The Distance from Me to You (25 page)

From behind her, Hank stood at the edge of what almost looked like a path, wending through the trees. He wagged his tail. McKenna was sure that she and Sam hadn't come from that direction. She walked a few paces, and then walked toward where her tent had been, trying to remember if this had been it, the first vantage point. She closed her eyes, opened them again.

What she remembered about walking into this campsite was Sam's back, the straight line of his shoulders, his smile when he turned to her, the feeling of lawlessness and how it felt like being delivered from her whole life. Which didn't help her one bit now. In the future she would need to remember to take note of directions even when she was in the passenger seat. Although she felt like crying, could almost feel her tear ducts trying to operate, nothing sprang to her eyes. She reached for the water bottle and took a sip. Tired of waiting, Hank turned and crashed into the trees.

“Hank!” she called, sure that he was going the wrong way. But obedience wasn't Hank's thing. McKenna walked as fast as she could to keep up with him, immediately heading up a steep ledge that she
knew
they hadn't come down; she would have
remembered. If this shale wall had been any more vertical she would have needed rock-climbing equipment to scale it.

As she climbed up over the top, sweat dripped down her face. The dog was trotting ahead so fast and so blithely, almost like he wasn't even aware she was following him. She didn't want to risk taking off her jacket and losing him.
Slow down, Hank.

She was determined to keep him in her sights. It was only because of Hank that she'd found their original campsite. When you find something that works, McKenna told herself, you stick with it. She wiped the sweat off her face and trudged on. The dog eventually stopped to drink at a wide, deep stream, and McKenna threw off her pack and filled her water bottle. She had exactly one iodine tablet left, and she decided to save it for when she came upon more questionable water. This water ran so fast and looked so clean, she splashed a few handfuls on her face before drinking deeply, her lips on the surface of the water. Then she filled her bottle and bribed the dog to rest awhile with the last can of Iams.

The last.
She'd eaten the last bag of noodles last night. She'd managed to choke down the last of the horrific salmon jerky for breakfast. Everything was coming down to the last, she was running out of time.

When Hank finished eating, he drank a little more, then walked right through the water, swimming across the middle, and scrambling back to shore. He stopped and looked back at McKenna, waiting politely for her to cross.

“Crap,” she said.

She stepped cautiously into the current. Pebbles crunched under her boots; the water that had felt so bracing and refreshing hitting her face felt alarmingly cold when she was faced with the prospect of wading through it. She turned back to shore and picked up a long, thick stick, almost as long as her body. Stepping into the stream again, she plunged the stick toward the center. The water would be up to her waist.

She drew in a deep breath and stepped forward. Before she even had a chance to get her footing, the current hit her, knocking her sideways, soaking her and her pack. McKenna scrambled to right herself as the current pushed her downriver; she scraped her palm across a sharp rock trying to catch herself, only to have another rock gash through her pants. Safely on shore, Hank barked and ran after her.

As the current brought McKenna downstream, she fought down panic. If she drowned in this river nobody would know where to find Sam, or even that he was lost. The pack prevented her from rolling onto her back in the dead man's float she needed, but as she drifted past a snarl of tree roots, she managed to grab hold of them and pull herself out of the current. Back on the cold ground, she lay sideways, Hank standing over her, dripping and then spraying her with more water.

McKenna could hear Sam's voice in her head:
That's what you get for letting a dog be your Sherpa.

“I know,” McKenna said, staring up into the concerned, drooly face. “It's a stupid plan. But it's the only plan I have.”

She pulled off her sopping fleece jacket and tied it to the outside of her pack, hoping it might dry in the sun. Then she followed the dog for the rest of the day, not bothering to stop when it got dark.

Dark. Again. Another day of traveling, walking, and finding nothing. For all she knew, Hank was leading her deeper and deeper into the woods. How many more nights would she have to live through before she was rescued or before she died? Nothing in the world could have vanquished what little hope she had left like the sun going down.

She had her sleeping bag, but it was soaked. She couldn't bear the thought of stopping, of digging out all the warm gear she'd rendered useless. When finally even Hank refused to go another step, collapsing in a heap on a pile of leaves, McKenna put on the fleece jacket—it had dried, thank God—and lay down next to him. For a moment she thought about climbing into the pile of leaves to try to keep warm. But then she remembered snakes. It almost would have been funny, if she hadn't been so tired.

Laughter.
At first McKenna thought she heard it in her dream. It was that kind of sleep, her body so deeply submerged in exhaustion it was like swimming up from the bottom of a deep lake, reaching the surface. When her eyes finally fought their way open, in the second it took for her to remember where she was, she recognized the sound and knew it was real.

People. Laughing. Voices.

“Dang it. I knew I left it in here somewhere. Can you point that flashlight this way?”

Beside her, on his bed of leaves, Hank let out a low, threatening growl. McKenna wished she could shush him. At the same time, she could barely understand why she wasn't on her feet stumbling in the direction of the voices, flagging them down.
People.
Didn't this mean she was saved?

More low laughter, as one of them tripped, cursing. McKenna realized she was plastered to the ground in terror. She squinted through the dark, trying to make out the men, trying to assess them. She realized she was hoping to hear a woman's voice.

When McKenna was little and her family went to a crowded place like a carnival or a museum, her mother would bend down in front of her and say, “If you get lost, get a grown-up to help you. Go to a mom with her kids if you can find one. But if you can't find a mom, find a lady.”

Last summer, when McKenna took Lucy to Six Flags, she'd said those same words. Lucy had rolled her eyes, too old to hear it.

“Hey,” one of the men said now. “I think I found it.”

There were two of them, she was pretty sure, both with thick Southern accents. McKenna knew she should get to her feet.
Help,
she would say.
I'm lost. My friend's hurt.

What kind of monsters would they have to be to hurt her instead of help? They had flashlights, they must know the way back to
somewhere
. They would lead McKenna out of the woods, they would use their cell phones to call for help.

The night hung black and dark, no sign that morning was anywhere near. How long had she been asleep? By the time the sun rose, a team of rangers could be on their way to Sam, find him just in time.

I have to risk it,
she thought.
I have to risk it for Sam.

And yet her body wouldn't budge. Except maybe to flatten herself a little more, closer to the ground, so she wouldn't be visible.

“You gonna finish telling that story?”

“Already told it. Girl's a bimbo. But I'd do her again if I had the chance.”

“You'd do anything that's breathing.”

Laughter again. Was the tone really sinister, or did it only sound that way after what they'd just said? It probably didn't mean anything. Some men talked like that. Especially when there wasn't a woman around to hear. But McKenna's spine had turned to ice, her nervous system froze, not letting her move. In her pack beside her, buried in all the wet gear, was her canister of pepper spray and her whistle. Who would hear, if she blew that whistle? Nobody close enough to come running.

“Dang it, Curtis, can't you work that thing any faster?”

McKenna pushed up the slightest bit on her elbows, peering through the trees in front of her. She could smell cigarette smoke and she could see their heads, covered by wool caps. One of them had a rifle over his shoulder. Something else glinted just beyond them, glass and metal, and then she heard the sound of liquid glugging into glass. It must have been a still. She remembered what Brendan had said, way back in Abelard, mentioning guys who kept stills in the woods as a possible danger.

She flattened herself again. Her heart was beating so loudly she worried they would hear it. Hank snarled again, also lying low. McKenna made a firm, frantic gesture with her hand, as if that would keep him quiet.

Just because they had a still. Just because they were cursing. None of it meant they were dangerous. Probably they were just normal Southern guys, out joking around. They wouldn't
hurt her. They'd want to bring her to safety. It was a chance for them to be heroes.

For the first time, McKenna let herself think:
What would have happened back at Joe Ranger Road if Sam hadn't intervened with that group of guys?
Probably nothing. They would have bothered her for a bit, harassed her, scared her, and then left her alone. It had been broad daylight. It had been nothing.

But what if it
hadn't
been nothing? Wasn't that the main reason people didn't want her—a girl—to travel alone?

“Here you go, Jimmy, get me some more of that moonshine.”

Hank snarled. But he had snarled at Sam, too. The dog didn't have a particular sixth sense for character. He just didn't like men.

Back in West Virginia, Sam likely knew where to find a still. He might have come sneaking through the woods at night with a friend, stumbling and swearing.

“Curtis. Did you hear that? Sounded like a dog.”

“Hope it weren't that bobcat.”

“You could get its coat.”

McKenna heard a
click
as he did something with his rifle. She could try to talk herself into it all she wanted, but she knew she would never stand up and ask them for help. Even if the greater chance was that they
would
help her. Even if not calling out, not going to them meant that she and Sam might never be found. She couldn't risk it.

McKenna was strong enough to climb a mountain and fail, and then climb it again the next day. She was strong enough
to make her way, starving and hurt and exhausted, through as many days and nights as she needed. She was strong enough—she knew she was, even if it hadn't turned out that way—to hike the whole Appalachian Trail, all by herself.

But she could not bear the thought of standing up and facing these two strange men. She couldn't risk being left out here afterward, in pieces.

But then, she might not have a choice. Because now here they came, toward the sound of Hank, whose growls had started to escalate. McKenna tried to calculate whether it would be best to try to roll under the leaves—too noisy—or to slide backward through the next stand of trees, out of sight. Even if she managed to hide herself, her pack would be left behind, proof that she'd been there, that she was still there, somewhere.

Suddenly, Hank leaped off the leaves, crashing through the trees. Standing in front of the two men, barking, he almost looked menacing. McKenna took advantage of the sound and rolled sideways, burying herself as far under the leaves as she could. The thought of snakes didn't bother her at all now.

Please don't hurt him,
she pleaded silently.
Please don't hurt him.

The men both burst out laughing. “That coat won't get you any money,” one of them said. “Git. Go on. Git!”

They sounded almost playful. She closed her eyes and pressed her face into the ground. If it were daytime, would she feel differently?

Bam.
A shot rang out. McKenna froze, listening for a yelp, but instead heard the sound of Hank running.

They must have shot into the air to scare him away. Surely it would have been easy to hit him, if they'd wanted. McKenna lay stock-still.

“Curtis. You coming?”

“Hold your horses.”

This was it. Her last chance. She could stand up. Walk over to them.

“You put that safety back in place now! I don't want to get shot on my way out of here.”

The leaves covering her didn't make the slightest rustle. It was possible even her breathing had stopped. Curtis and Jimmy walked away, drunken feet crunching leaves and twigs. McKenna listened harder than she'd ever listened in her life, trying to determine their direction. She must be close to a road or trail for them to have come in here for a party. Then again, they may have set up the still in the most remote place possible. She thought about crawling out of the leaves and following them at a distance. But her body still wouldn't move.

She stayed there until morning, when a tentative Hank returned and snuffled at her through the pile of leaves. Only then did McKenna sit up, grabbing the dog's muzzle and kissing him between his eyes. Hank ducked away from her and backed up.

McKenna stood, brushing leaves off. Had she slept? If she
wasn't sure, then she must have. She tried to blink and found one eye swollen shut—something must have bitten her during the night. Gingerly, she pressed her fingers against her eyelid.

“Okay, Hank,” she said. “We must be close. Right? Today is the day we walk out of here.”

Hank wagged his tail. McKenna bent to unzip her pack, her whole body crackling and protesting. She felt like she was a hundred years old. In her food bag, nothing but four cereal bars. Screw it. She ate two and gave one to Hank. She guzzled down the last of the water.

“See that, universe?” McKenna said.

Now there couldn't be any question. Today she would make up for last night's cowardice by thumbing her nose at her situation. She would not hoard provisions like she'd be roaming these woods for days. She was going to walk out of here.

McKenna stepped through the stand of trees that had separated her from Curtis and Jimmy. The still sat there, primitive and complex at the same time. McKenna couldn't second-guess herself for not asking them for help. She would not let herself think about the state Sam must be in, the barely helpful over-the-counter painkillers gone by now, dehydration and starvation setting in. Today would be his second day with no water or food.

She examined the ground, trying to see if the men had left any footprints, but it was too dry and dusty. Over to the right. (West? East? South? North? Along with her pack she'd been reunited with the compass but it was still impossible.) It looked
like some branches had been pushed aside and Hank started off in exactly that direction. After the bushwhacking of the past days, the ground beneath her feet looked almost like a path. McKenna let hope rise as, every half mile or so, she saw a discarded cigarette butt on the ground. She fought down a swell of love toward Curtis and Jimmy, even though if they showed up again, she'd probably rush back into hiding.

Her swollen eye throbbed. She may have been feeling more optimistic with her progress, but she hadn't come upon anything that resembled a water source, and it was getting into late afternoon.

Sisyphus,
McKenna thought.
I have turned into Sisyphus, pushing that boulder uphill, only to have it roll back down as soon as I get to the top.
She wished she could remember the crime she'd committed to land her in this unending hell of walking and searching but never finding. Maybe, in keeping with Greek mythology, the crime was simply hubris.

Up ahead, she heard a rustling through the leaves, and battled the all-too-familiar feeling, the combination of fear and hope. As the culprit—a raccoon—ambled their way, McKenna also felt the familiar combination of relief and disappointment. If it wasn't something that would kill them, it also wasn't something that would help her get the hell out of here.

Hank backed up a few steps and growled. In return the raccoon made a noise that literally made McKenna jump, despite her exhaustion and the weight of her pack. It was a huge noise, much bigger than the one Hank had made. Almost like a roar.
If the bear McKenna had faced from across the creek had made exactly the same noise, it wouldn't have surprised her at all.

The raccoon teetered up on its hind legs and stretched out its arms, looking alarmingly human and alarmingly . . .
wrong
. Raccoons were a common nuisance at her house; they delighted in countering all her dad's efforts at securing their garbage. Apparatuses that made the garbage collectors curse and exclaim would do nothing to hold off the raccoons . . .

But raccoons were nocturnal. In this, the midafternoon, they should all be tucked away. McKenna didn't know much about raccoons behind their black masks and nimble little hands. But she did know that.

And she knew that it was not normal behavior for a raccoon to menace a dog and a human. It should be running in the opposite direction.

But he didn't run away. In fact he walked closer on those two crazy feet, waving his little hands like an angry drunk.

This raccoon had rabies.

You have got to be kidding me!
McKenna wanted to scream to the skies, and would have, if she didn't think it would inflame the adorable beast, rendered deadly dangerous.

Hank flattened his ears against his head and bared his teeth. “Hank,” McKenna whispered furiously. She tried to call him back to her. There was no telling where Hank had come from, or how long he'd been on his own, but she was pretty sure his vaccinations weren't up to date. McKenna wasn't exactly
prepared to get rabies, either. She squelched down the momentary urge to get between the two animals.

At her feet there was a small round rock, perfect for lobbing. If the raccoon weren't sick, it would certainly scare him away. But in his present state, it might only encourage him to leap for them. Which, from the looks of it, was exactly what Hank was preparing to do—dear Hank, ready to protect her, not knowing the risk of a frothing, premature death.