore.

I don’t care what it will look like.

Or what it will do.

I just want it to be here, now.

“Good night, little Pandora,” I say. Then opening my eyes and looking straight at the smooth, fragile egg, I add, “Good night, Madox.”