Fire & Flood Page 5

  “It’s okay. We’re okay,” I say. I’m not sure who I’m talking to, but I guess it’s my egg. I gently lift it out of the bag and lay it in my lap. “Everything’s going to be okay.” I stroke the outside of the shell and glance around. The rumbling sound outside is steady. It’d almost be soothing if I weren’t in a friggin’ box.

  I consider screaming until someone lets me out, but I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind if I do. I’m also concerned with how long I’ve been in this thing and how much air is left. I don’t see any air holes, and I know screaming will cause me to use what little air there is quicker. Thanks, horror movies.

  I try to steady my breathing and calm my thoughts. It’s not working. I rub my hands over my egg and think that this would be a really good time for this thing to hatch and help a sister out.

  I lean over as best I can and whisper, “Please come out.”

  Nothing happens.

  Rubbing the fabric over my knees, I suddenly realize my jeans don’t feel right. I grab at my legs and stomach. These aren’t my clothes. Oh my God. Someone changed my clothes while I was asleep.

  My first thought is: What creepazoid takes someone’s clothes off while they’re sleeping? The second is what undies I’m wearing — whether it’s an old skeezy pair or my good Victoria’s Secret stuff. I’m not proud of this last thought.

  My box suddenly jerks and a loud hissing sound pierces the air. I’ve heard the sound somewhere; I just can’t quite place it. For several minutes, nothing happens. I continue stroking the egg, reassuring whatever’s inside that everything’s going to be okay. Even though I’m not at all sure it is.

  When my box jerks again, I scream for the second time. My hands fly out and I push against the walls beside me. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. Then the box, and me, and my egg start swinging. It’s not much, but the sensation is undeniable.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” I repeat it like a mantra as the box continues to sway side to side.

  The box jolts to a stop. I feel like something’s going to happen, so I tuck my egg back into the new bag. Then I look around, waiting. The front of my box slides open and light blinds me. I blink several times, my arms shading my face. When I lower them, I see dozens of people wearing what look like brown scrubs and tan boots, all standing in a forest-like area. Looking down, I realize I’m wearing the same thing. With the light, I’m able to look around the box. My backpack is gone. I figured it was, but now I know for sure. The food, the water, the cash … the photo of my family. Gone.

  Afraid I’ll be stuck forever inside this box, I grab the corduroy bag and scramble outside. When I turn around, I gasp. Two enormous semitrucks are parked several yards away. A hundred or more boxes are stacked on the semis, and someone operating a crane is lifting each one off the bed and placing it on the ground. The semis’ and crane’s windows are tinted, so I can’t see who’s inside, but I do spot two men opening each box that the crane sets down. They’re wearing green, collared shirts and jeans, and they look like they could live in a suburb outside of Boston. One man is tall and lanky, with thinning hair and enormous ears. The other looks almost pregnant with his protruding belly and twiglike extremities.

  I turn in a circle and watch as people of all ages, races, and genders crawl out of the boxes. There’s an older woman with short blond hair, who folds her arms across her chest and scowls, and a girl with a determined expression, who can’t be older than twelve. I spot a man who looks like he’s never seen the inside of a gym and young woman who could pass for a physical trainer. Everywhere I look, people. These are the Contenders — I realize. But they’re treating us like livestock.

  “Crazy, huh?”

  I spin around and see a man twice my age with dark skin and enormous eyebrows.

  “What’s going on?” I ask him. I don’t wonder why he’s speaking to me; I just want my questions answered.

  “You don’t know?” he asks.

  “No. You do?”

  He makes a face like he’s sympathetic. “I don’t blame your parents for trying to hide this. I would have done the same for mine.”

  I’m guessing he means his own children, but all I can think about is what he’s implying. That my parents knew about this and didn’t tell me. I decide that’s impossible. They wouldn’t do that to me; they certainly wouldn’t do that to Cody. Maybe they knew something might happen. Why else would my dad try to burn the device? But they couldn’t have known … everything.

  I notice the man’s brown shirt has the gold serpent embroidered onto the pocket. When I glance down, I realize mine has the same.

  “Where are we?” I ask him.

  He waves an arm behind him. “The starting line.”

  I really study the area for the first time. Trees tower overhead, growing so close together that their leaves create a thick canopy. When the two men let me out of my box (did I really just say that?), there seemed to be so much light. But now it doesn’t seem that way at all. Though there is enough light to see, everything is cast in shadows. A heavy fog lounges above the trees, not helping matters. Even the air feels different, like oxygen is more abundant here, but also somehow thicker.

  The thing that shocks me most is the plants. They are everywhere, in every shape and color imaginable. I have trouble finding a spot that isn’t covered by long, looping vines or fat palm leaves. The forest is entirely carpeted in green — a canvas of life. I breathe in the rich scent of earth and vegetation. The woman’s voice inside the white device said we’d compete across four ecosystems. Remembering this, I suddenly realize this is no mere forest — it’s a jungle.

  “We’re in a jungle,” I say to the man with the eyebrows. But he’s already gone.

  I turn in a circle and count more than a hundred people in brown scrubs. Some have small tan bags, like mine. Others have enormous bags, and some have none at all. The ones with no bags carry eggs in their arms. I glance down at my own bag. Then I hook the single strap over my head and hang it over one shoulder. Sticking a hand into it, I rub the egg and try very hard not to feel claustrophobic among these trees. Many of the people around me seem okay with what’s happening. Not me. Every muscle in my body aches for home. Since the race hasn’t even started, I feel this doesn’t bode well for my competitive edge.

  I hear a hissing sound that I recognize from inside the box. Spinning around, I realize it’s a semi’s brakes clicking off. The two men are climbing inside the crane. All the boxes have been removed from the beds of the two semis, and now the vehicles and monster crane are rolling away from us — going somewhere that isn’t here. I have to fight the impulse to race after them, begging for a ticket home. I’m not cut out for this, I realize. I should be in my lavender-painted room, giving myself a milk-and-avocado facial, wrestling my hair into a messy but fashionable updo. My hair, which is completely gone now.

  The two semis pull away and follow the crane at a snail’s pace. They’re leaving us here. What if this is all a sick experiment in which someone somewhere gets off on ripping people away from their homes and dropping them in precarious situations with no hope of survival? How do I know the Cure is real? And is everyone else here racing for the same thing? We’re all totally susceptible, the perfect targets to scam. Just dangle a cure no one knows anything about and say, “Run, monkey, run!”

  The woman from the device didn’t begin to answer the questions I have, and I’m guessing no other Contender knows much about this race, either. Yet here we all are.

  I have to leave this place. Now.

  I push my way past a blur of faces and race toward the retreating trucks.

  “Wait,” I yell. “Wait!” The Contenders turn and watch me with visible disgust, but I don’t care. I can’t be left out here with nothing to go on besides “the winning prize will be the Cure.”

  I’m only a few yards away from the semi in the back when a commotion ripples across the Contenders. They’re all moving, shifting their weight, and searching their bags. W
hen I spot a handful of people near me place white devices in their ears, I realize what’s happening.

  I stop running and gasp. It isn’t hard; it’s like the air wants nothing more than to fill my lungs. This is the jungle, and apparently its goal is to make everything grow. I fumble in my bag, pushing my egg to the side, until I feel the smooth plastic. Pulling my device out, I see the light is blinking. It taunts me to make a decision: keep chasing down my only way out of this hellhole, or stop and listen.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Around me, more than one hundred people raise their arms and press the buttons. I wonder what the message is. Turning back to the trucks, I realize they’re moving too quickly. I could catch up, but I’d have to run and I’d have to run now.

  As the trucks pull farther and farther away, noises from the jungle amplify. I turn and face the lush, green landscape. In the midday heat, I make out birds calling to one another, and a long, sharp, whooping sound. I can hear the foliage rubbing together, even though there’s not a trace of wind. A short, low roo-mp, roo-mp sound repeats over and over, and somehow, while listening to all the different melodies, a small smile parts my face. This place … it’s miraculous.

  Cody would love it.

  In a daze, I place the white device into my ear.

  I push the red blinking button. When the woman speaks, she sounds almost excited. It’s eerie to hear her normally robotic voice so animated.

  “We’ll wait a few more seconds while everyone tunes in,” she says.

  I wonder how long she’s been saying this, and how she could possibly know whether everyone is tuned in. There must be some sort of tracking capability built into the device. Glancing over my shoulder, I note that I can see still the trucks. I could still make it out.

  “All right, I think that’s quite long enough.”

  Was that a few seconds? I need her to wait. I need more time to decide. My pulse quickens and sweat beads across my arms.

  “If you are hearing this message, then you have successfully completed the Pandora Selection Process. It also means you are now at the official starting line.”

  Around me, Contenders whoop with excitement. Seriously? They’re about to plunge into a wild jungle, and that brings them happiness? Once again, I realize how out of my league I am. I don’t even have a change of clothes, for crying out loud.

  “As you may have realized, you are on the outskirts of a rain forest. This will be the jungle part of the course. You will have two weeks to arrive at the jungle’s base camp. You will find this base camp by following the path of blue flags.”

  Contestants glance around, immediately looking for the first blue flag. As for me, I’m watching the taillights of the semi and having a massive coronary.

  “If you are the first to encounter a blue flag, you may remove it, but you may not remove the stake it is attached to. Doing so will result in immediate disqualification.”

  I wonder why anyone would want to remove the flag to begin with. No one else seems concerned by this.

  “While the Cure will be awarded to a single winner at the end of the last ecosystem, we will bestow a smaller prize for each leg of the race. The prize for the jungle portion will be monetary.” The woman pauses dramatically. “I’d like to officially welcome you to the Brimstone Bleed. May the bravest Contender win.”

  That’s it? That’s all she’s going to say? Because it seriously sounds like she’s wrapping up. So why aren’t I running after the trucks? Why am I not chasing after my only way out of this jungle like my life depends on it? I know the answer — though I wish I didn’t. Cody would do this for me. I am his only hope. I have to believe his cure exists. My only other option is to return home and watch my brother die. If I could even get back home.

  I glance around frantically, looking for someone to tell me what to do. The Contenders have formed a long line, the kind you see at the start of a marathon. A few yards down from where I stand — I see him. My throat tightens when I realize his cold blue eyes are locked on me. It’s the guy from the Pandora Selection Process. The serial killer–looking dude who I thought was going to kidney punch me. He glares in my direction like he might take this opportunity to finish what he never started. I raise my hand in a small wave, hoping it says something like: See? Look how friendly I am!

  He lifts his own enormous hand. For a moment, I brighten. I think maybe that — even though it looks like he hates every fiber of my being — he’s going to wave back. But he doesn’t. He holds up two fingers — his pointer and his middle — places them under his eyes, and then points in front of us.

  Oh no he didn’t. I think he basically just told me to pay attention. I’m still processing this when the woman’s voice rings in my ear.

  “Go!”

  It sounds like a stampede.

  The Contenders run fast and hard, and the sound makes me feel drunk with energy. If I don’t start running, I’ll be trampled. Someone shoves me from behind and I almost fall. I don’t need another push.

  I run.

  I forget every fear I’ve held on to, and I run.

  Breath rushes in and out of my lungs and my legs burn beneath me. I have no idea where I’m headed, and I’m sure no one else does, either. Somewhere out here is a blue flag, and I need to find it. The woman said the flags would lead to base camp and that we have two weeks to get there. Base camp sounds good, like it might have hot food and soft beds. So I run toward what I imagine could be the direction — straight ahead.

  It seems many others have the same idea. Some race beside me, but most race before me. I don’t worry about catching up. Not yet. I just keep a hand on my satchel, ensuring the egg isn’t hurt by slapping against my thigh. It helps if I imagine I’m running for us both. If I imagine that right now I am my Pandora’s protector and maybe if I do well, someday soon the tables will turn.

  After several minutes, Contenders start to slow. I begin to feel my first shock of confidence as I pass one person after another. No one would ever accuse me of being an athlete. I was always the girl who’d rather cheer from the sidelines than participate in something that’d make her sweat. I’m not a softball star or a volleyball champion or someone who knows her way around a basketball court.

  But I can run like the wind.

  I use every bit of speed I have to gain the only edge I may ever get. It isn’t long before there are only a few people left in front of me. I push myself harder, flattening my hands and slicing the air.

  I pass a few more people, leaping over dead logs and the widest array of plants I’ve ever seen. Large leaves brush against my ankles and smaller ones kiss my cheeks. I wonder what creatures call this jungle home and how many of them rest beneath the same plants I’m stepping on. There are so many things to be afraid of in this jungle, but as I run, my blood pumping hard in my veins — I feel no fear.

  I run for what feels like two hours before slowing, even though I know it can only have been minutes. Sweat pours down my face and drips onto my brown scrubs, leaving dark starbursts in their wake. Gross. I hope there’s laundry at whatever base camp we’re supposed to find. I throw my hands behind my head and try to walk off the stitch in my side. I’m not sure whether this actually helps, but I’ve seen runners do it, so what the hey.

  When I glance around, I see only two Contenders. They’re fairly far away from where I’ve paused. For a moment, I’m thrilled. I left most of them behind, and for the first time, I feel like I may actually have a chance. I may be small, but I’m fast. And this is a race, after all. But when they both disappear into the foliage, a bolt of panic shoots up my legs.

  I’m alone.

  I think about chasing after the last person I saw. There’s no reason we can’t travel together for two weeks, then run for the finish line at the last minute, right? I run my hands over my freshly shorn hair and drop down onto my knees. Even if one of the other Contenders agrees to search for base camp with me, could I even find a fellow Contend
er at this point? Best bet is I’ll race after them and end up getting myself lost. I decide to stay put but reason that if I see another Contender soon, I’ll run my tag team idea across them. Deal? Deal.

  Oh Jesus. I’m already talking to myself. Or thinking to myself as if there are two of me. Is that the same thing? I’m not sure. But I do know I’ve been alone for two minutes and I’m already losing my shit.

  I slide from my knees onto my butt and nestle the egg into my lap. I’ve got to think. If I were a base camp, where would I be? I can only imagine that we’re on one side of this jungle, and it’s on the other. So we’d have to cross through the jungle in order to get there. That’s exactly what’d they want. To drag the Contenders through the worst of the jungle — the middle.

  I don’t know who “they” are, but I feel like I’m onto something. If the camp is on the other side of the jungle, then I can just as easily get there by going around the jungle as I can by going through it. The trek may be longer, but I won’t encounter as many obstacles staying on the perimeter. At least, I think. No, that sounds right. It does.

  Hot damn! I have a plan!

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I stand up. Holy mother of God, it’s hot up in here. It’s not a sweltering heat. In fact, it’s probably less than ninety degrees. But it feels like a wet heat, the kind that makes you perspire just by breathing. None of that matters, though, because I have an idea on how to get to base camp that doesn’t involve getting killed. Every few minutes, I have to laugh at what I’m planning. Because I used to sit on our blue-and-yellow, floral couch eating cheese and crackers and laughing at those I Survived shows in which people would take vacations to the jungle and end up fighting off wild animals.

  “Idiots,” I’d say, crunching another cracker. “Who tafes vaca to the friggin’ hungle?”

  And now here I am. Some people say life has no sense of humor. Please.

  Something snaps and I freeze. A few yards ahead, I swear I see a man. It looks like he’s wearing face paint and trying hard to remain hidden. A second bolt of fear blasts up my spine. I glance around to see if there are others, and when I look back, he’s gone. Or he was never there to begin with. Which is probably more likely. A half hour into this race and I’m already hallucinating things.