I spin around, in the direction of the snap, and I see motion. I freeze, my throat dry, as I realize what it is.
I can't believe it. There, in plain sight, not even twenty yards away, are two deer. They stop and lift their heads and stare right at me.
My heart is pounding with excitement. This would be enough food to feed us all for days. I can't believe our luck.
Without thinking, I grab my knife, step forward and hurl it, remembering the last time this worked.
But this time, my hands are too cold, and I miss. They take off, sprinting away.
I quickly pull the bow off my back, place an arrow between my fingers, and fire at the fleeing deer. But I'm even more clumsy with the bow, and the arrow lodges into a tree, nowhere near the deer.
"Dammit!" I yell out. This is a small island, but they're too fast. Without a gun, which I would never fire for fear of drawing attention, and without professional traps, I don't see how we could ever catch them.
Suddenly, Ben steps forward, takes the bow from my hand, and one arrow. He takes three steps forward in front of me, holds the bow expertly, strings the arrow, holds out his chest, and then bides his time, following the deer, which now must be a good fifty yards away and bounding off. They are also zigzagging in and out between trees. It's an impossible shot.
Ben releases, and the arrow goes flying through the air.
And then, to my amazement, there is the distant sound of arrow piercing flesh. I'm completely shocked, as I watch one deer fall.
I turn and look at Ben, my mouth hanging open. He stands there, not moving, and slowly lowers the bow. He looks sad, as if he regrets what he's done.
"You didn't tell me," I say in a hushed tone, "that you're an expert shot."
He turns and shrugs, as he hands back the bow.
"You didn't ask," he says nonchalantly.
Ben turns and walks off, in the direction of the deer. I stand there, too frozen in surprise to know what to say.
I follow him, still trying to comprehend what just happened. I had no idea that Ben had any skills - much less, hunting skills. That was an unbelievable, one-of-a-kind shot. I had written him off, but now I realize how valuable Ben is. And as I watch him walk with a new bounce to his step, I realize that this episode did something to him. It seems like maybe it helped snap him out of it, give him a sense of pride, of purpose. For the first time, I feel as if he's back with us, finally present, as a member of the team.
We both reach the deer, and stand over it. It lies on its side, blood oozing out into the snow, its legs still quivering. It was a perfect shot, right to its neck.
After several seconds, it stops quivering, dead.
Ben reaches down, slings the animal over his shoulder. He turns, and together we walk back to the cave. As we go, I grab kindling, dry branches everywhere, filling my arms. Then I grab wide pine branches, gathering what will be a huge blanket and pillow for Rose.
My heart fills with optimism. The skies grow darker and the snow stronger and the wind whips at full force, but I don't care. We have shelter - real shelter - with fresh food for all, and wood for fire. For once, I feel things are going our way.
Finally, a sense of peace has settled over us. We all sit huddled together, deep inside the cave, spread out around a roaring fire. It turned out that the matches I salvaged from dad's house were invaluable, as was the kindling I brought in from outside. It all helped to get the fire going, and once it started, we all took turns going outside, finding small logs that were as dry as possible, and throwing them on the ever-growing fire. dad's tools even came in handy, as I used the hammer and screwdriver to chip off the wet bark, get rid of all the wet layers and get the wood as dry as possible. Now the fire is roaring, giving us all the desperately needed warmth we've been craving for days.
As I sit there, holding my hands out before it, rubbing my palms, I slowly feel my limbs begin to relax. I didn't realize how tense they were, how frozen up I was. I feel like I'm de-thawing, getting back to myself again. It's amazing how warm it's becoming in here. With the roaring fire and the shelter from the wind and snow, it's almost like being inside.
As I glance outside, at the mouth of the cave, I see that it is dark. The storm has gotten worse, much worse, and continues to fall heavily, silently, ominously piling up outside the cave, now nearly a foot high. The wind whistles, and occasionally, a particularly strong gust sends a few flakes into the cave. But mostly, we are well sheltered. This place is a godsend. I don't know how we would have survived otherwise.
Logan sits by himself, at the mouth of the cave, looking out at the storm, watching the darkening sky, and mostly keeping his eyes fixed on the boat. I went over and checked on it myself a few times. Always it was the same: bobbing wildly in the stormy water, but tied securely, as sheltered as it could be from the storm. The boat's not going anywhere. There's no one in sight as far as the eye could see. And with the wind and snow raging, and the boat hidden on two sides, I don't see who would even see it. I think Logan's being paranoid. But if it makes him feel better to sit there and watch it, so be it. Eventually he'll have to come back to the fire and warm himself up.
Beside me, leaning over the fire, is Ben. He's impressed me with his skills: to my surprise, he took my hunting knife and went to work on the deer, and in minutes, he had it expertly skinned. Then he cut it into perfect chunks, knowing exactly which parts to dispose of. Then he cut the meat into five big portions, impaled each on a sharpened stick, and propped them over the roaring flames. He turns the meat every so often, and the smell of it has been filling my senses for an hour, making my stomach growl. It smells delicious and I'm salivating at the thought of eating a real meal.
I look over again at Rose. I brought her close to the fire, beneath a thick bed of pine needles, and I can see she's still sleeping an uneasy sleep, her brow furrowed. I changed her bandage again a few hours ago, and as I did, I recoiled at its color. Worse, her wound was badly inflamed, spreading up her arm in both directions, and was starting to smell. It has turned gangrene. I don't like how quickly her bandages are still soaking up blood.
Rose looks delirious. I give her a sleeping pill every few hours, but I don't know how much longer that's going to work. I don't know what else to do for her. I feel so helpless.
What she really needs is medicine. Specialized medicine. And I have no idea where to even begin to look. Even if somehow I could brave this weather and take the boat out into the blizzard with whatever fuel we have left, even if I could somehow find a town somewhere, it's not like we'd find a working pharmacy. I know it would be a lost cause - and only endanger the rest of us.
So I do the best I can to just keep her comfortable, and pray for the best. I come over, reach down, and slowly untie her latest bandage, filled with blood.
Rose groans in pain as I take it off. Once again, I curse that crazy who bit her.
I leave the bandage off, letting the wound air out, and go to mouth of the cave, and grab a handful of snow as I have done several times. I come back with it and kneel beside her and place it on Rose's wound. She winces and groans as I do. I'm hoping the snow will have a cleansing, cooling effect. I take a fresh bandage, dried by the fire, and delicately wrap it around her wound.
Rose opens her eyes and looks up at me. They are so small and afraid.
"Thank you," she says.
My heart breaks at the sound of her voice. She is so sweet, so courageous. If I were her age, I doubt I would be half as brave. Any other girl would be screaming and wailing.
I lean down and kiss her forehead and am alarmed to feel how clammy it is. My heart is breaking into a million pieces; I know this cannot end well. I don't see how it possibly can.
I want to scream at the world, at the injustice of it all. It's not fair. For such a sweet and beautiful and amazing girl like this to be taken away from us. I'm at a loss for words, and do my best to hold back tears and appear strong for her.
"You're going to be fine," I say, summoning the most confident voice I can.
She smiles weakly, as if seeing right through me. It makes me think of something someone once told me: the dying are granted the gift to see through all of our lies.
Bree, sitting on Rose's other side, reaches over and strokes back her hair. Bree looks more tormented than Rose; I've never seen her so upset, my entire life. It is almost as if she's the one who has been injured.
Penelope leans on Rose's chest and licks her face from time to time.
"Will you eat something?" I ask Rose.
"I can try," she says weakly. "But I'm not very hungry."
I pull over the sack and pull out a jar of jam and unscrew it. I can smell it from here: it's cherry. It smells delicious.
"Do you like cherry?" I ask her.
"My favorite," she answers.
I reach in with my finger, take a small scoop, and place it on her lips. She licks it, closes her eyes and smiles. I reach out with another, but she shakes her head no. "I've had enough," she says.
I hand the jar to Bree, but she shakes her head.
"Please, Bree, you need to eat."
"Give mine to Rose," she says, staring down with sadness.
I hold out a fingerful to Penelope, and she devours it without hesitating.
"It's ready," comes a voice.
I turn and see Ben has removed the pieces of cooked meat off the fire. He holds out the sticks and I take one and pass it to Bree. I take another, and hold it up for Rose. I lean over, hold up her head, and gently bring the food to her lips.
"Please Rose," I say. "You need to have something. This will help you get better."
"I'm not hungry," she says. "Really."
"Please. For me."
I can see she doesn't want to, but Rose does me a favor and takes a tiny bite from a piece of meat. She chews weakly, looking at me.
"You remind me of my mom," she says.
My eyes water up and it takes everything in me to hold back my tears.
"I loved her," Rose says.
"What happened to her?" I ask. I know I shouldn't. Whatever the answer is, it won't be good.
"I don't know," she answers. "They took me away from her. She tried to save me. But there were too many of them. I never saw her again. Do you think she's okay?" she asks.
I try my best to smile.
"I think she's fine," I lie. "And do you know what else?"
Rose slowly shakes her head.
"I know that if she was here, right now, she would be so proud of you."
She smiles.
I lower the food to her again, but this time, she shakes her head vehemently. "I can't," she says. "It hurts so bad," she says, squinting her eyes in pain.
I try to think of what else I can do for her. All I can think is to keep her comfortable. Maybe I should give her another sleeping pill.
I hurry over to the fire and grab the glass bottle with the melted snow in it, now water. I bring it back to Rose. "Drink," I say, as I slip a pill onto her tongue. She does.
I sit beside her and stroke her hair. I see her eyes already closing and feel like in a few minutes she'll be asleep.
I look over at Bree and see she hasn't touched her food.
"Bree, eat," I say. "Please."
"You're not eating," she says.
She's right.
"I will if you will," I say. "We need to. Our not eating won't help Rose get any better."
I reach over to the fire, grab my stick of meat, and take a bite. The meat is tough and plain, but I'm not complaining. It may not be that tasty, but as it fills my mouth, I realize how ravenous I am. I take bite after bite, barely able to slow down. I feel the nutrition spread through my body and can't remember how long it's been since I had real, fresh cooked meat.
Bree's hunger gets the best of her, too, and she finally eats. After every few bites she stops and peels off a strip for Penelope, who snatches it from her hand. In the past, Bree would giggle; but now, she remains somber.
Ben sits on the far wall, opposite me, and quietly chews. I see the remaining stick on the fire and look over and see Logan, still sitting guard by the mouth of the cave. I look down and see Rose is asleep beside me, so I get up, grab his stick and walk it over to him.
"Come sit by the fire," I say. "Staring into the dark isn't going to do anything. No one's on this island, and no one's touching the boat. We can barely see two feet in front of our face. Come on. Your not eating and not sleeping isn't going to help any of us. We need you strong."
Reluctantly, he gives in, standing, taking the strip of meat, and following me back to the fire.
I sit beside Rose and Bree, our feet to the fire, as Logan joins us. He sits and eats.
We all settle in and sit there for a long while in silence, the only sound the cracking of the wood and the whipping of the wind outside. For the first time in a while, I feel relaxed, as we each sit there, staring into the flames, each lost in our own world. I can't help but feel as if we are each just waiting to die, each in our own way.
Rose suddenly grunts and cries out in her sleep. Bree hurries over to her and grabs her hand, as Penelope whines.
"It's okay, Rose," Bree reassures, stroking her hair.
I can't stand to look; I can't stand to see her suffer.
"If we don't do something, she's going to die," I say quietly to Logan.
He grimaces. "I know," he says. "But what can we do?"
"I don't know," I say, feeling desperate and hopeless.
"That's because there's nothing we can do. We've covered hundreds of miles, and there is only rubble. You think if we head out there now, at night, in a blizzard, we're going to find a town in the next few miles, before our fuel runs out? A town that has the medicine she needs?" He slowly shakes his head. "If we go out there now, we're all just going to get stranded. If I thought we had any chance of finding what she needs, I'd go for it. But you know as well as I do that we don't. She's dying. You're right. But if we go out there, we'll all die, too."
I listen to his words, indignant, but at the same time, I've been thinking the same thoughts. I know he's right. He just saying what's on all of our minds. We're in an impossible situation. There's nothing we can do except watch her die. It makes me want to scream.
"Not that I want to sit here," he says. "We need to keep moving. We need weapons. We need ammo. And food. A lot of food. We need supplies. And fuel. But we have no choice. We need to wait out the storm."
I look at him.
"You're so sure we're going to find this place we're looking for in Canada?" I ask. "What if it doesn't exist?"
He frowns down at the fire.
"You find a better alternative to what we're looking for along the way, you tell me. You find a safe place with plenty of food and supplies, I'll stop. Hell I might even stay. I haven't seen it. Have you?"
Slowly, reluctantly, I shake my head.
"Until we do, we keep moving. That's how I see it. I don't need to find paradise," he says. "But I'm not planting myself in a wasteland either."
Suddenly, I find myself curious about Logan, about where his survival instinct came from. About where he came from. How he ended up where he did.
"Where were you before all this?" I ask softly.
He looks up from the fire for the first time, looks me directly in the eyes. Then he looks away. A part of me wants to get closer to him, but another part is still unsure. I'm still not quite sure what to think of him. Clearly, I owe him. And he owes me. That much is a given. We need each other to survive. But whether we'd hang around together otherwise is a different matter. I wonder if we would.
"Why?" he asks.
That's him. Always guarded.
"I just want to know."
He stares back at the fire, and minutes pass. The fire cracks and pops, and I begin to wonder if he's ever going to respond. And then, he speaks:
"Jersey."
He takes a deep breath.
"When the civil war broke out, I joined the army. Like everybody else. I went to boot camp, training, the whole nine yards. It took me years to realize I was fighting somebody else's war. Some politicians' war. I wanted no part of it. We were all killing each other. It was so stupid. For nothing."
He pauses.
"The bombs were dropped, and my entire unit got wiped out. I was lucky - underground when they hit. I got out, made it back to my family. I knew I needed to go back and protect them."
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
"When I got home, my parents were dead."
He pauses a long time.
"They left a note," he says, pausing. "They killed each other."
He looks up at me, his eyes wet.
"I guess they saw what the world was going to be like - and they didn't want any part of it."
I'm taken aback by his story. I feel a heaviness in my chest. I can't imagine what he went through. No wonder he's so guarded.
"I'm so sorry," I say. Now I regret having even asked. I feel like I pried.
"I was more sorry for my kid brother than for me," he says. "He was 10. I found him at home, hiding. Traumatized. But surviving. I don't know how. I was about to take him away somewhere when the slaverunners showed up. They had us surrounded and outnumbered. I put up a fight, wasted some of them. But there was nothing I could do. There were just too many of them.
"They made me a deal: they'd let my brother go if I joined them. They said I'd never need to capture anyone - only to stand guard at the arena."
He pauses for a long time.
"I justified it to myself. I wanted my brother to live. And after all, I heard that there are far worse arenas out there than Arena One."
The thought fills me with panic: I had never imagined anything worse could be out there.
"How is that possible?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "There's all sorts of sick things out there," he says. "Gangs. Cannibals. Mutants. And other arenas that make One look like nothing."
He sighs.
"Anyway, I gave my little brother two guns, fully loaded, two weeks' worth of food, my motorcycle, and sent him away, on Route 80, heading west. I told him to head to our uncle Jack's house, in Ohio, if it was even still standing. At least it was a destination. I made sure he hit the highway, and was going in the right direction. That was the last I ever saw of him."
He sighs.
"The slaverunners took me away, made me one of them, and I stood guard in the arena. For months, every night, I watched the games. It made me sick. I saw new people come and go every night. But I never saw anyone make it out of there alive. Never. Until you came."
He looks at me.
"You were the only one."
I look back at him, surprised.
"When I saw you fighting, I knew my time had come. I had to leave that place. And I had to do whatever I could to help you."
I think back and remember when I first met him, how grateful I was to him for helping us. I remember our trip downtown, his nursing me through being sick, how grateful I was to him again.
"You said something to me once," I say. "I asked you why did it. Why you helped me. And you said I reminded you of someone." I look at him, my heart pounding. I've been wanting to ask him this forever. "Who?"
He looks back into the fire. He's quiet for such a long time, I wonder if he'll answer me.
Finally, in a quiet voice, he says. "My girlfriend."
This floors me. Somehow, I can't imagine Logan with a girlfriend. I envision him in a military barracks. I'm also shocked that I remind him of her. It makes me wonder. Who was she? Did she look like me? Is that why he did it? Does he see her when he sees me? Or does he really like me?
Instead, I can only summon the courage to ask, "What happened to her?"
Slowly, he shakes his head. "Dead."
I've asked too much. In another time and place, they would be harmless questions; but this is not a harmless age we live in, and here and now, even the most innocuous question leads to lethal answers. I should've remembered what I learned years ago: better not to ask anyone anything. Better to just live in the silence, in the wasteland. Better not to talk at all.
