Phoenix Island, page 21
Even though she felt like running back into the trees, she forced herself to keep going downhill. “Did you guys sign the book yet? If not, go ahead. You obviously got here first.” She made her face smile again.
Decker moved quickly. She saw his face change, saw his body shift, and had just enough time to understand what was happening before she heard the thump and Medicaid’s yelp. Medicaid fell to the ground and curled up, clutching his stomach.
“Hey!” She pointed at Decker. “You can’t do that.”
Now he looked at her, and there was his smile again. She wondered if he ever smiled over anything other than pain. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the sheriff. I can do anything I want.”
He swung his shiny black baton overhead and brought it down hard on Medicaid’s butt. There was a loud crack, and Medicaid screamed.
“No!” Octavia said. “Leave him alone!”
Stroud, the tall, skinny bully, laughed. Bruises encircled his eyes, too. More of Carl.
Oh Carl, she thought, I wish you were here now. But he wasn’t. She had to handle this on her own. She wished she had her shank.
Medicaid tried to crawl away, but Decker stomped on his lower back and pinned him to the forest floor with his combat boot.
“Let’s take his pants,” one of the bullies said.
She pointed at Decker, trying not to show her fear. “If you don’t knock it off, you’ll be in big trouble. I’ll tell on you.” And then she thought, I’ll tell on you? What is this, third grade?
Decker laughed and turned away from her. “Go ahead, Funk, take his pants.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “That’s just sick.”
“You got no idea how sick I am.” Decker stared into her eyes. “Want to find out?”
“No.” Okay—crap—that was it. No more pretending to be brave. This guy was crazy. And out here in the woods—oh God—he could do anything.
“She’s Hollywood’s girlfriend,” Stroud said. His hand reached for her.
She slapped it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m thinking about making her my girlfriend,” Decker said. “But she’s flatter than roadkill.”
Stroud reached for her again, grinning. “Yeah, but she’s still Hollywood’s girlfriend.”
She swatted his hand away again and took a step back. That single step backward filled her with the urge to run.
Decker held up his baton. “She keeps looking at my club.” He waggled the thing in her direction. “You like it, baby? You want to touch it?”
Stroud said something and laughed.
She pretended not to hear.
Medicaid jumped up and ran for the trees. Funk and the other one chased after him.
Decker didn’t seem to care. He stepped toward her instead. “How come you got white hair?”
“Maybe she’s an old lady.”
Decker grabbed her arm. “She doesn’t feel like an old lady.” His grip was very strong, and she could feel his rough calluses.
“Ouch,” she said, and instantly regretted it. Guys like Decker, you couldn’t let them know they hurt you. It just wound them up. She couldn’t break his grip. She felt the heat of him, and his smell—sharp and sour—filled her nose, making her want to turn away, to scream out.
He laughed. “Where are you going? The long arms of the law have got you now.”
She felt Stroud’s hands on her hips. Without thinking, she kicked backward. Her boot heel drove into something soft, and Stroud let go with a loud oof!
She swung her free hand at Decker’s face, but he blocked it easily and yanked her toward him.
She screamed.
He twisted as he pulled, wrapping an arm around her and lifting her off the ground. For a second she was in the air, then she slammed into the ground so hard that light flashed in her head and all the air whooshed from her lungs.
Then he was on her. His body was hard and strong, and he pushed her into the forest floor and turned her onto her back and pressed her shoulders into the ground, hurting her. His blue eyes, coldly sane, stared from a face otherwise consumed by rage as he spoke. “You like to hit?” Then he slapped her hard in the face.
The world exploded with white-hot pain.
Suddenly, it was like her stepfather was alive again, like he was on her again, holding her down, hurting her, and she only wanted to kill or die. She cursed.
“Sounds good to me, honey. We got all day out here. All night, too, if I want. Because the sheriff can do anything he wants.” He stared at her with something like curiosity and pinched her arm, hard.
She cried out and tried to bite his hand. He moved his hand a little, and her teeth clicked down on air.
Stroud appeared behind him, looking murderous.
Decker laughed. “Oh, you want to bite, hmmm? That’s a bad little doggie. I have to teach you some manners. Like my daddy used to say, ‘A dog, a woman, and a walnut tree—the more you beat ’em, the better they be.’ ” He raised his hand in the air, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it.
Then there was a thudding noise, and his weight tilted, lifting a little.
She pushed hard. He rolled off, and she scooted backward, expecting Stroud to jump on her, but he was looking up at the trees.
Atop the rise, Ross bent over, picking up another rock.
Decker cursed loudly, holding his face. Blood trickled from between his fingers.
She jumped up and ran. Running where, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Just running. Away from them. Away from Decker and Stroud and the voice of her stepfather. Off in the distance, she thought she heard Medicaid scream. Behind her, Decker yelled, “Get her! Ross is mine!”
Fear consumed her like fire. She ran, burning with terror, into the trees, making the most out of the lead she had on Stroud. She was a good runner, and as she wove through the trees, she fought her fear until her mind started working again. Her eyes scanned the forest. There: a steep uphill grade.
She sprinted for the slope. She heard him behind her, snapping branches and huffing for breath, but she didn’t look back. No. She was going to run and run and run.
She scrambled higher, grabbing vines and saplings, yanking herself uphill like a monkey climbing a tree. The sounds of Stroud fell back, but she didn’t slow. She rocketed up the slope, cleared the top edge, and entered a thicker forest, everything lost to shadow. Diving behind a huge plant with wide fronds, she crouched and drew air, giving her lungs a break and watching the ridge for Stroud.
Seconds later, as her breathing came back into her control, she heard him gasping for breath. She smiled grimly. Decker and his buddies always poked along at the back of the runs, too cool to try hard. Now Stroud suffered for it. He stumbled over the rise and fell onto all fours at the crest. He didn’t see her. He lifted his head, sucking air, with his eyes squeezed shut.
His weakness twisted her fear into rage. Had he really thought he could take her so easily? She charged from behind the bush.
He opened his eyes, saw her coming at the last second. “What the—?”
She swung her leg as hard as she could, and her combat boot smashed into his face. His head snapped backward, his arms lifted off the ground, and the top of him arched back and disappeared over the hill. His legs kicked up and then whipped away, too, and he was gone, screaming as he tumbled down the steep slope, bouncing and pitching into the air, smashing down again and bouncing, all the way to the jungle floor below, where he slammed into a tree and lay still.
Good, she thought, shaking with rage. I hope he broke his back.
Off in the distance, someone screamed.
Ross?
She had to go and help him, like he had helped her.
But she was so afraid. She looked down the hill. Stroud still lay on the ground, not moving.
She took a deep breath. She had to help Ross. But she pictured Decker, pictured his face over her, his cool blue eyes, and for a second she couldn’t move.
Oh God, she thought. Please. I need to be strong. I need to help Ross.
That’s when she spotted the club lying at her feet. Stroud’s club. He must’ve dropped it when she kicked him.
Down below, he stirred. There wasn’t much movement, but he was alive.
She picked up the club. It was lighter than she expected, made of wood. Its surface was smooth, but the handle had ridges for a better grip and a little leather loop attached to the butt end. She slipped her hand through the loop and started downhill.
She descended sideways, careful not to fall, and when she reached the bottom, Stroud cried out and tried to scramble away. She chased him down, knowing she had to beat him badly enough that he wouldn’t follow her. He would’ve shown her no mercy. She would show him none.
She nailed his face with the nightstick. His body went loose, slumped forward, and lay still. She considered hitting him again and again, just finishing him. Forever. But there was just enough of her rational mind left to know that that was a bad idea, a horrible idea, that there would be no turning back.
Looking down, she saw one of his hands lying atop an exposed tree root. “You shouldn’t touch people who don’t want to be touched,” she said, and she swung the club hard. She heard the bones in his hand break, and she stepped back, startled by her own ferocity. Her stomach squeezed and churned, and her gorge rose, but she didn’t vomit. Forget it, she told herself, and ran toward Ross.
She paused at the edge of the clearing, which sat empty. A trap? She didn’t have time to worry about that now.
She stepped into the open and waited. Nothing.
Across the clearing she sprinted, fear rising in her as she imagined Decker’s rage.
Be tough, she commanded herself. Be like Carl. Reaching the other side of the clearing, she hammered up the hill but slowed when she passed the point from where Ross had thrown the rock. She wanted to have her full breath if she needed it. Besides, she’d be able to hear better if she walked and breathed quietly.
Scanning side to side and listening hard, she crept ahead. She hoped this was the right direction. Where was Medicaid when you needed him?
This thought saddened her. She pictured Medicaid, happy for the first time in this horrible place, bumbling along with his entourage of blue butterflies, leading them almost magically from checkpoint to checkpoint. Then she remembered his cries in the forest and went cold. What had they done to him?
A branch snapped.
She crouched behind a tree.
A large brown pig with long, curling tusks emerged from the undergrowth. The thing trotted across her view and disappeared into the gloom. She hoped it found Decker.
She stood, then dropped again into a crouch.
A loud shuffling . . .
And there he was: Decker.
Stalking through the jungle, blood on his shirt, a club in his hand, his eyes scanning side to side, he looked like some primitive subhuman out of the primordial depths of prehistory, a bloodthirsty savage that hunted its meat and ate it raw and steaming in the forest. Octavia crouched low and clutched her weapon, taking shallow breaths and praying he wouldn’t see her.
Then, like the pig, Decker disappeared into the gloom.
Moving as quietly as she could, she hurried out his back trail. Fear filled her afresh. What if she found Ross sprawled in a pool of blood? She knew only basic first aid and had no supplies.
But these were bad thoughts, panic thoughts, dangerous to her now, and she pushed them from her mind and hurried on.
She was just starting to wonder if she’d gone in the wrong direction when a voice called softly from the undergrowth, “Octavia.”
“Ross?”
A thick bush shook, and Ross emerged. She saw no new damage, but his eyes were wide. “Where’s Decker?”
“He went that way.” She nodded and then started moving in the other direction. She grabbed his hand and pulled him with her.
“Where did you get the club?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. We have to find Medicaid.”
Ross shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t want to sound like a coward, but I don’t think there’s much we can do for him. Not here. We have to tell Stark what happened.”
She didn’t say anything. Her face still ached where Decker had slapped her, and with her adrenaline receding, she felt pain creep into her shoulders and the back of her head, where the psycho had slammed her into the ground. The day’s events didn’t seem real, but here she was, hurting and holding a club in her hand.
It was real. It was all real.
“We can’t leave Medicaid,” she said. Ross started to protest, but she stopped him. “Hear me out. Earlier, when you started to talk about Carl and how they might’ve done something to him, I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to believe it. But now, after all this? Everything’s different. I believe you. The journal, all of it.”
“A step in the right direction,” Ross said, “but I still don’t see what that has to do with us putting our necks on the line for Medicaid.”
“He needs us. Decker’s ‘the sheriff’ now, right? He can do anything he wants.”
Ross made a face like he’d bitten into a rotten lemon.
And in that wavering moment, she saw it, saw all at once, what her plan would be.
Ross sighed. “Fine. We’ll take a quick look, but then we find Stark.”
She held up one finger. “Not quite. I have to do one more thing first.”
Ross waited, looking sick.
“I have to find Carl.”
“What . . . at the Chop Shop?”
She nodded. “He might need us, Ross. And if he does, I’d rather die right here and have the pigs eat me than let him down. I mean it.”
“I know you do.” He was quiet for a time after that. His mouth moved like it was working a seed back and forth. “All right. Let’s go. But I’m not spending all day looking for Medicaid. We’ll try to find him, then we’ll go looking for Carl.” He rolled his eyes. “We are so screwed.”
“Basically,” she replied. “Do you have the compass?”
He shook his head. “The map is gone, too.”
“Crap.”
They moved along through the woods, checking the sun when they could, continuing in what they hoped was the right direction. After a while, she said, “If you hadn’t thrown that rock—thanks so much, Ross. I mean, you saved me—”
He put on a cheesy smile. “That’s me, always ready to save a damsel in distress.”
She laughed. “For the first time ever, I actually appreciate you joking.”
“It grows on you.”
Seconds later, Ross hissed, and they both crouched. She heard movement but saw nothing. Looking at her with wide eyes, he pointed downhill and raised four fingers.
She saw Decker in the distance, passing through the trees. Then came Funk and the one whose name she couldn’t remember, and finally Stroud, who limped along, holding his broken hand. The four of them headed off toward where she thought the road was. Good. Now she and Ross could hurry in the opposite direction and hopefully find Medicaid. She hoped he was okay.
She motioned to Ross, and they started moving again. Avoiding the clearing altogether, they entered the part of the woods into which Medicaid had run.
They followed a pig trail into a dim, muggy forest where so many mosquitoes brushed against them, it was like walking through a dark room filled with cobwebs. She risked a few quiet calls out to the kid. Nothing.
They moved slowly, looking behind bushes and under trees, anyplace Medicaid might hide. He was probably so freaked out that he wouldn’t trust even them.
“Look,” Ross said.
His tone filled her with dread.
Medicaid’s pants lay on the ground. One boot lay nearby. Both were bloody.
Ross cursed. “Beating him up is one thing, but why humiliate him? All jokes aside, the jungle’s no place to be going around without your pants.”
They called a few more times. Nothing.
A little further on, she spotted a drop of bright red blood lying atop the muddy pig trail, round as a screaming mouth. Seconds later, they found another drop. In this way they tracked him, like hunters following a wounded deer.
That’s how he must feel, she thought, terrified, like some wounded animal.
Blood led them to another clearing, at the center of which pulsed something large and blue . . . something blue that made no sense. At first she thought it was alive, some type of shimmering alien—something—a blue lump the size of a bathtub, wavering like a pile of blue eyes, all of them blinking. Then, drawing closer, she saw what it really was: a mound of bright blue butterflies, all of them fluttering and jostling.
“Weird,” Ross said. “There must be thousands.”
“Come on,” she told him. “We have to find him.”
Suddenly butterflies lifted into the air like an eruption of blue lava.
“Oh—oh no . . .” she said.
A few of the insects remained, their wings opening and closing rhythmically, like so many beating hearts. One sat atop his white kneecap. Another wobbled on his red hair. Still another—and this was the one she noticed just before she started screaming—perched on his open, unblinking eye.
Medicaid was dead.
SHAKING WITH EXHAUSTION AND WILD with fear, Octavia fought through the dense vegetation. Mud swallowed her feet. Roots tripped her. Vines clutched her. Thorns tore her flesh. Broad leaves covered her face, making her blind, trying to smother her, as if the forest itself wanted her dead.
She growled, struggling forward.
The hooting drew closer.
Just behind her, Ross sobbed. He couldn’t keep up. Whenever they hit open patches, she longed to sprint away, but she couldn’t abandon him.
Not now. Not when she knew the truth.
Decker’s gang had killed Medicaid.
And now they want to kill us.
She and Ross had stayed staring too long at the body in disbelief, and the killers had returned to find them.
She crawled under a fallen tree, remembering things in flashes: Medicaid, the bright blue butterfly sitting atop his open eye, its wings winking at her, as if the whole thing, his death, Phoenix Island, the world . . . everything . . . was one big cosmic joke.
