Nowhere Wild (16 page)

After twenty minutes of hard paddling, Jake's adrenaline rush subsided, leaving him weak and dehydrated. The paddle now felt heavy and rough, like a log instead of a precision-made tool. He rested it across his lap and buried his head in his hands.

The images of those bodies and those graves were too close to recent memories. He had helped his grandfather lower his mother into her grave. He had thrown dirt onto her, watched the sheet they had swathed her in become muddy and wet. The bear fur had protected his grandfather, but the dead had a smell that was not easily forgotten. The smell of the bodies in the bungalow in Laroque still clung to his clothes. The canoe rocked with the oncoming waves and added to the frothing sadness rolling through his chest.

“Dad! Where are you?” he screamed into the sky. He stood in the canoe and screamed again.

“Jake!” Izzy grabbed the sides of the canoe.

The next wave nearly tipped them over. The sensation of falling broke him from his momentary loss of control. He thumped back down into his seat and hung his head.

“Jake? You okay?” Izzy shifted backward in the canoe.

“I want my dad.”

“Maybe he's up ahead.”

“What if he's not?”

“What if he is?”

“I can't—I can't keep going—I just want to stop. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I miss them. My mom. My dad. My grandpa. I miss them so much.”

“I know. God, I know, Jake. But we can't stop. Rick will find us. If we stop, he'll kill us.”

Jake looked behind them. There was no sign of Rick, either in a canoe or on the land.

“You sure it was him?”

He didn't really need to ask. He knew Rick would follow them.

She nodded. “Big print. Fresh. I don't know how he got here ahead of us, but he did.”

“We lost a day when we went the wrong way,” Jake replied.

That was his fault. He should have paid more attention to time and distance when crossing the lake. It had been the best he could do under the circumstances. There had been no time to get a fix on their position, and so little time to take compass readings when the waves kept coming. They had made it across the lake alive, and that, at the start of the crossing, between Rick shooting at them and the weather, had been long odds indeed.

He could do better now. He pushed his hair back from his face and pulled the map from his bag.

Seventy kilometers to the west was the village of South Indian Lake. It might as well have been a thousand. Seventy kilometers of burned mud—sticky, heavy and impassable, with no cover, and little wildlife to hunt. The few roads that existed wound around the features of the landscape, so that the actual distance would have been closer to double. His eyes followed a blue line through the forest, across a few more lakes, up a few rivers, across another section of forest, and then down another watershed to a road. Once on that road, it was but a few kilometers to Thompson.

He knew parts of the route, especially those closer to Thompson. His family had fished those rivers and lakes dozens of times. They had paddled the river and run its rapids. He had never done it without his father, but he knew the area.

First, however, they needed food and clean water. And he needed sleep. A shiver rolled through him as the wind spun the canoe. A low-hanging cloud draped across the sky beyond Laroque. Jake watched it and noted its dark gray color. Another storm was brewing.

Jake picked up his paddle.

“Where are we going?” Izzy asked.

“Home,” Jake replied.

“How far?”

“Does it matter?” Jake asked.

“No. It really doesn't,” Izzy replied.

“God, I'm hungry. And this is
not
cutting it.” Izzy tossed a half-chewed cattail stem aside in disgust.

“Catch another fish, and we can eat something else,” Jake said from behind her as they fought their way through the brush. “Or get that sling out again and show me what you can do with it. Until then, stop complaining. Doesn't do any good.”

Izzy didn't bother to look back and didn't bother to argue with him. The sling she had made with the twine and plastic was okay, but it wasn't anything like the one she had built the previous winter. The rocks she fired with it refused to fly in a straight line. Jake had taken a brief interest in it when she had first put it together. Now it was a source of aggravation for her, and something he used to dig at her with when he was grumpy. He had been plenty grumpy these last few days.

On the lakes, the fish had been easy to catch. In the thick bush, food was whatever plants they could find. They had left the last lake behind three days before, and they hadn't had a solid meal since. The constant bushwhacking, chopping away at undergrowth with the machete, and fighting off the bugs sucked up Izzy's energy like a sponge.

Still, it was better than the alternative, she reminded herself. When she made this trek during the winter, there hadn't even been
cattails to eat. All there had been then was an unending, hip-deep layer of snow. At least that was gone now, replaced by hip-high stinging nettles and downed trees. They had tried to boil the roots of the nettles—Jake said his grandfather said they were edible. That meal had been a complete disaster and left them both sick to their stomachs.

Izzy's eyes focused on following the old trail. Jake had called it a portage, but this path hadn't been used in years. Either that, or they had lost the trail—again. Twice in the past two days, they had been forced to turn around and backtrack a significant distance after finding themselves stuck deep in some swamp too wet to cross on foot, and too choked with weeds to paddle. Each time they had turned around, Jake had reminded her to pay more attention. He couldn't—not with the canoe on his shoulders. She had, after all, told him that she was very good at orienteering.

It wasn't her fault that he believed her.

They had given up on paddling the rivers. A constant rain had soaked them for over a week since leaving Laroque. The flows ran high and fast, and paddling into the current took ten times the effort it would have later in the year. Instead, Jake carried the canoe and his gun through the bush, while Izzy slogged the pack with the weight of all their gear. Her back hurt. Her feet had blistered in three spots from the ill-fitting shoes.

But she knew it was even worse for Jake. He hadn't been sleeping much. She had offered to let him use the tent, and she would sleep under the canoe. He had refused. Without food and without sleep, the boy carrying the canoe behind her should have been just inches away from death. Yet somehow, on a few cattails and pigweed leaves, he kept going.

They reached the shore of the next big lake just as a torrential downpour dropped out of the sky. Izzy's ragged poncho protected her somewhat, but as they pushed off into the lake, she wondered
whether this leg of the trip would involve more time bailing out the canoe than paddling.

“Shouldn't we wait this out?” Izzy asked as the wind drove spray from a breaking wave directly into her face. A check of Jake's face showed his determination to continue. Within a few minutes, the shore disappeared from view, hidden by pelting rain and waves. Izzy's empty stomach lurched with each sudden drop. A particularly large wave hit her flush in the chest, nearly knocking her overboard. The bottom of the canoe filled with water.

“It'll be better once we get around the point.” Jake dipped his head toward a dark shape on the horizon, impossibly far away.

“If we live that long.” The wind stole Izzy's reply and blew it away from Jake's ears—not that he would have listened to her if he had heard. Izzy checked behind her one more time. Jake's look had not changed.

Izzy dug her paddle into the oncoming wave. The small canoe teetered on the brink as the wave rolled past. She timed her next paddle stroke and leaned back as the next wave slammed into them.

“Jake, it's not safe! We have to head in.” Another wave slid them sideways.

“We'll make it. Just paddle!”

Izzy tightened her grip on the paddle. Arguing with Rick had never worked either.
They always have to have their own way. If they'd just listen to me once in a while, life would be so much easier
. Izzy muttered a curse and pulled her paddle through the next wave and the one after that.

Almost imperceptibly, the peninsula grew larger in the distance. Izzy's arms and back screamed for relief. The gray-green mass in the distance resolved into individual trees. Izzy pushed the bow toward the shore.

“No!” Jake ordered. “Go right! Hard.”

“What?” Going right meant going back into the middle of the lake.

“Go right!”

“Why?” Izzy shouted.

“Look. To the left of that big cedar. In the bush.”

Izzy tried to find the big cedar in a multitude of trees. One looked slightly larger than the rest. Her eyes dropped to its base, then tracked left. A large bush—some kind of half-dead juniper by the looks of it—sat just where Jake had pointed.

A slight movement caught her eye. She stopped paddling while her eyes determined what it was that she saw. Slightly blinded by the continuous fog of rain over the past hour, it took a moment for her vision to adjust. Then the rain slackened, and Izzy once again spied the movement on the shore.

Most of the land was green with a thick layer of pine needles. But there, among the bushes, a slightly darker area stood out, and a patch of brown moved. Some of the sticks in the bush were, in fact, antlers. A buck. Izzy gulped the cold air. Now that she saw the animal, she could see nothing else.

Izzy glanced back at Jake. The grin on his face told her all she needed to know. That deer would be their dinner. And their breakfast. And all the food they would need to reach Thompson.

Yet Jake hadn't reached for his gun.

“You want me to take a shot?” Izzy shifted in the canoe to reach for the gun.

“God, no.” Jake shook his head. “I'll take it, but not from here. We'll go around the point, then I'll hike back.” He pointed slightly to the right. “Keep paddling. I'll tell you when to turn.”

Izzy slid her paddle back into the water. Her eyes split time between watching for the next oncoming wave and checking to make sure the deer did not suddenly spook and run. They rounded
the point, well out of reach of its rocky bottom and whitecapped breakers. As Jake had predicted, the water beyond the point, out of the wind, lay nearly flat. He steered them neatly in to a sheltered strip of gravel. Izzy bounded from the canoe and onto the beach, ready to head out on the hunt.

Jake dragged the canoe clear of the water. He shook the rain from his clothes and dumped the lake water from his boots. He removed the rifle from its case.

“Come on. Let's go,” Izzy urged.

“You're not coming. You don't have a gun, and neither of us have vests. I don't want to get separated and end up shooting you.”

“I'll stay close. What if you need help?”

“I won't. Stay here. Dump the canoe. Check the gear. See if you can get a fire going.”

Jake checked the gun for load, and his belt for his knife.

A second later, all Izzy could see were the moving branches where he had disappeared into the brush.
Left behind again. Just like with Rick.

She shook the rain from her poncho and kicked the ground.

The grind across the lake had been too long and too dangerous. Jake had known that as soon as they set into the water, but admitting defeat by going back would have been a kill shot to his hopes of getting out alive. His arms and back had nearly buckled under the pressure of trying to keep the canoe upright and on track. Izzy had been correct to question the decision. Again, his impatience had forced a mistake. His grandfather's voice chirped up. Jake shushed it. Now wasn't the time for a lecture. If he could get this buck, the risk would have all been worth it.

Water dripped from every branch and every leaf. Jake took long, careful strides, making as little noise as possible. His pace slowed as he closed on his target. His eyes scanned the shore, looking for the familiar cedar. The new angle rendered his memory of the deer's position nearly useless. Everything looked different. He took his time. In this thick brush, he would get only one shot. Their lives depended on it being a good one.

The whistle of the wind and the crash of waves obscured any sounds of his prey. The smell of the churned-up lake disguised any animal odors. All he could smell was fish, and he wasn't sure any longer if that smell was the lake or his own fragrance.

He paused and checked for the slightly darker area in the brush. He was close. The hair stood up on his neck. He stepped forward,
waited a heartbeat, and repeated. He had seen hunters walk right by deer hidden in grass next to them and laughed as the deer scampered away once behind them.

He flexed his stiff trigger finger. It barely moved. Slowly, he removed his hand from the trigger guard and stretched it three times. His skin was white with cold. He blew warm air into his hand.

Five meters ahead and to his right, the deer bolted from its cover.

Jake's fingers fumbled back to the trigger as he pressed the gun to his shoulder. The deer rocketed away, heading northeast from the lake, already at a full run by the time Jake was ready to shoot. The thick brush obscured a clear view of the animal as it fled. Jake hastily lined up the rifle, led the animal slightly, took a quick breath, and squeezed off a shot.

The sound of the rifle made Izzy jump. She stared in the direction of the shot, wondering if Jake would come back with the deer in tow, or, more likely, empty-handed. A little gloating would have felt
so
good right then—but not as good as a full stomach.

He should've let her take the shot from the boat. She could have made it.
Easy.

She knew that was a lie. She'd shot a real gun exactly twice in her life, both times from a prone position with her arms well braced, not from a boat on a frothing lake.

Still, he should have let her go with him. Two sets of hands were always better than one.

She picked up a rock and tossed it into the waves. A heavy drop of rain smacked her directly between the eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. She wanted to scream—wanted to scream at the weather—it was supposed to be summer and warm, not this cold rain that never ended. She wanted to scream at the lake—lakes were supposed to be easy to paddle on. Every stroke out there had been murderous. She wanted to scream at Jake for treating her like a little girl. He went out and did the hunting, and she was supposed to what? Cook? Clean? Get a fire going? Her anger fizzled. A fire. They needed a fire to boil water and to dry their clothes, if that was even possible out here.

Reluctantly, she turned for their beached canoe and set about doing what needed to be done. She put the pack and their supplies on the beach and dumped the water out. Another twenty minutes on those waves and the water would have been up to the cross braces. She shook the canoe in every direction possible, until the only trickles of water were from the rain still hitting it.

She dug the flint and striker from Jake's pack, intent on building a small fire on the gravel. After five minutes of fruitless searching, she gave up on finding dry tinder and put the flint back in the exact place it had been. Once, she had put it in the wrong place and Jake had completely flipped out. Not a Rick-level flip out—he had only sworn once—but he had looked at her with suspicious eyes and didn't seem satisfied until she dug it out of the bottom of the pack and handed it to him.

She glanced at the fishing rod and then at the lake. With the rain and the waves and the wind, the shallows would be filled with churned-up silt. The fish would be off in the deep water waiting for the weather to subside. She left the pole in its case and instead pulled the sling from her pocket. Rocks on this beach were plentiful, and she needed the practice.

She launched one, then another, and another, in the direction of a washed-up stump to the southeast. Her arms, exhausted from paddling, balked at the strain. She fought through the pain and whipped the rocks overhead. One out of ten flew close to where she wanted it to go. With her salvaged scissors, she trimmed the plastic pouch down so the corners were a little smoother. The next rock flew a little better. The one after that nearly hit the target. Another adjustment and the sling felt almost right. It still wasn't as good as the first one she had made and learned with, but in a pinch, it might just work.

She hurled the stones at the stump until her arm felt like it
would come loose from its socket. She turned back to where Jake had disappeared into the bush so long before. Worry crept into her mind.

He should have returned by now.

What if something had happened to him?

What if he'd gotten hurt?

She pocketed the sling and set off through the bush to follow him.

It didn't take long to reach the opposite side of the peninsula. There was no sign of Jake. The spot by the cedar tree was vacant, but a multitude of hoofprints in the area suggested it was a popular hangout for the antlered kind. On a nearby leaf, a spot of blood proved that Jake had at least grazed the deer—unless it was Jake's blood. Izzy shook the thought from her head.

Izzy's view drifted out over the water, where the waves still rolled and broke, though the rain seemed to have slackened, and the wind calmed. She could almost see to where they had set in just a few hours before.

In the distance, a shadow broke over the crest of a wave. Izzy strained to make it out. It disappeared into the next trough, then reappeared a moment later, riding the next crest.

In the instant before it vanished back into the gap between the waves, Izzy knew exactly what—or rather
who
—it was. Her stomach lurched. Sweat formed beads on her forehead. A knot lodged in her throat. She watched a moment longer, then turned and sprinted back to the canoe.