When Giants Burn, page 11
I decide not to mention what exactly happened while she was passed out.
The stench from the fire tickles my nose, but when the flame goes red around the larger twigs, the smoke isn’t as thick.
“That’s what we need to do first thing tomorrow. Find water,” Gerty says. “When we find a stream, we’ll follow it toward the river. Then we’ll be closer to where we can find people.”
People. My heart trills as hard as it did when we were falling. The things I said to Mom come back to me. Those words stripped away the hard expression she’d worn since getting out. I didn’t like what I saw underneath it, didn’t like facing how much I’d hurt her. She was the one who had ripped my life to shreds as easily as she had scraped the popcorn ceiling back in California. She was the one who’d hurt me. “What about Pando?” I blurt.
Gerty blinks at me. “What about him?”
“Don’t you still want to see him?” Around us, stars bloom in the darkening sky. Mom will have noticed by now that I’m not home. Grandma Louise will have called Chief Skip. “We’re close, aren’t we? Wouldn’t it be just as easy to move toward Pando as it would anywhere else? I mean, I bet we’re closer to Fishlake than we are to Rabbit.”
“Water. Water is our first priority. But I think you’re right—it makes more sense to go north toward Fishlake. We’ll likely find a park ranger or something.” Gerty leans forward and breathes into the flames, making them flare.
I let out my breath, and she pauses. “Why’d you get into the plane?” she whispers.
“What?”
“Why’d you get into the plane?” Gerty sits back. Her good arm is against me, the stiff fabric ripped from the plane wrapped around us both. Somewhere nearby something howls. I shift closer to her. “You know why I left,” she continues, “but why did you?”
“Are you trying to say I caused the accident? Because I didn’t do anything. I don’t even think I moved much at all.”
Gerty sighs. “No, I crashed. I startled when the bird flew in, then the engine stalled and I didn’t correct like I should’ve. We were too close to the ground. That’s on me. I’m asking why you got in the plane at all.”
I don’t say anything for a long time. Whatever was howling earlier yips now. Or I guess it could be a different something. “Maybe we should make the fire bigger,” I say, and throw on more wood—one of the wing ribs Gerty worked so hard to build.
Gerty’s hand circles my arm. “Hayes.”
“My mom, okay?” I croak. “My mom wants to go to the fire camp. She wants to go back to being a firefighter.” The rib collapses in the fire with a snap. “She already left us once. Now she wants to do it again.”
Gerty doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Matthew was my baby brother.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I know that’s what you’re supposed to say when someone dies.
Gerty sighs and leans against me. “I’m sorry too. About the crash. But I’m glad you’re here. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing and will probably get us in worse trouble.”
“Thanks,” I scoff.
Two eyes shine in the darkness. I gasp. Gerty stares into the flames. “It’s a fox. It’s been hanging around for a while. I’m surprised it’s this high up in the canyon. The coyotes probably flushed it out of the woods.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry. “Is it going to attack us?”
Gerty shakes her head. “No. I’m not as sure about the coyotes. We’ve got to keep the fire going. We’ll take turns being on watch, okay?”
Another howl rings out in the distance and the shining eyes disappear.
“I’ll take first watch,” I say. Gerty nestles closer and closes her eyes. I wrap my hand around the Pulaski handle and wait for the fox to appear again.
17 CHIEF SKIP
Chief Skip rubs the back of his neck. Across from where he’s standing behind his desk sit Nanny Pat and Jennifer, who has the baby strapped to her chest. Tears stream silently down Jennifer’s face, and her hands shake as she shifts Lilith to her other side. Standing behind them, still as a frightened rabbit, is Tara. His heart lurches at the sight of her, wondering how much terror it takes to freeze a mother in place like that. He clears his throat. “Let me get this straight. Gerty has been secretly building an airplane?”
Nanny Pat stiffens her spine. “I’d hardly call it secret. We’ve been working on it for months.”
Jennifer snorts. “Paid for by money Gerty helped herself to from our reserves without our knowledge!”
Skip holds up his hands, stopping the cyclical argument he’s already heard the two of them hash out twice since they rushed into the station before the sun this morning. “And you noticed the plane missing this morning,” he directs to Nanny Pat.
She nods. “Affirmative. I returned late from Cedar City last night. It was too dark for me to notice whether the plane was in the barn. However, I would’ve heard her take off this morning, so I believe she must’ve left yesterday. As early as two o’clock, though likely later if she had the sense to do a precheck of the plane. That’s when I left for Cedar City. She would know better than to take anything more than a one-hour first flight and wouldn’t have gone at dark.”
Jennifer whimpers. “How could she do this?”
Nanny Pat’s chin lifts. “I don’t know. I was supervising and laid clear conditions.”
Jennifer hiccups and Nanny Pat’s lip trembles at the sound.
Chief Skip looks away from them to stare down at his notes, trying to block the emotion pouring from the people in front of him so he can focus. “Sounds like those conditions got a little muddy. Seems clear to me now that both kids had reason to run. Between the fights they got into with y’all, the fact that they took the gear bag and the Pulaski, and what the school is telling me about fights and odd behavior, I don’t think this is an abduction situation. Seems unlikely more than the two of them could’ve fit into the plane.” Jennifer sobs, and the sound sets off the baby. “We’ve got crews looking for them, but what we really need is some direction. Where could they have gone?”
“I told you,” Tara says, her voice hoarse. Chief Skip tries not to wince at the circles under her eyes. “Hayes took the Pulaski. He’s going to the fire.”
Chief Skip nods. “That’s a possibility, for sure.” He ignores the fury on Tara’s face at the dismissal. “And the fire camp is on alert for the kids. But they’ve been looking skyward nonstop, judging the wind, and no one saw an ultralight. Where else could they’ve gone?”
The baby wails, and Jennifer’s fingers can’t seem to untie the knot in the carrier to remove her. Earlier, Chief Skip asked about Alex, and Jennifer simply shook her head.
Nanny Pat stands. Jennifer slumps, still hiccupping, as her mother kneels in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she says. Hesitantly, her fingers shaking, she grasps Jennifer’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry, honey.” Jennifer droops forward, her head cradled in Nanny Pat’s neck, the baby between them calming down.
The receptionist opens the door to the inner part of the station. “Skip, your brother is here.”
Skip sighs, again rubbing the back of his neck. He glances up to see Sparky strolling into the office, grinning as he takes in Tara and then the others. “Kid still missing, eh?”
“Now’s not a good time, Spark.”
Thankfully, the women ignore the newcomer. Sparky leans against the wall, watching the rest of them like this is a movie.
“We have to find them,” Tara says. “They’ve already been alone in the woods overnight. Who knows if they’re hurt, if they know where they’re going, if they’re even—”
Jennifer pushes back from Nanny Pat’s embrace. Her voice firm, she says, “They’re alive. Gerty will get them out of any situation. They’re fine.”
Skip gives her a grim smile. “We’ll increase the radius of where we’ve been searching now that we know they’ve been airborne and likely crashed.”
“Those kids crashed? Like a plane?” Sparky says.
“Sparky, this is a really bad time,” Skip growls. Figures his brother would take an interest in what he does when there are more crises unfolding than typically happen all year in Rabbit.
The receptionist throws open the door again. “Skip,” she calls. “Bad news.” All the parents rise to their feet, and she puts up her hands. “Sorry, poor choice of words. I mean regarding the fire. Winds shifted. The blaze is heading northwest now too. They’re establishing an evacuation zone bordering that part of Fishlake.”
Skip nods. “Put the deputies on it. The kids are my focus today.” He turns to another officer, sitting at the desk behind him. “Put out word to the media. Get them the pictures of the kids. Ask for search party volunteers.”
“Going to be hard with so many people getting ready to evacuate—” the officer says. His words cut off at Skip’s expression. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
“Thank you,” Tara whispers.
“Whoa,” Sparky says, as though to himself. “Two missing kids. Crashed an airplane. And the fire’s moving northwest. Plus, now places close to Fishlake are starting to evacuate? That’s a lot, brother.”
Skip blinks at Sparky, who salutes and backs out of the office. Skip tries not to sigh in relief that he’s leaving, even as he spots Whistle’s blue car in the lot. Whatever Sparky is up to is going to have to wait.
18 GERTY
Cold. That’s my first thought. And then, Fire. My arm is on fire. I cry out and Hayes jumps to his feet. “What? What?” His face is red, and I realize he’s ashamed at falling asleep during his watch.
But I never had a watch. He never woke me. I never sleep through the night without waking. How could I now, on the side of a mountain? I shift, and the slight jostle of my arm is enough to shake away any sleepiness. I pull off the sweatshirt draped around me. Still sprawled on the ground in front of the smoking embers, I gingerly touch the bandage, which is now crusty with dark brown discharge. The skin around the bandage is puffy and so red that it’s nearly purple. Infection takes days to set in. This doesn’t make sense. You’re fine, I tell myself.
His eyes bugging, Hayes doesn’t speak as I lift my arm, but he steps backward when I whimper. The skin under my arm is blackish blue. I can’t lift my arm even to shoulder height. “I think it’s broken,” I say, and clear my throat to steady my voice. “I thought it was just the hinge that injured me, right on top of where I hurt my arm yesterday morning. But I think the bone fractured on impact too.”
Hayes turns his forearm so I can see the bruise across the top. It’s the same width as my arm. “I think your arm broke against mine when we landed,” he says.
For a moment neither of us speaks. Finally I push myself up with my good arm. Focus. Take stock. “Well, it’s a good thing I have two of them, then, huh?”
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” Hayes says.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though the ground is a little wobbly. Focus. People break bones all the time. I glance at our supplies, forming a plan. “I don’t think the bone’s displaced. Doctors wouldn’t do anything I can’t do. When Jennifer fell stepping out of the tub a couple months ago, she didn’t go to the hospital. Alex wrapped her arm, and she held Lilith on the other side for a few weeks.” I take a strip of the fabric we’ve cocooned ourselves in overnight. “Help me?”
Hayes nods and follows my instructions until my arm is cradled in a sling just like Alex fashioned for Jennifer. It’ll be fine.
Hayes kicks dirt over the smoldering embers. He’s rolling his tongue in his mouth, trying to use the trick I showed him last night to be less thirsty. It won’t work. I’m sure his mouth feels as packed with grime as mine. We need water.
The fox we spotted the night before peeks out from behind a sage bush. I turn to point it out to Hayes, but he’s already watching the animal. We bundle our supplies inside the fabric, and Hayes ties it into a pack slung across his back. His hands shake as he makes the knot. I want to tell him it’s going to be okay, that by now Nanny Pat has to have noticed the missing plane. But why would anyone look for us here? Besides, I don’t know if his hands are shaking because he’s scared or because he’s hungry and thirsty.
“Let’s go,” Hayes says, and it feels like he’s stealing my words.
Getting down the ravine is slippery business. The range folds in on itself, with huge outcrops of shale like the spikes of a dinosaur popping out often enough to be inconvenient. The sky is gray and foggy. I wish it would rain, and the thought makes me shudder as I imagine the water on my skin and in my mouth.
One time Alex and I didn’t have luck catching trout during a hike. We had to go all the way back without anything to eat. The whole hike, we pretended we were eating a feast. “The thing is, Gerty,” he said then, “if I tell you not to think about an ostrich, what pops into your head?” Before I could answer, he nodded. “Ostrich. Nothing but ostrich. That’s why it’s better just to let yourself think of stuff. Otherwise, all your energy is spent trying not to think about it.”
Kind of strange, then, that none of us talk about the crater in our chests, the one that split us nearly in half when Matthew died. I bite my lip to stop from crying out at the sudden, new flare of pain. I’ve thought of Matthew so much the past two days, more than I have in years. It feels like I’m betraying Alex and Jennifer. He was theirs more than he was mine, and they set the conditions on how we were going to remember—or not remember—him. But he was mine. He was mine, too.
“Does it hurt much?” Hayes asks, and I realize I must’ve made some sort of soft noise.
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”
Finally we make it into some woods. The trees are clusters of narrow aspens, then merge into blue spruce, white fir, Douglas fir. I point out the varieties to Hayes as we walk.
“Are we heading in the right direction?” Hayes asks a couple of times.
“Yep,” I tell him, squinting through the canopy to look at the position of the sun. “We’re heading north, toward Pando.”
“How long do you think we’ve been walking?”
“A couple hours.” I nod toward a tree, and he ties a thread around the trunk. We’ve been marking the trees every six feet or so. I glance behind me, seeing faintly the red loops around trees in a somewhat straight line of trunks behind us. I wish I knew what time it was. It already looks close to sunset, which doesn’t make any sense. We’ve been walking a long time, but no way it’s been that long.
“And you think we’ll find some water soon?” Hayes rubs at his throat.
Then he stops, throwing his arm out to stop me, too, as ahead of us the fox dashes across our path. The animal vanishes into the woods in an instant.
“What do you think that was about?” Hayes whispers. “I hope whatever it was running from doesn’t head this way.”
We both jump when a branch snaps in the woods. Then a fat squirrel scampers up the tree near us, and Hayes lets out a shaky sigh. We smile at each other, and it feels so much like crying.
“Look!” I gasp, pointing to where the fox headed. “His footprint! The ground is muddy. That means…” But I don’t need to finish. Water! Hayes strides ahead, and there it is, a narrow trickle of water. He sinks his hand into it, but I slap away his fingers before he can lick them. “We need to treat any water. Let’s follow it, see if we can find the source.”
Hayes growls but follows me. The trickle turns into a narrow stream, about the width of my arm, as we head up an incline. I know that to get back to a town ranger station, we should be heading down the mountain, not back up the other side, but I can hear the water now. We’re like those cartoon animals that smell a pie baking, the scent alone making them float toward the source. We’re pushing through trees, not feeling the scratches from the limbs on our cheeks or the tumble down to our knees over roots as we scramble toward that delicious sound. Water!
And then it’s there, sliding down the shale in lazy gushes. I want to unhinge my jaw and make my throat a bucket for it to pour into. Hayes is turning his hands into cups to capture it, laughing as it runs through his fingers. “We have to treat it,” I remind him and myself, even as the cotton feeling in my mouth threatens to suffocate me. I pull out the flask from the emergency kit.
“Hurry,” Hayes says.
I put the edge of my T-shirt over the opening of the flask and hold it under the stream. My shirt’s dirty but still a better filter than nothing, considering all the algae and leaf bits that are flowing down the stream. It must be from melted snow at the mountaintop; while it’s a steady trickle, the water isn’t rushing. When the flask is filled, I pull the stopper from the dark iodine bottle and add three drops. Too much iodine is toxic. Not enough, and whatever is living in the water could also kill us, or at least make us super sick.
“Is that it?” Hayes asks. Inside I’m shrugging—I have no idea if it’s the right amount of iodine—but I nod anyway as I pinch the flask between my knees and screw on the lid with my good hand. “Okay,” he says. “Who goes first?”
“We have to wait,” I tell him.
“How long?”
I wince. “About a half hour.” I sink into the soft dirt beside the stream. “We’re going to be here awhile.”
Hayes presses a fist into his stomach. Now that the water is right here, everything else that is wrong seems to fall in line, waiting to be addressed. How we’re going to get home, whatever is wrong with my arm, how much trouble we’re in, and—mostly—how hungry we are.
“Let’s get some food,” I say, and grab some of the reedy grass beside the stream. “Do what I do,” I tell him. Hayes kneels beside me, grass in his hand. I crumble it in my fingers and rub it on my forearm, ignoring the flare of pain above my elbow at the motion. “Now we wait. If we don’t have any hives or anything in ten minutes, then we can chew some and spit it out.”
