I vomit over the cave edge and possess enough gumption to glare in the direction of the hiding wolves. That’s all they get from me.
I roll onto my back with a groan and wipe my mouth with the bandage on my arm. Every spike and bump in the rock digs bruises into my aching muscles. The invisible weight presses on my forehead, but I push myself to a sitting position. My mental-smoke clears and, with several blinks, I survey the sunlit clearing below me. The skeletons look less threatening and the forest twinkles in welcome. I want to walk in it. The idea of flickering leaves and bird chirps floats in my head. I want to be there—sick or not.
God, take me into the forest.
I close my eyes to breathe in the mental picture. When I open them, I’m lying down again and the lighting has changed. I must have fallen back asleep. The cave is frigid, but the snow has stopped. I roll my heavy head to the side and groan. My cheek connects with the bitter stone.
Sitting up, blackness wafts over my vision for a moment. It relents and I see the trees. They still sparkle under the sun. My fear of the animals lessens, either from incoherence or boredom.
I check the bandages and swallow bile. The amount of dried blood covering me looks like new mottled skin. I dab water on some of the cuts and take a long drink. Parched. The loss of blood carried my hydration onto the stone. Abandoning restraint, I gulp down three more swallows. The last sip is more like a slurp. I try again. No luck. My water’s gone, but I don’t have energy to worry.
Tiny rocks fall from the top of the cliff and clatter among the bones. I pause in tying my last knot and peer upward. A shadow grows through the thin cloud wisps and a falling body pulls a gasp from my throat. Before the man plummets into the hard earth, he releases a screech, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Another victim of the Wall.
A familiar pounding breaks the morning silence. Pounding that prefaced my own encounter with death cloaked in fur. Growls and yaps join the noise of the stampede. I bury my face in my pack.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” I pray for relief from the sounds of animal mayhem. Alarm closes around me like a cocoon. Wind increases, carrying unnerving howls to my ears and stray snowflakes to my cheeks.
At least this man’s death was quick. My death will be anything but. I have slow options—freeze, starve, die from infection, or feed the wolves. I’ve never been good at making decisions.
As the throaty grunts and animal sounds quiet, I dare a peek at the animals, all the while trying to suppress the wave of guilt that hits me remembering the Newtons. They were in trouble with the Enforcers, but what could I have done? Did they die like this?
The Wall victim is nothing but a pile of clothes. Familiar clothes. Thick and brown, a little stained. It’s the Wall Keeper who sent me through a few days ago! Was it a few days? I’ve lost count already. Two? Three? How long have I tossed in delirious sleep?
The beasts retreat, satiated. So this is how they live—a feast is handed to them practically every day.
I place a shaking hand over my mouth and look away. How did the packs know more meat had arrived? Did they hear the impact? They couldn’t smell him that fast.
His scream echoes in my mind, like a dinner bell. I look back at the animals. Slimy bones and clumps of clothing are all that remain now. The coyotes sniff around, making certain not to miss a bite.
A bird takes flight from a nearby tree, yet not a single ear twitches or nose lifts. A rabbit hops from a clump of trees to the right. It halts, staring at a wolf. The wolf sees it, but turns away. The rabbit flees back into the underbrush.
My sluggish brain turns its cogs through sleepy tar and I remember Reid telling me about dog training and other animal instruction—repetition and association. Repeat instruction and associate the desired action with a reward, sound, or command. Could these animals be so conditioned to receiving free meals they won’t chase down their own food?
I shake my head and chide my stupidity. They chased me didn’t they? They’re not immune to the thrill of the hunt. But they’re responsive to a scream—a scream means food. My thoughts speed up like a child at the end of a footrace. Didn’t I scream when I realized I stood in a graveyard of Radical bones? My own terror brought the animals out for food. If they’re full right now, couldn’t I, if I keep silent, make my way down the cliff and into the forest?
Calm down. I take a mental step backward. I can’t let my thoughts carry me into death, but my options are limited—stay in my cave and die or put forth an effort for survival . . . and probably die. I slurp from my water pouch before remembering nothing is left. Grey still paces for my blood. He glances up at me every few steps.
What am I doing sitting here? I thought I’d die off that cliff, but God’s given me a clear message: I let you live.
I have my second chance and I’m spending it bleeding to death in a cave. It’s time for action.
The thought goes against every physical plea in my body, but God knows my Numbers. I can’t waste them again. If I’m going to believe He’s got a plan, then that belief needs to start now.
In Nether Hospital, what seems like months ago, I thought I asked the impossible of Him. I asked Him to take my life somewhere fulfilling and to do something with it in the next six months. Now, here I am in a land no one’s explored with a chance to travel and return home. I asked God for six months. He’s giving them to me. The Clock must be mine. I’m invincible until October. Which means . . .
I meet Grey’s eyes.
“You can’t touch me.”
14
000.172.00.21.19
4.18.2149 – 13:04
Going to walk through a pack of wolves. Need water. Thirsty. Sleeping and bleeding a lot. I’m invincible.
I don’t say the Clock is mine. I don’t trust Skelley Chase’s word anymore and I doubt he’ll wait to publish my biography until the Clock zeroes out. When he publishes it, the world will know our secret and Reid might lose medical care. He may even be put to trial like me. The less attention I bring to our Clock, the better.
Shoving the journal into my pack, I take one large bite of Mother’s banana bread. It crawls down my throat with a thin coating of saliva.
Buckling the pack around my shoulders makes me lightheaded, but I wait with my legs dangling over the edge until my vision straightens out. The animals haven’t noticed my movement yet.
I slide over the rock edge on my stomach. The bending of my spine cracks open my dried back wounds. I gasp, but hold in any sound.
The cave waves good-bye, painted with blood. My clothes are soaked and crusty. I grasp the stone for holds with shaking arms and chilled fingers. Everything is weak, except my motivation. My mind is foggy from pain and illness, my body is tired from hunger and cold, and my muscles have never been of much use. I have to move fast or I’ll fall.
I let out a small pant as I shift down, trying to bend my rope-burned neck to look at my feet. My elbows and knees release tiny pops. Most of my weight rests on my toes as I work my way to the ground because my fingers and muscles seem incapable of squeezing the rock like I tell them. They’ve been sleeping too long. Bleeding too long.
I’m fifteen feet from the ground when the rock beneath the tip of my boot crumbles. The jerk of my body weight rips my limp hands from their holds. I slide along the cliff face and connect with the ground, hard. A small cry escapes when my legs buckle and I land on my side, banging my head against a nearby boulder. A black flash blinds me for a moment, but all I can think is, Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
Heat spreads through my body from raw agony. I whimper, praying my sounds are muffled behind the boulder. My pack is sideways and the straps pull against my throbbing wounds. I lie on the ground for a few minutes until my breathing regulates and I’m sure the wolves aren’t running to eat me. My hands and the right side of my face are grated and tender.
I push
myself to my knees and lean back on my heels. I place Reid’s sentra in my left skirt pocket then take Father’s knife from the pack, leaving the sheath inside. The blade still holds smears from when I wiped off my blood.
My world stops spinning and slowly, tenderly, I pull myself to my feet with a grimace. I’m still alive—with almost six months promised to me. These wounds will heal. I won’t die of infection or pain.
God got me out of the cave. I couldn’t do this alone. I’ve never been strong enough to descend a cliff with a fever and wounded body. My perseverance must be coming from Him.
With a deep breath, I creep between the boulder and the cliff. A small peek through a crack reveals the animals mulling around the clearing. Some coyotes sniff at old bones. A few wolves lie on the ground with their heads on their paws—Grey is one of them. Where are the bears?
My motivation is smeared somewhere on the rock and I start to shake. I can’t do this. What if they’re still hungry? What if I was wrong?
Over-thinking—never something I’ve done before. But my impulse is a little broken today.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose. My energy seeps into the frozen dirt the longer I stand by the boulder. I straighten my pack and it scrapes my wounds. I have to start somewhere, right, God?
My eyes open and dart to a lump on the ground between the boulder and cliff. My rope. I look up. This is near where the Wall Keeper fell. My rope must have been caught in the closed door until it opened again for the next victim.
I stuff it in my pack, tangled and unorganized. I’ll coil it later. Right now, I’m just thankful to have it back.
The lazy animals settle in the afternoon sun.
Don’t think. Not the wisest motivational thought, but enough to make me move. I squeeze between the boulder crack before I can back down and walk toward the beasts—not tiptoeing because that makes me nervous. Not thinking because I know I’ll panic. Just regular heel-to-toe steps, slowed to a near crawl.
They continue about their business. I’m a few feet away from the first coyote. He balances on three legs and licks his paw. I stare straight ahead, but monitor his movements through the corner of my eye. He watches me pass.
My pace increases, but I will myself not to run. Every muscle tightens with each coyote and wolf head that looks up. I meet none of their eyes. Grey is ahead. He’s staring at me. I barely breathe, clenching my tongue between my teeth to keep from muttering like a maniac. Before I even reach him, Grey lifts the corner of a lip and releases a wet snarl.
God, God, God . . .
My fist clutches my little knife and I keep walking. Faster. Faster. Movement behind me tickles my ears—licking sounds. I imagine the pack preparing to charge. After all, I still smell like dinner. I smell like human. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m covered in blood.
I break my statuesque gait and peek over my shoulder. A line of coyotes and wolves lick my dripping blood off the ground. I suck in a breath through my teeth. The smell of dirty, matted hair reaches my nose. Gag.
I return my gaze forward and reach my left hand into my pocket. I inch the sentra out enough so the lens aims toward the wolves. The small movement captures Grey’s attention even more. I press the button and push it back into my pocket as it makes the grinding sound to expel the picture.
Grey raises himself to all fours, but he takes his time. A tiny wheeze interrupts his snarls and his front leg buckles. Could he be wounded from his plummet from the rock face?
Serves him right for shredding me like a round of cheese.
Six months, right God?
My fear dissipates. There’s no logical reason for it to leave—I’m still surrounded by carnivores craving human flesh—but the fear is gone. Completely. My muscles relax, my stride turns normal, and I look Grey in his cold reflective eyes.
“I’ve been promised six months.”
He snarls.
Chin up. Deep breath. I stride toward the forest. Grey doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. I enter the line of trees, kicking aside a skull on my way. Grey’s growls die with the light once I’m among the forestry. The other animals remain on the tree line, bored and wandering. My heartbeat quickens, like my apprehensive nerves are working again. A headache pounds. I press my palm against the scrape on my scalp.
Keep walking.
Breathing grows difficult. I slow my pace and suck in air, pushing the licking sounds out of my mind and surveying my newest scenery. The forest had looked thin from my thumbprint cave, but now that I’m in it, the thickness increases a few yards in.
I duck beneath spiky pine branches and weave through oaks. My hair snags old spider webs and their strands snap like miniature harp strings. I brush a hand over my head to rid it of any spiders, but regret the movement as my bandage slides over the cuts on my head.
Though I hurry through the forest as best I can, pain reminds me of my needs. I need to care for the wounds. I need water. I need heat. I need to eat. My stomach gnaws on my small bite of banana bread like cow cud. It’ll have to do for now because I mustn’t stop until I’m well into the thicket—well away from this cliff trap.
My legs feel clumsy after not using them for so long. I trip on branches more often than I step over them. Pushing aside curled parched ferns with my shins takes as much effort as bending the stiff tree tufts in my path.
I won’t last long.
My muscles already shake when I brush forest dust off my bandages. My determination to walk to safety competes with my need to rest.
A river. That’s all I need. I’ll stop at the river, but I don’t hear the rush of a single water droplet. There must be one near. Where do the wolves drink? They can’t live off blood.
I stop trekking as if to allow my stupidity to slide off my shoulders. I can’t go to the river. If it’s the lone source of water, that’s where the wolves will go. I need to get away from them.
“But I need water.” The forest gobbles up my voice and I resume my painful walk. I wiggle my fingers against the knife in my hand, reminding myself it’s there.
Water. I can’t stop thinking about it and, now that my mind is fixated, the word turns into a chant. Water. Water. Water. I swallow, but my saliva disintegrates into the dry folds of my throat. The forest air smells like dust, which aggravates my thirst.
Water. Water. Water.
I stumble and catch myself on a tree. The bark is lined with sap. I pull my hand away and rub the goop on my skirt.
The light doesn’t change as I walk. Is time even passing? I stick and unstick my fingers with every few steps. The movement is like a clock ticking away the mindless time. My eyelids droop and I stop trying to lift my feet over the dead branches claimed by winter. Something crawls along the back of my neck. I swat it and grimace.
God, where am I even going? Where can I go? I don’t know what’s ahead or what’s above. I don’t have a purpose other than leaving the wolves behind. Where do You want me to go?
He urged me to go in the forest and He knows I need to find the river. I have to keep walking until He gets me to it. “Can we find the river today?” I ask with the little breath I have to spare. “I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow.”
The light is fading. Or are the trees thickening? I blink upward. Dust falls in my eyes. As I rub them with my fists, I stumble. My momentum propels me forward, but I can’t see and collide with a tree. I spin, disoriented. My hands and knees meet the underbrush. Sticks poke through my already torn leggings and the impact jolts my shoulders. I lower myself to the forest floor. It’s so good to be down.
Rest. Calm. Silent.
Wolves.
I lift my head with a groan. The foul beasts won’t let my mind relax until I’m safe away from them. I squint ahead and my breathing pauses. A glint. A flicker. Sunlight blinds my eyes for a millisecond.
I’m on my feet, running with the last
bit of energy in my limbs. A branch slaps my face, but I break through without slowing. I stagger onto a stretch of mud in a clearing. Mere yards ahead, a lake laps a ragged shore in welcome. The sun glints off its surface like a polished pocket watch and the canyon wall stretches high in the distance. To the left, the forest inclines up rolling hills. Out of the canyon, maybe?
I fumble for my water pouch, hands shaking, and walk toward shore. My breath quickens and my throat grows even drier, yearning for liquid. I glance around. No wolves, but the mud sports hundreds of paw prints. Are they from wolves or coyotes? Either way, something occupies this stretch of lake on a regular basis.
I should get water and leave, but the thought of walking any further weighs my heart like an anchor. Tears spring up like daisies. I don’t allow them to fall . . . yet. I don’t have time for a breakdown.
The lake stretches away like a glorious carpet, flanked by thick forest trees until it curves out of sight. I kneel down, resisting the urge to leap in. The water is smoky with dirt. I hold the pouch poised over the surface. Water to my left looks a little cleaner so I scoot over a few steps and dunk the pouch, averting my eyes from floating gunk. If the animals can drink it and survive, so can I.
The first gulp is cool and desperate, like heaven in liquid form. I gasp and take another sip. The heaven feeling fades when something slimy slides down my throat. I gag and lower the water pouch. I cough twice before spitting pathetically in the lake. The desperation of my thirst isn’t enough to stop me from imagining frog eggs hatching in my stomach.
Mother used to boil our water before she and Father installed a kitchen pump. Boiling kills all things dangerous—including frog eggs. I thank God for her logic in packing her coffee pot for me. She thought of the danger of drinking frog eggs.
I lean back on my heels. The pressure on my legs moves me to a sitting position. My bandages are so dirty they almost blend with my clothes. They smell rancid. I need to wash. Just the idea saps my energy. The lake is already blurry to my vision. I need to rest. I need to find a place to rest. I need to clean. I need to eat. I need a fire.