The New Wild (5 page)

All of the sudden, there are
bubbles floating all around me, just like the glassy shimmering ones I used to
blow when I was six. A big one bobbles past, and I see a sheer image of a
sycamore tree inverted in its sphere. I lean in a little closer for a better
look. A dragonfly darts out of nowhere—
pop!
— and the
sycamore is bigger than life, standing an inch away from my nose, rooted in the
earth. I step back, bewildered. For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. I run
my fingertips over its scratchy trunk. What is going on? My heart pounds in my
chest. Maybe these bubbles are just like the dandelion seeds that float through
the air in spring, carrying their pretty parachute seedlings to germinate in
the earth. I picture a wise old woman blowing the bubbles the way I used to
blow dandelions, making a wish as she does it. My heart is beating so hard I think
I might go ahead and have a heart attack, but this stuff is so cool I would
hate to die and miss whatever trippy stuff Mother Nature still has up her
sleeve. I wish Sarah and May were here with me to see this—they would
love it.

Squinting at all the other bubbles
floating around me, I spot a cherry tree inverted in one. I grab a twig from
the ground and pop it. It’s only a moment before it, too, is fully grown,
cherries ripe and dangling in the breeze like they’ve been doing it every
summer for decades.
Crazy.

I pluck one off a branch and pop
it into my mouth. It’s juicy and incredibly sweet. I run my fingers through the
branches and yank off handfuls of cherries. Soon I’ve eaten so many, so fast, I
think my stomach is going to explode. Their pink juices run down my chin. I
shovel as many as I can into my duffel. My mom adores cherries—especially
the organic, non-cancer-causing ones—and I can’t get enough of them,
either. But I can’t believe they came from a tree that came from a bubble.

It’s so quiet out here that time
passes in breaths, not seconds. A wind comes and ferries the rest of the
bubbles away to burst in some other place. I can’t hear anything but birds and
leaves rustling, and occasionally, my own heart thudding. I don’t think I’ve
ever felt this alone. I start picturing Bernard walking with me.

“Dude, I haven’t popped so many
cherries at once in my
life
.”

“Har dee har har, very funny,”
I’d say, cracking up.

“Can we find a soy burger tree?
Because I’m really, really going to eat my hand.”

“Don’t eat your hand.”

“But it would be so delish!”

“Bernard, stop. I’m going to
puke in my mouth.”

I hear someone yell. At first, I
think it’s my imaginary Bernard, wailing in hunger. Then I hear it again. It
sounds like it’s coming from the forest ahead of me.

“Hey!” I yell as loud as my lungs
can manage. I wait a second for a response before desperately shouting again,
“HEY!” But there’s no answer. I must be hearing things. I need a break, but I
keep walking. I’d do anything to see Mom and Bernard again. I need to find
another person, preferably someone with a horse and buggy, a tricycle,
something
.
There must be someone, besides Deb, left alive to help me.

That’s when I see the branch
stump. The trees are all in perfect shape now, so it stands out like a sore
thumb. It’s about halfway up the trunk and looks like it was sawed off. The
branch, which would be lying nearby on the ground if it had fallen off the
tree, is nowhere to be found. It’s not much, but I take it as a sign of life.

I keep going, eyes alert for another
human being. A pear tree that must have plopped out of a bubble stands nearby and
I pluck a few. I’m appraising several more, already chomped to the core and discarded
in the grass, when something big and brown runs out from the brush. I’m so
startled by the noise that I immediately fall back on my ass in the brush,
nearly hitting a pointy boulder in the process. My heart pounds, but it’s only
a deer. I let out a long sigh. I need to learn to freak out less if I’m ever
going to make it.

A few miles farther, I pass what
remains of a chicken coop next to a tiny blackened ranch house. Someone,
or—I shudder to think, some
thing
—
has opened the gate, and most of the hens are squawking
around the area. I steel myself, chase after the biggest one I can see, and try
to scoop it up from behind like Deb taught me. It’s impossible! Every time I
get close, it bolts. They’re all squawking and flapping their wings like crazy.
I finally get ahold of one by its foot but freak out and basically throw it
into the air. I sigh, and repeat steps one and two, but still don’t even get
close. Thank God I have the chicken Deb and I killed together in my pack, or
who knows when I’d eat protein again? These fuckers are fast. Still, the
adrenaline rush you get chasing them is alarming, considering they’re totally
non-threatening animals. I swear on the grave of this stupid chicken in my bag
that I will do anything
—
literally, anything
—
to not run into anything bigger. Or anything with teeth.

The sun sinks lower in the sky. It
must be about four or five o’clock. I’m terrified to go to sleep alone. I
consider setting up camp in a clearing of aspen trees when some bubbles ferry
past, each carrying something different. One’s got a weeping willow shimmering
inside; another holds a fig tree. I charge after the willow, thinking it’ll be
nice to sleep under one, then reach out and pop it and then the fig tree bubble
for breakfast. I’m so absorbed in them I almost don’t see it, stuck in the side
of an already-established old tree, so shiny and implausible it could be a
mirage.

An axe.

I yank the ax out of the tree
trunk and swing it around. Holy
balls
I love this thing! I’m picturing
myself now,
Last of the Mohicans
—Last of the Stumptown Girls,
really—kicking ass and taking names with my blade of steel. I’ll fight
bears left and right, take down poultry with one deft blow. The axe is heavy in
my hand, the blade perfectly sharpened. My heart skips a beat. I feel like I’m
queen of the forest.

Bubbles float all around me. I
spot a rose bush bubble, and I pop it in a heartbeat. Its petals are
Pepto-Bismol pink, and unlike every other rose bush I’ve ever seen, it towers
over my head. The roses themselves are the size of fists.

Using Deb’s trusty knife, I cut a
handful of blooms and weave myself a crown to shield my face from the sun.
Goddamn, I must look hilarious—covered in dirt, ganglier by the minute,
bubblegum-pink petals as a hat. But who’s going to see me now? It’s been hours,
and nothing’s keeping me company but the deer periodically cutting through the
woods.

As though the universe has read my
mind, I hear something crunching in the bushes. Something
way
less
graceful than a deer. I pray it’s not a bear. Axe, schmax—I know I’m
helpless. Nevertheless, I rear back with the blade high in the air, ready to
strike.

A crop of strawberry-blond hair
attached to a full-fledged man emerges from the brush. I let the axe fall,
stunned.

Xander
.

My stomach
churns and I’m so mad I could spit. I can’t believe that, of all the wonderful
people who died that night,
this
dipshit made it through Mother Nature’s
little test.

Xander’s covered in soot, wearing
cargo pants and a torn, holey beater. His skin is so burnt from the sun he’s
peeling and red all over, his eyes watery and yellow where they should be white.
He looks awful, like he’s going to faint. But a butterfly, of all things, seems
to be nesting in his red hair. It’s resting peacefully on the top of his head.

“What the fuck are you doing with
my axe?” he breathes. His voice is hoarse.

“Well, nice to see you, too.” I
chirp. “It’s
my
axe,
I
found it.”

“I left that here and I need it.”
I forgot how deep his voice is—deep and calming, like those old dudes on
the radio.

“Finders keepers, man. You
shouldn’t have been so careless.”

His green eyes grow wider and
wider. “Give it back, Jackie,” he seethes.

I sigh. It’s nice to actually see
somebody I know, even if he’s the asshole who hurt Sarah
and
contaminated
my shit. I notice he’s not carrying a pack. I wonder if he’s eaten or even
drank water in the past two days. That would explain the ‘tude, and also why he
left something so important as an axe behind.

“How the hell are you even here?
What have you been eating?” I ask, perhaps somewhat insensitively.

He scoffs, disgusted. “How the
hell are
you
even here? You really wanna know what I’ve been eating?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Fruit. Worms. Bugs,” he says
bluntly. “I tried to catch a loose parakeet, but he got away.”

“Oh yeah? I hear chipmunk meat is
super good and easy to come by.”

A weak laugh escapes Xander’s dry
lips. That is, until he sees my face and my knuckles whitening around the axe’s
handle. He shuts up, but I can tell I’m gonna have to wait for that apology.
Idiot.

“Sooner or later, I’m gonna reach
a point the fire hasn’t reached, walk into a sub shop, and beg for my life and
a ham and cheese sandwich.”

“Ugh,
yeah
… Good luck with
that,” I say sarcastically.

“I don’t need luck,” he declares,
“I need a break.”

“Same diff. But I have to tell you,
I’m not sure you’re gonna find a sub shop or anything like it,” I say.

“And why the hell wouldn’t I?” he
spits, his cheeks turning red.

“Look around you, Xander. Have you
been seeing any of this shit? Did you feel what I felt that night? I was
literally floating in the sky, listening to everybody on the ground burn alive.
I haven’t seen
anything
that looks the way it used to, not one lamp or
store, least of all a goddamned sub shop. Have you?”

He looks at the ground. “No,” he
says softly, like he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“I didn’t think so.”

Against my better judgment, I tell
him everything Deb relayed to me, even the weird parts. That she thinks it’s
Mother Earth teaching us a lesson, and that he and I and whoever else is still
here—well, she’s starting the whole world over with us. Deb said only the
most earth-loving people survived, the ones that truly adored her creations or
at least treated them with respect. And then I let him know that a bunch of the
extinct stuff has come back, too. I point to a big, gorgeous jee-bow. It turns
green, like it knows I’m talking about it. Then I say that many man-made
creations are not kosher with Mother Nature, so she burned them to bits.

“Shit, hippie,” Xander says,
looking at me like I’m totally nuts. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever
heard.”

“I’m not sure I believe it,
either. But do you really think this was just any old fire?
Think
about
it.”

For a few seconds, I can see the
wheels turning in his head. His expression goes from weirded out to terrified
to despondent.

“I need to get to my family in
Montana as soon as possible,” he says quietly, then narrows his eyes and
reaches out his hand. “Give me the fucking axe.”

“I’m not giving it back,” I say, a
little hurt that he’d think of leaving me when we’re headed the same goddamn
direction. I’d rather walk with a lunatic than by myself.

“Hand it over
now
, or
you’ll be sorry,” he says, almost yelling.

“Excuse me? I’ll be
sorry
? In
case you haven’t noticed, everybody I know and like is probably burnt up right
now. I’m hungry and exhausted and haven’t seen a shower, much less toilet
paper, in three loooooong days. Just
how
, exactly, were you planning to
make my life any worse?”

He smirks, then starts singing the
most annoying camp song ever. “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” And to make it
all the more irritating, he’s doing it off key and off beat.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to
collect my thoughts. If I don’t find a place to camp soon, I’m going to eat
this chicken raw and drink its blood for water. I start walking ahead, doing my
best to ignore him, but he follows, singing louder.

“Is that your fave?” he says.
“Maybe you’ll like this one more.”

He begins singing, “Fat Cat, Tiny
Litter Box,” the latest from The Sardonic Pills, a Japanese boy band. I cover
my ears, but the sound is piercing—it penetrates my inner ear and rattles
my brain. I want to turn around and plant the axe in his neck, but that would
be unladylike.

I’ll have to think of a better
plan.

We reach a
crowd of bigtooth aspen trees. Xander's still “singing,” and I'm still gagging.

I whirl around and look him dead
in the eye. “Okay, Xander. I'm starving. I'm sick of pears and berries, but the
only thing I want more than a camp-cooked meal is for you to shut the eff up.”

“Well there's only one way that's
gonna happen,” he sings in melody with the song without skipping a beat.

I shudder and take a breath. “Here's
the deal,” I say. “The first one of us to get dinner going over an open fire
gets the axe.”

He laughs and stumbles backward,
clutching his chest.

“Ha! You think you could possibly
beat me? I'm from Montana, land of the he-men.”

“Hells yes I can beat you. I don't
give a crap where you're from. Montucky doesn't mean junk to me. I remember
what you said, bug-eater, and you can't hack it."

He takes step closer to me, a smug
look on his face, rubbing his hands together in this menacing way. Like the
rest of him, his hands are ginormous. Doubt flutters in the pit of my stomach.
He catches me staring. I take a step back.

“Yes, I am large and in charge,”
he says. “And I can shoot a shotgun like nobody's business. Best shot in Jackson
County two years in a row.” He puffs out his chest.

“Good for you,” I say, pretending
to be unimpressed. “See any guns?”

“Well, no, but that doesn't mean
—
”

“Can it, Xander. We're wasting
time.”

“Okay. I'll do this. But neither
of us can use the axe.”

“Whatever,” I say, and mean it. I
have a head start: a
chicken
head—along with its fleshy
body—to be specific, waiting in my bag to be cooked.

I wander into the woods to find
kindling and grass. It's all so lush, nothing's really dry enough. I grab some
lichen that's hanging off a lower branch and pull a few twigs off the ground. I
find one dry branch that could have fallen off in a storm—it's fairly lifeless
and could fuel a decent fire. Across the way, I hear Xander stub his toe and
start cursing.

“You okay?” I say.

“Yeah!” he answers, a little too
quickly.

“Cool!” I say, smiling.
He's so
not okay.

I haul my kindling and firewood
back into the clearing. There are a few big rocks around. They're heavy, but I
manage to pull them into a circle for a fire ring. I beat my blade against the
flint, but nothing happens. I start to panic, feeling the pressure. I try
again, hitting it harder and more slanted, but nothing happens.

How did Deb make this look so
easy?

Xander eyes what I’m doing and
snickers. Asshole.

I keep hitting the rock, but I
feel like all I’m doing is dulling my knife blade. Shit.

Maybe if I hold the flint against
something, and keep it steady?

I try jamming it firmly against
another rock, so it’s stationary. Finally, the blade starts producing little
sparks that flit from the rock. I bend down and aim them toward the lichen,
blowing softly. I do this for what seems like hours, but in reality is probably
all of five minutes. None of them do anything—they just spark and disappear,
like they were never there at all. Crap. Maybe my lichen’s not dry enough?

Xander keeps looking over smugly,
but it’s not like he’s doing any better.

I pull up some dry, dead grasses
that are set under a boulder. When I send the flint’s little flashes into the
brown grass, eventually, it starts smoking. Finally. Little puffs of gray air
rise into the vanishing daylight and disappear in the ether.

I bend down, add a twig or two. I
reach into my pocket and throw the Senior Slog itinerary sheet in, as well,
which hurts a little. It takes a while, but when it does catch fire, I let out
a whoop so loud a flock of chickadees fly out from their perch in an oak behind
me. Xander turns around and stares. I just smile at him. He sits cross-legged
in the dirt about ten feet away from me, and although the setting sun is
lighting his strawberry-blond hair from behind like a little fire, he's not any
closer to producing a spark than he was before he started. He's attempting to
make fire by rubbing two sticks together. My face curls up into a grin. It’s
actually kind of cute: he’s working so hard, but getting nowhere.

“How's it going with that?” I
shout as my fire starts to crackle.

“Never better,” he grunts,
gritting his teeth.

“Oh yeah?”

“You never studied cavemen, did
you? This'll be bigger than yours in five minutes, guaranteed.”

His twig snaps in two just as the
words come out of his mouth. I stifle a laugh.

“Shit,” he says under his breath.
He grabs another stick, continuing to twist. “Won’t be long now!” he jeers.

“You know, I did study cavemen,” I
say. “When I’m done eating dinner and you’re still praying that’ll catch, I’m
going to whittle you a bracelet that says, ‘What Would A Troglodyte Do?’”

“You are so sweet,” he seethes.

“You can thank me later.” I pull
the chicken out of my bag.

Xander stares at me and frowns.
“Where the hell did you get that?”

“A friend gave it to me.”

Xander looks like he’s going to
whine about something like “cheating”, but doesn’t. I think he’s probably too
hungry to put up any kind of fight.

Killing this chicken was
nauseating, but Deb called plucking it “the hard part”. I have to get all these
damn feathers out from its skin. I start yanking them by the handful, huffing
and puffing. The popping release when they detach from the skin grosses me out,
and the red, raw membrane bleeds where the feathers connected. It’s so
ridiculously hard I worry I can’t possibly get them all. They float all around
me. I feel like I’m in the center of a particularly hard-core pillow-fight.
Xander is still across the way, struggling to get a spark. When the chicken’s
finally bald, I hold my breath and grip the knife in my fist, and with two deep
stabs, I manage to slice open the body cavity. Some of the guts plop out onto
the ground in red and blue slimes. I grimace and shove my hand into the hole,
dislodge the rest of the organs, and they slip out and fall at my feet. I drop
the carcass and cringe at the carnage on the ground. I hear Xander dry heaving,
which makes me feel a little better, despite the bleeding, slippery flesh. The
bloody head looks up at me from a few feet away. I can’t believe that not long
ago I was ordering takeout with Bernard, making cookies for dessert with
delicious chocolate and buttery dough from a tube, and now I kill my own food.
My mom would crack up to see me do this, but my heart aches just thinking of
her. I gather my senses and the bird, throw it onto a branch I’ve cut and
placed over the fire, and race to the stream nearby to wash the blood off my
hands, my face, my heart. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I shudder and splash
water on my face to feel a little less like I’m drenched in that thing’s
insides.

When finally I get back to the
fire, the scent rising from the smoke is so warm, so much like home, that I
start to tear up. It’s every bit as delicious-smelling as the rotisserie birds Mom
used to grab on her way home from work. I want to reach my hand into the flames
and yank off a buttery wing, but it’s not done yet. I turn the stick to flip
her and the top is still so raw it’s practically blue. Her underbelly, now
facing up, is crispy and glistening with fat. Xander comes up behind me and
combs both hands through his hair.

“Holy shit, woman,” he says in
disbelief.

I don’t say anything. I just
smile. I won. The axe and the delicious chicken are mine.

“That’s amazing,” he marvels.

“What?” I say.

“
That
is amazing.”

“What? The crackles, I can’t
hear,” I lie, motioning to the fire.

“Nice job!” he shouts.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Yes. That smells
so good
.”
His voice is surprisingly kind and warm.

“I thought you said I couldn’t do
it?”

“I was wrong,” he mutters, looking
to the ground.

“What?” I say, pointing to my ear.

“Oh, shut up,” he smiles.

Wipe that grin off your face
,
Jackie.

“Oh my God, you earned it,
Jackie,” he says, his eyes dazed and watery. “You can have the axe.”

“I know,” I say, looking up to
face him. His eyes are big and sad. He’s got the sad puppy dog thing down, and
I’m pretty sure he’s not being facetious.

He lies down in the grass and
crosses his arms over his face, obviously giving up. The tiny brook is over to
our right, and the sound of the bubbling water is making me more parched than
the high desert in August and making me want to pee more than I ever have in my
life.

I look down again at Xander, who appears
to be asleep. Despite the sunburn, his face is beautiful and perfectly
symmetric. I’m glad he doesn’t catch me staring.

Dusk is settled on us now, and
little flies circle over and around the fire, their gossamer wings catching the
last of the sunlight. I wander over toward the stream and go behind a tree,
keeping one eye on Xander the whole time. He perks up as I’m almost done.
Great.

“Jackie?” he says, sitting up on
his elbows. I pull my pants up as quickly as I can, totally pink-faced.

“Uh, yeah?” I croak.

“The chicken’s burning!” he yelps.

“Well, take it off then! But don’t
you dare eat it,” I add sternly. I guess I’m not done messing with him yet.

“Fine. What the hell are you
doing?” he says.

“Uh… I’m getting water,” I holler.

“Oh. Jackie?”

“What,” I say, as I’m dipping my
hands into the water for a rinse. God, what I would give for some soap right
now.

“Can I eat some when you’re
ready?”

I don’t say anything for a second.
Let him sweat it out. I still remember the nasty chipmunk he stashed in my bag
at Astor. It’s his time to pay.

I look over at him and stare into
his eyes. They look devoid of emotion, completely worn-out. The need for
retaliation suddenly seems unimportant. We are the only two souls standing
here, after all. I offer him an olive branch. “Will you stop singing
appallingly bad songs?”

“Yes,” he says, a little too
quickly.

“Forever?”

“Long as I’m with you, yes.”

It’s quiet for a second. I’m
scooping up brook water into the copper pot Deb gave me to set on the fire to
boil. We need drinking water we can trust. As easy as Deb said it is to die
from a bout of extreme diarrhea, I’m pretty sure it’s easier to die from the
embarrassment of having it around a guy.

“Okay. You can eat. But not until
I get back.”

“
Done
,” he says, shaking
his fists in the air. The boys in Portland were always saying that when
something crazy happened. Second base with the prom queen while her linebacker
boyfriend was home sick? “
Done
.” Won a grand from the Oregon State
Lotto? “
Done
.” It’s pretty much the most over-used expression ever,
except for maybe “cool,” which has been around since my grandmother was my age.

I put some river water in my
copper pan and walk back toward the fire. Xander’s just sitting there, staring
at the chicken. He looks weak, and there’s a pale, bluish tint to his skin.

I put the pot of water into the
fire to get it boiling. When I do, the flames crackle and sizzle, and little
sparks shoot up and pop in the darkening air.

“
God
,” Xander snaps. “Can
we eat already? You’re driving me insane.”

I flinch. “What?
I’m
driving
you
insane?”

“Yes!” he shouts.

I instantly regret my generosity.
I close my eyes and take a breath so I don’t I punch him in the face, take the
chicken, and run.
It’s the hunger
.
Nobody’s this much of a douche in real life.

“You know, you wouldn’t be eating
anything but an occasional
cockroach
if I didn’t come along and
save your ass,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even, “and I don’t owe you
shit.
Eat a rotting fucking chipmunk. You’re good at finding those, right?”

Xander opens his mouth and tilts
his head like he’s gonna spew some kind of apology, but I don’t want to hear it.
I interrupt him.

“Fine. I’m going to give you some
of this bird, but if you’re not nice to me after I do, I swear on your
mom
,
I will leave you in the dust.”

“What?” he says, his voice hard
and surprisingly cold. He sounds like he’s genuinely pissed.

“You. Heard. Me,” I say, my voice
clipped. Although part of me is scared he’ll run off and leave me here
stranded. He’s a god-awful person, but I really don’t want to be alone. I would
never admit it to him, but I’m beyond relieved he’s here. And not because he’d
save me from a bear or mountain lion—they’d probably go after his meaty
bod before mine.