I open my eyes, looking around, trying to figure out where I am. I'm sitting, leaning back against the rock wall of the cave, and I look around, and see everyone else lying around the fire, fast asleep. Something feels wrong.
I feel something crawling on my leg, and I look down and see a huge tarantula, making its way up my calf. I jump up with a start, brushing it off, freaking out. I feel more of them, all over me, and spin and turn as I frantically swat them off.
I look down, and see dozens of them, crawling all over the floor. Tarantulas cover the walls, swarms of them, making the walls seem alive.
I turn and look to the mouth of the cave. As I do, suddenly, a dozen slaverunners burst in. They're wearing masks and holding guns, as they charge right for us. There are too many of them, and they're coming in too fast, guns drawn. I'm unarmed, and there's nothing I can do. They found us.
They come right at me, and the closest one raises his gun to my head. My throat goes dry, a moment before I hear the gunshot.
I wake up gasping, swatting my arms and legs, trying to get the spiders off. I look around and realize, slowly, it was just a nightmare.
I'm in the cave, leaning against the stone wall, before the embers of the dying fire. Everyone is fast asleep - except, I see, for Logan, who sits by the entrance, stoically looking out, standing guard. It is daybreak.
I sit there, hyperventilating, trying to calm down. It was so vivid.
"You okay?" comes a soft voice.
I look over at Logan, who looks back with concern. Beyond him, the snow is piled high, at least a foot and a half, and it is still snowing. I can't believe it. The storm hasn't stopped.
I take a deep breath and nod back.
"Just a bad dream," I say.
He nods, and turns back to looking outside.
"I know what that's like," he says.
I stand, needing to shake out the cobwebs, and walk over to him. I stand at the mouth of the cave, and look out. The light of the breaking dawn is beautiful, with streaks of reds on the horizon against the thick gray clouds. The Hudson has turned to ice in places. A mist and fog settles over everything, and I feel as if we are in a surreal winter postcard.
It is very tranquil. I feel tucked in here, safe. I look over and see our boat, covered in snow, still bobbing in the water. Yes, it's treacherous out there, but at the same time, that means no one can get to us. It seems we have another day pass; clearly, we can't be going anywhere in this.
"Looks like we're not going anywhere today," I say.
"Looks like it."
I turn and look for Rose, my heart racing. It will be impossible for us to get out there and try to find medicine for her in this weather, the only drawback.
I hurry over and examine her. Her breathing is shallow, rapid. She looks more pale than the night before, and her bandage has turned green and brown, pus oozing out the sides. I can smell it from feet away, and my heart wrenches at the site.
I kneel down, and slowly unwrap it. As I do, she twists and winces, moaning softly. I unravel it, dripping with pus. Her wound has turned entirely black, festering, and I nearly gag. My heart breaks in pieces. I can hardly imagine the pain and suffering she is in right now. It looks incurable. I feel like crying, knowing what's on the horizon for her. I would give anything to be a doctor, to have a doctor here right now. It is like watching my own little sister die, helplessly.
I want to feel like I'm doing something, so I hurry to the mouth of the cave, grab some fresh snow, and gently place it on her wound. She winces as I do so. I take one of the fresh bandages I have left to dry by the fire, and wrap it around, doing the best I can.
I turn back and come over to Logan. I sit beside him, looking out at the snow, and my eyes well up.
"It's bad, huh?" he asks.
I nod, not looking at him.
"You're doing everything you can," he says.
"No I'm not," I say.
He doesn't respond.
I think back, wondering how we could have prevented it. I should've been more vigilant that night, when the mutants attacked. I never should've let Ben stand guard. I knew he was too fragile, too unstable. I can't help feeling as if it's all my fault.
"It's not your fault," Logan says, surprisingly, as if reading my mind. "It's his," he says, gesturing with his head back to Ben, sleeping along the back wall.
Logan refused to allow Ben to stand guard the night before, still not trusting him. I can feel his anger and resentment towards him, but I know it is not helpful. Yes, Ben fell asleep. But even if he was awake, who knows if things would have gone down differently.
"You shouldn't be so hard on him," I say. "He just lost his brother."
"That's no excuse. He should've stayed awake, or if he couldn't, he should've woke one of us. It's his fault she got bit."
"You're right. He should've stayed awake. But even if he was awake, do you really think things would've gone down differently? You think Ben would have stopped them?"
"Yes I do," he says. "He would have at least woken us. I could've responded sooner."
"We were outnumbered. They were fast. Even if he woke us, I don't know that would've made a difference."
Logan shrugs.
"Anyway, anger and blame won't help us now," I say. "Ben is sorry. We need to stick together. You guys need to get over your thing and get along."
"I don't need to get along with anybody," Logan says.
I look at him, wondering if he thinks his whole life is an island.
"Keep telling yourself that."
The fog comes rolling in off the Hudson as I walk with Ben, our boots crunching in the snow, traversing the island in the afternoon, looking for food. The blizzard is still raging, worse than ever, the wind whipping at us in occasional gusts. It is incredible. I feel like it hasn't stopped snowing for days. The snow reaches my knees, making each step an effort. When the wind blows, I can see maybe a hundred feet; when it doesn't, and the fog gathers, I can barely see ten. Between the fog and the snow, I feel like our hunting today is a futile effort. I think Ben thinks so, too.
But we have to try. We know that other deer is out there, and has nowhere to go. We have to find it, get at least one more good meal in all of us before we leave. Bree desperately needs the protein, and Rose.... Well, my heart sinks as I think of her.
It's hideous weather out here, my feet and face numb - but in some ways, it's still better than being in that cave. With Rose dying, the cave has become small, tense, claustrophobic, filled with the stench of death. I had to get out. And I think Ben did, too. Logan, of course, wanted to stay put and stay guard, watching the boat. I don't think he'd ever trust Ben to stand guard again.
Ben holds the bow and arrows slung over his shoulder, and I have only my hunting knife. If we spot the deer, of course Ben is our best hope. But even with his skill, I don't see how he'd possibly be able to hit. It is probably a lost cause - yet still, a welcome distraction.
Ben and I walk in silence, neither speaking to each other. But it is a comfortable silence. I feel that he's come out of his shell since yesterday. Maybe he feels more confident, maybe a little bit better about himself, after bringing in that deer. Now he realizes that he is not useless.
"Where did you learn how to shoot like that?" I ask.
He looks at me, startled; it is the first words we have spoken, breaking a long silence.
We continue for several more steps before he answers.
"When I was younger," he says, "before the war. Day camp. Archery was my thing. I'd stay on the range for hours and hours, long after everyone left. I don't know why, I just always loved it. I know it's silly," he says, and pauses, looking embarrassed, "but it was my dream to compete in the Olympics. Before the war, that was what I lived for."
I'm surprised by this; I hadn't expected this from him, of all people. But I do remember his shot, and it was extraordinary.
"I'd like to learn," I say.
He looks at me, eyebrows arched in surprise.
"I'll teach you," he says.
I look at him and smile. "I think it's a little bit late for that."
"No it's not," he says firmly. "It's never too late."
I hear the seriousness in his voice, and am surprised to see how determined he is.
"I want to teach you," he insists.
I look at him, surprised. "Now?" I ask.
"Why not? We've been out here for hours, and there's no sign of the deer. It's not like we'll lose him if we take a few minutes."
I guess he has a point.
"But it's not like we have a practice range here," I say. "We don't have any bulls eyes or anything."
"How wrong you are," he says with a smile. "Look around. Everything in front of you is an archer's target. Actually, trees make some of the best targets."
I look around, and have a whole new appreciation for the forest.
"Besides," he says, "I'm tired of walking. I wouldn't mind taking a break for a few minutes. Come here," he says, gesturing.
My legs are getting tired, too, and I actually would love to learn. I hate relying on other people for things, and I like learning anything that can make me self-sufficient. I'm doubtful over whether I can really pick up the skill, especially in these conditions, but I'm willing to give it a try. Plus, it's the first time Ben warmed up to me, and I feel like he's starting to come out of his trauma. If this helps him, then I'm willing to do it.
I walk over to him, and he removes the bow from his shoulder and hands it to me.
I hold up the bow with my left hand, and hold onto the string my right, testing it. It is heavier than I thought, its large wood frame weighing down my arm.
Ben comes around behind me, reaches out, and puts his left hand over my left hand, over the handle of the bow. As he does, I feel a chill. He has caught me off guard. I didn't expect him to come so close, or to put his hand over mine. The feel of his touch is like an electric shock.
He reaches around with his other hand, and places his right hand on my other hand, on the string. I feel his chest rub against my back.
"Hold it like this," he says. "Support your shoulders. If your grip is too high, you'll never hit your target. And hold it closer," he says, pulling it closer to my chest. "Align your eyes on the notch. You're too tense. Relax."
"How am I supposed to relax when I'm pulling on the string?" I ask.
But I can't relax for another reason: I'm nervous. I haven't had a boy this close to me in years. And I find myself realizing that there is something about Ben that I actually do like. That I've always liked, since I met him.
"The paradox of archery," he says. "You have to be tense and relaxed at the same time. You're pulling on a string attached to a piece of wood, and that tension is what's going to make the arrow fly. At the same time, your muscles need to be lithe to direct it. If you tense up, you'll miss your mark. Let your shoulders and hands and wrists and neck all relax. Don't put your focus on the bow, but on the target. Try it. See that tree, the crooked one?"
A gust comes in and the fog lifts for a moment, and in the distance I spot a large, crooked tree, standing by itself, about thirty yards away.
Ben takes a step back, letting go of me, and I find myself missing the feel of his touch. I pull back the string and take aim. I close one eye, and try to focus on the notch at the end of the wood, trying to align the arrow.
"Lower the bow a little bit," he says.
I do so.
"Now take a deep breath, then slowly let it go."
I breathe deep and as I breathe out, I let go. The string snaps forward, and the arrow goes flying.
But I am disappointed to see that it doesn't hit the tree. It misses by several feet.
"I told you this was a waste of time," I say, annoyed.
"You're wrong," he answers. "That was good. The problem was, you didn't plant your feet. You let the bow carry you. Your strength is in your feet, and in your hips. You have to be rooted. Plant yourself. Try again," he says, handing me another arrow.
I look over at him, worried.
"What if I miss?" I say.
He smiles. "Don't worry. I'll find the arrows. They can't go far."
I take another arrow and set it on the string.
"Don't pull it back all at once," he says, gently. "That's it," he adds, as I begin to pull it back.
The string is more taut this time - maybe because I'm nervous, maybe because I feel more at stake. As I hold it back, I feel the bow quivering, and it's hard to stop.
"It's hard to steady it," I say. "My aim is all over the place."
"That's because you're not breathing," he says. "Relax your shoulders, lower them, and pull it in closer to your chest."
He comes up behind me and reaches over and puts his hands on mine. I feel his chest against my back, and slowly, I stop quivering a little bit less.
"Good," he says, stepping back. "Okay, take a deep breath, and release."
I do so, and let it go.
It is exhilarating to watch the arrow go flying through the air, into the thick blizzard, and to watch it hit the tree. It doesn't hit it in the center, as I was hoping, but it hits, along its edge. Still, I hit it.
"Great!" Ben yells, genuinely excited.
I don't know if he's just being kind, or if he's genuine; but either way, I'm grateful for his enthusiasm.
"It wasn't that great," I say. "If that was a deer - especially a moving deer - I never would've hit."
"Give yourself a break," he says. "That was your first shot. Try again."
He reaches out and hands me another arrow. This time, I place it on the bow, more confident, and pull it back. This time, I pull it back more easily, more steadily, remembering everything he taught me. I plant my feet and lower the bow. I aim for the center of the tree, and pull back breathe deep as I let go.
Before it even leaves, somehow I know it is a good shot. It's weird, but before it even hits, I know it will.
And it does. I hear the sound of arrow striking wood even from here - but a fog rolls in, and I can't tell where I hit.
"Come on," Ben says, trotting off excitedly towards the tree. I follow him, equally curious to see the result.
We reach the tree and I can't believe it. It is a perfect strike. Dead center.
"Bingo!" he yells out, clapping his hands. "See? You're a natural! I couldn't have done that my first time out!"
For the first time in a while, I feel a sense of self-worth, of being good at something. It feels real, genuine. Maybe I do have a shot at archery - at least enough to catch dinner once in a while. That shot might have been a fluke, but either way, I feel I can get this over time. It is a skill I know that I can use. Especially out here.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it, as I hand him back the bow.
He takes it, as he pulls the arrows out of the tree and puts them back in his quiver.
"You want to hold onto it?" he asks. "You want to fire on the deer, if we ever find it?"
"No way. If we do find it, we get one crack at it. I don't want lose dinner for everyone."
We turn and continue on, heading farther into the island.
We walk in silence for several more minutes, but now it's a different silence. Something in the air has shifted, and we are closer to each other than before. It's like the silence has shifted from a comfortable one, to an intimate one. I'm starting to see things in Ben that I like, things that I hadn't seen before. And I feel like it's time to give him a second chance.
We keep walking, cutting through the woods, when suddenly, to my surprise, the island ends. We've reached the small sandy beach, now covered in snow. We stand there and look out the Hudson, now just a huge white wall. It's like staring into a wall of fog. Like staring into nothingness.
And there, to my shock, standing on the beach, leaning down and drinking the water of the Hudson, is the deer. It is not even twenty feet ahead of us, not even aware of our presence. It is wide out in the open, almost too easy of a shot. A part of me doesn't want to kill it.
But Ben already has the bow in hand, an arrow in place, and before I can even say anything, he pulls it back.
At the slight noise, the deer lifts its head and turns, and I feel it looking right at me.
"NO!" I scream out to Ben, despite myself.
But it is too late. The deer starts at my cry, but the arrow is already flying. It flies at lightning speed and hits the deer in the neck. The deer takes a few steps forward, stumbles, then collapses, the pure white snow immediately turning red.
Ben turns and looks at me, surprised.
"What was that about?" he asks.
He stares at me, his large, light-blue eyes filled with wonder. They are lit up by the snow, mesmerizing.
I have no idea how to respond. I am embarrassed. I look away in shame, not wanting to meet those eyes.
"I don't know," I say. "It was stupid. Sorry."
I expect Ben to tell me that I'm stupid, that I almost lost us dinner, that I should have kept my mouth shut. And he would be right.
But instead, he reaches out with one hand, and takes my hand in his. I look up at him, and he stares down at me with his large soulful eyes, and says:
"I understand."
The mood is somber as we sit around the fire, staring into the flames after our meal. Night has fallen, and unbelievably, it's still snowing. There now must be three feet piled up out there, and I think we are all wondering if we will ever leave this place.
Of course, we shouldn't be complaining: for the first time in a long time, we have real shelter, fire, warmth, no fear from attack, and real food. Even Logan has finally relaxed his guard, realizing that no one could possibly reach this island in these conditions. He's finally stopped sitting guard, and sits with the rest of us, staring into the flames.
Yet still, we are all morose. Because beside us, lying there, groaning, is Rose. It is obvious she has reached the point of no return, that she could die at any moment. All the color has left her skin, the black of the infection has spread across her shoulder and chest, and she lies there, pouring with sweat and writhing in pain. Bree's eyes are red from crying. Penelope sits on Rose's chest, whining intermittently, refusing to go anywhere else. I feel as if I am on a death vigil.
Normally, I would gorge myself on the fresh meat, but tonight I eat half-heartedly, as do the others. Bree didn't even touch hers. Even Penelope, when I handed her a piece, refused to take it. Of course, Rose wouldn't take a bite.
It breaks my heart to see her suffer like this. I don't know what else to. I gave her the remainder of the sleeping pills, three at once, hoping to knock her out, to alleviate her pain. But now she's in so much pain, it's not doing her any good. She cries and moans and squirms in agony. I sit there, stroking her hair, staring into the flames, wondering when this will all end. I feel as if we're all stuck in some interminable suffering that has no end in sight.
"Read me a story," Bree says.
I turn and see her looking up at me with red eyes.
"Please," she pleads.
I put one arm around her and hold her tight; she rests her head on my shoulder, crying softly.
I close my eyes and try to remember the words of The Giving Tree. They usually come to me, right away - but tonight, I'm having a hard time. My mind is jumbled.
"I..." I begin, then trail off. I can't believe it, but I'm drawing a blank. "I'm sorry. I can't remember."
"Then tell me a story," she says. "Anything. Please. Something from before the war."
I think back, trying hard to remember something, anything. But I'm so tired, and so frazzled, I draw a blank. Then, suddenly, I remember.
"I remember one night, when you were young," I begin. "You were maybe four. I was eleven. We were with mom and dad. It was a summer night, the most perfect, beautiful night, so still, not a breeze, and the sky filled with stars. Mom and dad took us to an outdoor carnival, I don't remember where. It was some kind of farm country, because I remember walking through all these cornfields. It felt like we walked all night long, this magical walk through open farms, up and down gentle hills. I remember looking up and being awed at all the stars. There were so many of them and they were so bright. The universe felt alive. And I didn't feel alone.
"And then, after all this walking in the middle of nowhere, there, in the middle of these country fields, there was this small town carnival. It lit up the night. There were games, and popcorn, and cotton candy, and candy apples, and all kinds of fun things. I member you loved the candy apples. There was this one stand, where the apples floated, and you'd dunk your head in the water and try to bite one. You must have tried a hundred times."
I look down and see Bree smiling.
"Did mom and dad get mad?"
"You know dad," I say. "He gets impatient. But you were so insistent, they waited. They weren't mad. By the end, dad was even cheering for you. Telling you how to do it, giving you direction. You know how he is."
"Like we're in the Army," she says.
"Exactly."
I sigh and think, trying to remember more.
"I remember they got us all tickets for the Ferris wheel, and the four of us sat together, in the front. You loved it. You didn't want to get off. More than anything, you loved the stars. You were really wishing it would stop while we were at the top, so you could be closer to the sky when you looked. You kept making mom and dad do the ride over and over again until finally, you got what you wanted. You were so happy. You're so good with the sky: you pointed out the Milky Way and the Big Dipper and everything. Things I didn't even know. I'd never seen you so happy."
Bree has a real smile on her face now, as she rests her head on my shoulder. I can feel her body starting to relax.
"Tell me more," she says, but now her voice is a gentle whisper, falling asleep.
"Later, we went into a hall of mirrors. And then into a freak show. There was a bearded lady, and a 600 pound man, and a man who was two feet tall. He scared you.
"dad's favorite game was the guns. He made us stop at the BB guns, and he fired again and again. When he missed a target, he got mad, and blamed the manager for the faulty gun. He insisted that he never missed a shot, that there was something wrong with the gun, and he wanted his money back. You know dad."
Thinking of it now, I smile at the thought of it. How little something like that would matter now, in this day and age.
I look down, expecting to see Bree smile back, but find her fast asleep.
Rose grunts and squirms again, lying by the fire, and this time, it seems to really upset Logan. He gets up, walks to the mouth of the cave and looks out the snow, ostensibly watching our boat. But I know he's not watching; there's nothing to see out there. He just can't take her pain and suffering. It's upsetting him, maybe more than anyone.
Ben sits opposite me, staring into the flames, too. He seems to be coming out of it more and more. I'm sure he must feel a sense of self-worth for feeding us both these nights.
I sit there in silence, staring at the fire for what feels like hours, Bree asleep in my arms. I don't know how much time has passed, when Ben speaks:
"What happened in New York was horrible."
I look up at him, surprised. He looks right at me, his large soulful eyes staring, and I can see that he wants to speak, that he wants me to know. That he is ready. He wants to tell me everything.
