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and down, trying to press it as hard as I can into the plastic and away from my flesh, but it’s not far enough. Each sawing motion nicks my wrist again and again, the point of the blade stabbing into my arm. Blood flows more heavily. I grit my teeth and press up again. The sting of tearing flesh causes my eyes to water. I don’t even know if this is working. I don’t even know if Estelle’s gift is cutting into the plastic at all. Maybe the knife is too dull. Maybe the plastic is too strong. Maybe the only thing I’m doing is cutting my wrist. It’s not going to work. It’s not going to—
The zip tie gives a little. The sawing motion is becoming harder to do because the knife is cutting into the plastic. The pressure around my right wrist lessens slightly. It’s working. I saw up again and tears stream down my face as my wrist is sliced again. More blood drops onto my fingers and gets onto the handle of the knife. The zip tie gives further. Blood flows onto my knuckles and the knife cuts deeper and I think it’s about to—
The knife tumbles from my grip and lands on the floor. I reach for it and close my hands around the handle. Dirt from the floor mixes with the blood on my hands. I try to grip the knife, to twist it again, but I can’t get a good hold on it. I drop it and try to rub my hands against the back of my jeans, the back of my shirt. I can’t get them clean, not enough so I can hold onto the knife again.
The door to the shack rattles. I freeze, waiting for someone to open it. It doesn’t. Just the wind. It’s just the wind.
The zip tie has been cut, though not completely. I try pulling my wrists apart. The pain causes my vision to gray, but there is some give, the plastic seeming to stretch. I put my wrists back together. My hands are soaked in blood. I don’t know how badly I’ve cut myself. Abe still sleeps in front of me, but he’s not asleep. Not really. My vision tunnels again and I bang my head against the wall behind me, thunder covering up the rattling of the metal. I hit my head again. And again. And again. New pain shoots through the fog. I’m awake. I’m alive. I’m not asleep. I’m not in the river.
I close my eyes as my arms tremble. And knowing what will happen if this doesn’t work, I take in a deep breath and jerk my arms apart as hard as I can, with all of the strength I have left. The strain against my arms is incredible, and the muscles burn and start to cramp. I tilt my head back until it hits the wall. I grit my teeth and pull harder, the zip ties cutting into my skin even further. My head feels like it will explode, like my eyes are bulging from the sockets. Just when I think I can’t take the pressure any longer, I reach down deep within me and find the last reserves I have left and give just a little bit more.
The band around my right hand breaks.
I bring my hands to my lap, crying out softly at the tingling of blood circulating again through my arms, like a deep vibration. I hold my injured wrist to my chest and rock back and forth, hitting my head against the wall behind me. I think this might be a dream and it isn’t the zip tie that has snapped, but my mind. This can’t be real, that I’m still tied up and sitting in this dirty place.
I open my eyes.
I’m free from the tie, though the skin on my right forearm looks shredded. The blood isn’t gushing as much as it’s oozing, so I probably didn’t cut as deep as it felt like. I grab the knife and use it to cut off a strip of my shirt. I tie the strip around my wrist carefully, slipping the ends through and into a knot. I pull one end with my teeth and the other with my good hand. The pain is excruciating, and my eyes water. The cloth is not enough to completely stanch the flow of blood, but it has to be enough. For now.
I cut the ties around my legs and then close the knife and put it in my pocket. I stand shakily, my legs and feet still slightly numb. I move slowly around Abe, not wanting to hurt him any further (because he’s sleeping, I tell myself). I reach the door to the shack and peer through the cracks in the slats. It’s still daylight out, though the light is very weak, hidden behind the black clouds. The rain is still pouring as hard as I’ve ever seen it. The fresh air through the slats is the best thing I’ve ever smelled. I inhale as deeply as I can, but it’s too much and I start to cough. This hurts my chest, and I wonder if I’ve cracked a rib or two.
Once I stop coughing, I look through the slats again, but can’t see anything. I can’t quite remember where I heard the sound of the truck stopping. For all I know, I imagined it. I need to get out and get my bearings. Caves mean I’m north of the river and where Calliel landed, if they’re the ones I’m thinking of. The caves have been closed off for as long as I can remember. No one has a need to go up there, or at least they never did before. There’s nothing in them, no mineral deposits of any import (not since all the gold was mined), and no drawings on the stone walls from the Umpqua Indians who lived here centuries before. Nothing about them was supposed to be special, not anymore.
I have to get out of here. I have to get back to town.
Thunder cracks overhead. Lightning briefly illuminates the darkened sky.
Of course, I think. Of course the storm won’t let up. It’s a test, remember? It’s God’s test, and he’s going to flood the earth until we all float away. Once the surface is covered, the Strange Men will pull us down into the dark, and we’ll find out what it truly means to love. What it truly means to have faith.
I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of these odd thoughts. I feel woozy. I’m so tired. I could lie down next to Abe, maybe. Just for a little while. Just to sleep. Maybe it’ll—
A hand on my shoulder.
A breath on the back of my neck.
A smell of the darkest earth.
I whirl around. There’s no one there.
“I know,” I mutter. “I know.”
I take the knife back out of my pocket and open it. I press my hand against the door. “I’ll come back for you,” I tell Abe. “I won’t leave you here, I promise. I’ll come back for you and take you home, and the world will never bother us again.”
He doesn’t answer.
I pull the door open slowly. The blast of cold air is wonderful against my fevered skin. My face is instantly soaked and chilled. That clears more of the lingering fog in my head. The air feels clean and free. I almost want to take off running, but I don’t think my ankle could take it. I’d get shot in the back, knowing my luck. The door opens to the forest stretched out in front of me, running down a steep hill. There is nothing down the hill or to my left. I look right and see a road. On this road is a large paneled moving truck, backed up to a rocky outcrop that rises from the forest floor. And by the rear of the truck stand three men.
I jerk my head back inside the shack. It looks like Griggs is one of them. The other two I don’t recognize, but through the rain I can’t be sure. I close the door again and go to the wall of the shack facing the truck. I shuffle some of the garbage bags filled with empty plastic bottles. The smell coming from the bags is almost overwhelming. I force myself back to reality and kick another bag out of my way. There’s a large crack in this wall, near the floor. I slowly drop to my knees, ignoring how my whole body aches. I press my face up against the crack in the wall.
Griggs stands facing away from me, his sheriff’s hat and uniform obvious, even through the heavy rain. The other two men are facing me, listening intently to something Griggs is saying. He’s punctuating his words with his hands and eventually he points back toward the shack. The other two men peer around him with obvious interest. I freeze, feeling their eyes roam over me, and even though I’m sure they can’t see me, it looks as if they are staring right at me. They turn back to Griggs, who taps his watch. One of the men shakes his head and says something Griggs obviously doesn’t like. The sheriff grabs him by the collar of his coat and slams him into the side of the truck. Griggs pul
ls my Colt out of his coat pocket and presses it against the other man’s head. The third man does nothing, standing with his arms crossed, occasionally glancing over at the shack.
The man pressed against the truck struggles in the sheriff’s grip. Griggs snarls into his face and twists the gun into his temple, and it’s all I can do—
look away, benji, look away
—to keep my anger from rising. I want to knock down the door and fly at Griggs, break him apart. I grind my teeth together and dig my fingernails into my palms to try and keep centered, to keep aware. The red sheen that threatens to fall over my eyes is held at bay, at least for now.
