Wayfinders, p.13
Wayfinders, page 13
“We’ll follow the signs to the lighthouse,” she says. “It’ll be easy.”
He grunts to show he isn’t as confident.
The light turns green, and her father looks both ways a few times before pulling through the intersection. They pass a few more yard signs advertising today’s event.
“What’s a Fall Festival?” Dar asks.
“A party,” Chloe says. “In the streets.”
“What kind of party?”
Chloe takes her best guess. “It’ll probably have games and food trucks. Maybe a bunch of tents with stuff for sale.”
They drive another mile without getting caught at a red light. Chloe notices more advertisements for the festival, and they pass by street posts wrapped in colorful streamers. “Go left,” she says as they near an intersection with a sign pointing the way to the lighthouse. Her father slowly takes the turn, repeatedly glancing in his side-view mirror to ensure the trailer isn’t going to clip a car stopped at the red light. “Nice,” Chloe says as he straightens out the Winnebago. “You’re getting good at this.” It’s true, too. He has yet to hit a curb.
Her father fixes the fit of his eyeglasses. “I hate this, Chloe.”
The closer they get to downtown, the thicker the traffic gets. They soon turn right at another intersection, following the signs to the lighthouse. As they pass a small pharmacy, Chloe notices a black pickup truck parked near the street. The driver, a bearded man with mirrored sunglasses, sits up in his chair and points out the Winnebago to his passenger, a man in a muscle shirt. They gawk at the motor home as it drives past.
“What are you looking at?” her father asks.
Chloe turns her head to keep an eye on the truck, which backs up and speeds onto the road several vehicles behind them.
“What’s wrong?” her father asks.
“Nothing.” She sits up and looks forward again. The man driving the pickup probably pointed at the Winnebago because seeing an old motor home towing a two-horse straight load isn’t an ordinary sight.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” she says, blowing off the question. But she can’t stop glancing in her side-view mirror. The black pickup is five vehicles behind them.
Tick! Tick! Tick!
It’s the turn signal. And as the Winnebago hangs a left at another intersection, the black pickup follows it. She tells herself it’s nothing to worry about. The driver probably pulled onto the same street to get to where he’s going.
“Chloe?” her father says.
“Huh?”
“What are you—”
“There’s a truck,” she says, the words leaping from her mouth. “I think . . I think it could be following us.”
Dar and Baxley look out the windows beside them.
“Are you sure?” her father asks, a nervous tremor in his voice.
“No.” She faces forward again. “But the driver pointed at us.”
Her father glances into his side-view mirror. “The black truck?”
“Yeah, that one.”
Her father drives for a half mile or so and turns right at another intersection, still following the signs for the lighthouse. The four cars behind him continue straight, and the black pickup hangs a right and drives up close behind the Winnebago.
“Why would he be following us?” her father asks.
Chloe has no idea, but she worries about the cargo they’re carrying. Maybe the driver somehow knows Fable is in there. And maybe he’s a regular listener of Bloodsaw’s podcast—someone interested in the one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward.
“What do we do?” her father asks.
“Pull over!” Dar grunts. “I’ll show these—”
“We’re not pulling over!” Chloe says. “I’m not even sure—”
An old SUV swings out of a parking lot, its tires squealing a bit, and pulls up behind the black pickup.
“Is that another one?” her father asks.
Chloe’s heart rate rises. “I don’t know, maybe.”
They drive through another intersection, where a truck and three motorcycles are stopped to the right of the light. As the riders turn their heads to watch the Winnebago pass, Chloe recognizes the passenger in the pickup. It’s a woman with red hair and a black biker jacket. And Chloe doesn’t have to see her neck to know it has a tattoo of a snake coiled around a knife.
“It’s her!” Chloe squawks. She sticks her head out the window to see behind the Winnebago. The truck with the woman drives through the red light, stopping traffic, and speeds after Chloe’s father. The motorcycles follow her, smoke pluming from their pipes and their engines rumbling like war vehicles.
“It’s who?” her father asks, nervously glancing into his mirrors.
Chloe pulls her head back inside. “That woman!”
“What woman?”
“The one in our driveway!”
Her father’s face practically falls onto his lap. “How?”
“They followed us!” Chloe says, thinking of the vehicles that sped past the Winnebago when it was parked at the scenic overpass.
She pivots in her seat to check on Dar and Baxley, who look far more worried than they did five seconds ago. “Who is she?” Chloe demands, remembering how they seemed to recognize the woman back in Chloe’s driveway.
“I have no idea!” Dar says.
“Don’t lie to me!” Chloe says, pointing at him. “You know who she is!”
Dar opens his mouth to say something, but no words form. Baxley avoids Chloe’s gaze.
Chloe turns and checks her mirror again. The black pickup that she first spotted is right behind them, followed by the SUV. The woman’s truck and the trio of motorcycles are about ten cars back. How can her father possibly lose their tail when he drives like every street is in a school zone? Maybe it’s time to—
The Winnebago’s brakes squeal, and Chloe’s head rocks forward as her seat belt catches the rest of her body. About twenty cars are stopped in the street behind a traffic arm with red-and-white stripes. A loud bell is dinging, and red lights are flashing above a sign reading drawbridge signal. Her father stopped behind a lineup of cars waiting to cross a drawbridge.
Baxley crawls up to the front seats and looks out of the windshield. “What’s happening?”
“It’s the drawbridge,” her father says.
“Where’s the castle?” Dar asks.
There’s no castle, of course, and the closest thing to a moat is the large body of water beneath the bridge. It extends in both directions and is easily five hundred yards wide. It’s the Sterling River.
“They’re still behind us!” her father says.
Chloe checks her mirror. The woman’s truck is stopped about ten vehicles back. She turns in her seat and grabs a handful of Dar’s shirt. “who is she?”
“Her name’s Jade!” Dar says, finally relenting. “She’s a witch—a witch from Brynmoor!”
Chloe’s heart plummets in her chest. Her father gasps and swings around in his seat to get a better look at Dar.
“What?” Chloe says, barely believing what she heard.
“She doesn’t have any powers!” Dar says. “But she will if she gets to Fable!”
Chloe’s heartrate speeds up, and her father curses under his breath. She releases Dar and stares into her mirror again. The doors to Jade’s truck swing open, and she and the driver step out.
The lights flash and the bell continues to ring. If there’s a way out of this mess, Chloe doesn’t know it.
“I can make it,” her father says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Chloe turns his way and finds him staring straight ahead. The drawbridge is empty except for a few pedestrians walking to the other side. Once they’re across, the bridge will presumably rise.
“I can make it,” he says again, a little louder this time. He cranks the steering wheel, turning the tires to the left. The oncoming traffic lane is empty.
Chloe’s insides clench. “Dad, what are you doing?”
The bell continues to ring, urging the pedestrians along. She checks her mirror again. Jade and the man she’s with are five vehicles back and gaining fast.
“I can cross it,” he says, his gaze still fixed on the bridge. “Before it rises.”
Chloe looks out the windshield again. The middle of the metal grate drawbridge must be a football-field-length away. “No—that’s crazy!”
A horn blares and the pedestrians pick up their pace. The drawbridge is seconds away from rising.
“Hold on!” Her father hammers the gas, and the front of the Winnebago swings into the empty lane, nearly clipping the car in front of them. He turns the wheel to straighten out the tires, and Chloe sways in her seat as the body of the Winnebago rocks on its suspension. Jade and the man she’s with run behind the trailer, and people in the lineup of cars honk their horns. The Winnebago races toward the traffic arm in front of them.
“Careful!” Chloe says, partly aware of how ridiculous she sounds. How can anyone be careful when racing toward a drawbridge that’s about to rise?
The Winnebago picks up speed as her father continues to press the gas pedal to the floor. The red-and-white striped traffic arm is thirty feet in front of them . . . twenty feet . . . ten. Chloe can’t tell if it’s made of metal or wood.
“hold on!” her father squawks.
Chloe does the opposite and crosses her arms in front of her face. The traffic arm clunks against the front of the Winnebago, and for one horrible and ridiculous moment, Chloe’s sure the arm won’t break. But it swings forward like a pinball flipper, pivoting on the metal pole it connects to. Pieces of the Winnebago’s grill shoot into the air, and Dar makes a sound like a pirate: “arrrrr!” Chloe can’t tell if he’s excited or terrified.
She lowers her arms and glances into her side-view mirror again. Jade and the man, still chasing them, can’t keep up. A few people in the lineup of cars are sticking their heads out their windows, their faces ripe with disbelief.
“no!” her father says.
Chloe sees what’s upsetting her father. The drawbridge is slowly beginning to rise.
“keep going!” Chloe says.
Her father tries to push the gas pedal harder, but it’s already to the floor. Dar makes another pirate sound as the front tires roll off the concrete and onto the metal grate. The rising end of the drawbridge is maybe fifty feet away.
Chloe checks her mirror again. Jade and her companion have given up catching the Winnebago and are now standing near the broken traffic arm. More people are sticking their heads out of the car windows.
Chloe senses the incline beneath the Winnebago. It isn’t much—barely a few degrees, maybe—but it means the halves of the bridge are separating.
“Faster, Bob!” Baxley says.
“I am faster!” her father says, which makes no sense, of course.
The budding gap between the two halves of the drawbridge is twenty feet away, maybe less. It can’t be much than a foot across, but the Winnebago will have to jump it.
Chloe looks down at the river. It’s hard to know how far the drop is—three stories, maybe. Is that enough distance to crush the Winnebago? And if it isn’t, how fast will the Winnebago sink? She notices the lighthouse at the end of the river by a big body of water.
She almost laughs despite her fear. Her heart is a machine gun in her chest, and she’s gripping the door handle so tightly that her fingers are numb.
The rising gap is ten feet away . . . five . . . and then directly beneath the front tires. The Winnebago goes airborne for the briefest moment, and then rocks as the rear tires touch down. Dar falls out of his seat, the kitchenware clatters, and something crashes down in the bedroom. The motor home violently shakes as the bottom of the horse trailer bangs against the edge of the drawbridge.
Her father yanks the wheel to the right and swerves back into the proper lane. They speed across the metal grate and back onto the concrete, where they slam into the traffic arm on this side of the bridge. The striped board snaps free and spins like a baton over the water. The Winnebago races past a new lineup of cars as the drivers and passengers gawk at them.
Her father lets off the gas once both lanes are empty, and glances into his side-view mirror. Chloe does, too. None of the Basilisks followed them over the drawbridge, which has stopped rising, probably because the person operating the bridge saw what happened.
“I . . . I did it!” her father says.
“atta boy, bob!” Dar shouts as he jumps back into the spot between Chloe and her father, a hand on each of their seats.
“i did it!” her father repeats, still trying to believe it. “I jumped that—”
A deafening clunk! sounds, and the rear of the Winnebago swings out to one side. Her father yanks the steering wheel and the noise comes again, louder this time. Something snaps, and Chloe looks into her mirror to see a trailer tire bounce off the bridge. The bottom of the trailer skids across the concrete in a shower of sparks.
The rear of the motor home swings the other way, and Dar presses against her father’s seat. The trailer disappears from Chloe’s view in the mirror, and another loud clunk comes from behind the Winnebago. She turns her head to see out Baxley’s window. The trailer, which is unhitched and missing three of its four tires, tips onto its side and barely keeps from going into a roll. Another shower of bright sparks shoots upward, and the side of the trailer that’s pressed against the concrete begins to collapse. fable! she tries to say, but what comes out of her mouth is “kody!”
Her father curses as he tries to control the Winnebago. But the steering wheel has a mind of its own and keeps spinning through his grip. The motor home sways one way, then another, and then the view of the two lanes leading to the safety of the shore becomes a direct view of the Sterling River.
Chloe barely has time the scream before the Winnebago crashes through the guard rail and nose-dives toward the dark-blue water.
Chapter Twenty-One
The white crests spanning the blue stretch of the Sterling River grow larger and larger as the Winnebago plummets through the air. Chloe’s shoes are off the floor, her rear end is off the seat, and her insides are floating. She feels the wind in her open eyes and hears someone screaming—Dar, maybe, because it sounds like this person is having fun. Her father, with no need to hold the steering wheel, has his hands on the front edge of the dashboard.
The crests grow bigger, and the curvy shapes of the waves come into focus. The Winnebago tips forward, maybe because of the engine’s weight, and when Chloe spots a circular glow on the water, she’s surprised the one headlight is still working. The motor home strikes the river, and a web of cracks forms in the windshield. Chloe’s head whips forward as her safety belt catches her body, and Dar slams against the dashboard. Her father’s seat breaks away from the floor as Baxley’s big body pushes against it.
Chloe is jolted again as the rear of the Winnebago slams down. The motor home remains tilted forward, and water pours in through her busted window with the power of a tidal wave. Chloe is thrown back in her seat, and the water immediately fills the front of the motor home, engulfing Chloe and her father. She unbuckles her seat belt, her pounding heart feeling like it might explode, and her mind goes blank except for the understanding that she needs to survive.
The water lifts her out of her seat, banging her legs against the dashboard, and her head hits the ceiling as she spins in the turbulent water. She strikes someone—Baxley, maybe—and tumbles across the living quarters, the water churning all around her. She fights the currents and manages to swim upward, surfacing in a large pocket of air near the ceiling in the kitchen. The motor home, tipped at about forty-five degrees, is already completely submerged and still nosediving.
The light quickly dims, delivering everything into darkness. Chloe opens her eyes as wide as they’ll go, a reflex reaction that does nothing to help. Without her sight, she becomes more aware of the sounds: clunking, squealing, groaning—the steel body of the Winnebago bending in ways it isn’t meant to.
Someone surfaces beside her, gasping for breath.
“Dad?” she asks, scanning the black space around her.
“It’s me!” he shouts, and his hand swipes against her shoulder as he treads water.
Someone else surfaces near them, and Chloe realizes it’s Dar when she hears his metal helmet ping off the ceiling. “Everyone okay?” he asks, and everyone answers but Baxley. The Winnebago suddenly fills with light, and Chloe realizes how when she sees a sun stick in Dar’s hand. He reaches out and secures it behind the handle of a cabinet.
“The exit!” Chloe says, meaning the main door into the living quarters. She doesn’t need to say more, because Dar and her father dip into the water and fight the currents as they swim to the door.
Chloe grabs onto a kitchen cabinet to keep her head in the shrinking pocket of air. Something touches her shoulder, and she turns to see a fairy, her wet papery wings stuck to her back and her eyes open wide in terror.
“Where’s Baxley?” Chloe shouts, her unsteady voice booming in the confined space.
The fairy points a tiny, trembling finger toward the front seats.
Chloe grabs the fairy, sets her in an open cabinet, then dips into the water and swims to the giant, who’s floating near the floor, clearly unconscious. She grabs one of his arms and swims back to the pocket of air by kicking her legs. The water rushing through the open window makes it easy to pull him along. She plants her feet on the edge of the slanted kitchen counter and is able to stand. She surfaces, using both arms to hold Baxley’s head above the water.
“Baxley!” she shouts. “Baxley—wake up!”
The giant doesn’t respond. His eyes are barely open, and his jaw hangs to one side.
We’re going to die.
The thought is like a voice in her head, and Chloe struggles not to believe it. “baxley—wake up!” she shouts as loud as she can. Still no response from the giant. Is it possible that he’s—
No, Chloe won’t allow herself to believe it. He’s alive, and everyone is going to survive.
