The excursion, p.23
The Excursion, page 23
I watched the intersection, hoping my dad would come soon.
My stomach grumbled. I didn’t want to make noodles and butter by myself again, so I went to my mom’s room to see if she was awake. The smell made me lose my appetite. Dirty laundry and dishes. Glasses with orange pulp stuck to their insides. Pizza crusts with hardened cheese. Empty bottles and cans.
Her blankets lay in a heap on the floor by her bed.
Her mattress was barren.
I checked the closet, and she wasn’t in there either.
As I turned to go, something pink, and something—the same thing—blue, caught my eye. There, neatly stacked on her dresser next to an empty vodka bottle, lay the birthday invitations to my friends. Untouched. Unsent.
I raced to my room.
Pulled the covers off my bed, and there she was, asleep.
I screamed at her.
She woke up, wide-eyed.
I screamed for her to get out.
She covered her face. Rolled over. Fell onto the floor.
I went to the window. Slammed my hand against the wall. Wiped my tears away.
Somewhere out there, Dad was caught in traffic. He had to be.
Or, he missed his flight.
Or, his boss wouldn’t let him leave work to come home.
Or . . . he didn’t love me anymore.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHARLY
Hector and Randall march into the boathouse. The wind follows them in. Snow flurries fly across the floor and leap into the cage. Randall already has his phone out when he reaches inside and flips on the light. He taps on the screen, and the padlock drops open just as Hector reaches for it.
Randall pulls his gun out. “It’s go time.”
Hector opens the cage door. “One word from any of you and you’re dead.”
“You first.” Randall gestures with his gun for Cam to come out.
“Where are we going?” Cam asks.
“Oh, that’s it.” Hector glances at Randall. “Shoot him. I said one word. We still got the other one.”
Randall grasps his gun with both hands and closes one eye. Aims it at Cam.
“All right,” Cam says. He exits the cage.
“Stand over here”—Hector points to a spot on the floor—“and hold your hands out.”
Cam does as requested, and Hector punches him in the face for it.
“No,” Randall says. “Hit him in the ribs.”
Cam attempts to back away, but Hector is too fast. He lands a hard punch, connecting with Cam’s torso.
Cam doubles over, coughs and falls onto the floor.
Hector quickly fastens a zip tie around Cam’s wrists, binding his arms together in front of his body.
“Do you still think I’m faking it, Charly?” Cam coughs and moans and coughs again.
It’s hard for me to see him in pain, but I’ve got to hold onto my instincts. It was a real punch, but I think Cam knew it was coming. He and Hector and Randall could have planned this. Cam has been acting strange since we reunited yesterday, and he lied to me. The snowmobile. His car keys. His obsession with staring out windows. Too strange, even for him. It’s like he is a plant in an audience for a salesman on stage.
“Okay,” Hector says, “it’s your boyfriend’s turn.”
Randall waves his gun. “C’mon, Tyler.”
Tyler puts his wrists together in front of his body and slowly leaves the cage.
Hector closes the cage door and locks it. He puts a zip tie around Tyler’s wrists and pulls it tight. “Which is it with this one? High or low?”
“High.”
Hector balls his fist and strikes Tyler’s chin. Tyler’s head snaps to the side, and Hector hits him again in the opposite direction.
“Enough.” Randall strolls over to the cabinet.
Hector pulls his gun out and directs Tyler and Cam toward the boathouse door. The winter wind whooshes in, ghosties spin across the floor, and a fresh chill enters my bones. “Where are you taking them?”
Randall opens the cabinet. “Hunting. Like I promised.” He grabs a spray can of black shoe polish, a couple of hoods, and two ankle bracelets.
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“Would you like to come with us so you can see for yourself?” Randall walks over to the door and puts the polish on the floor.
“No. But, I still don’t think you’re taking Cam hunting.” Cam stands there, shaking like a frigid chihuahua. “Stop it, Cam. The charade is over. Stop acting like a victim.” I’m testing him. I need to know if this is an act.
Randall kneels down. “Hold still.” He fastens an ankle bracelet around Cam’s leg.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
Randall ignores me. He fastens the other one around Tyler’s leg and stands up.
“See?” Cam yells. “See, Charly? He’s taking me with them with this thing on my leg. I have nothing to do with this.”
“Prove it,” I say. “Please, I want to believe you.”
Randall picks up the shoe polish and points it at Tyler.
“No.” Tyler puts his hands over his face. “Please.”
“Put your hands down. Don’t be such a baby.” Hector points his gun at Tyler’s head and looks at Cam. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot him.”
Randall sprays Tyler’s face until it is completely black and puts a hood over his head.
“Oh, God,” Tyler says. “It stings. It’s getting in my eyes.”
“Oh, God,” Randall mocks. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” He hands the polish to Hector and grabs Tyler’s zip tie. “It stings. Poor me, it stings.” He leads him outside.
Hector points his gun at Cam with one hand and aims the shoe polish with the other.
Cam shakes his head, and he squints, and before Hector can press down on the spray nozzle, Cam raises his arms and loops them over Hector’s head. He pulls the fat man’s face close to his and bites his ear. Hector screams and drops the polish. He drops his gun. Blood runs down his neck.
Cam holds onto him, gnashing and chomping, trying to bite through the man’s thick double chin.
Through the doorway, I see Randall struggle with Tyler. Hector’s screaming startles him, and he loses his grip. Tyler takes off running toward the cabin, disappearing into the snowy darkness with his hands bound together. Randall rushes back inside the boathouse.
“What do you think now, Charly?” Blood spews from Cam’s lips. He goes in for another bite.
“Help.” Hector flails, trying to get Cam off him.
Randall turns green. Swallows. He pulls a black box out of his jacket pocket and presses a button. Cam’s ankle bracelet activates, and he goes down, shaking violently, taking Hector with him. The electrical noise muffles their cries for help. Randall lets go of the button and leans down. He hits Cam in the ribs with one hard jab and frees Hector.
“That son of a bitch bit me.” Blood runs down Hector’s neck.
Randall looks away. “Go after the other one. Get out of here.” He convulses. “Go, now.”
Hector picks up his gun and staggers out of the boathouse with his hand pressed against his head. He looks both ways, then heads toward the cabin.
I grasp the cage door and shake the bars.
Randall makes Cam stand and sprays him in the face with the shoe polish.
Cam holds still.
When Randall is finished, Cam fixes his eyes on mine and stares at me while Randall places a hood over his head. “Charly,” he says, his voice muffled, “tell Jacob I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry I called him Freckles when we were kids. I always felt bad about that.”
I was wrong.
Cam wasn’t in on it.
He never met Randall before yesterday.
He had a plan to get us out of here, but I wouldn’t listen.
Randall pulls on Cam’s zip tie. Leads him toward the door.
“Tell Jacob I’m sorry.”
Randall pulls Cam into the blizzard.
Into oblivion.
“Wait,” I say, shivering. “What about me?”
“What about you?” Randall asks. “Do you want to go hunting, too?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
RANDALL
Randall pushes Cam in the back, not too hard, but hard enough to make the moron stumble through the snow. Dawn is breaking over the forest, revealing the blizzard’s damage. Branches hang low, burdened by ice and snow. The trails are gone. Buried. It’s going to be a rough day, but Randall is ready.
“Wait,” Hector calls from behind them. “He’s stopped again.” Randall turns, sees Hector tug on Tyler’s wrists, pulling him forward. Tyler stumbles a couple of steps through the deep snow, then pulls his hands free and bends over. Coughs. His hood inflates like a balloon.
Randall blinks and glimpses Ronald in his mind’s eye. Tyler looks the way Randall’s brother did that day. Ronald’s last day alive. These visions keep coming to him lately. It must be the lack of sleep. He blinks again, and it’s not Ronald. Ronald wasn’t a sick drunk like Tyler, but they have the same build. The same hiking boots. An expensive jacket.
Randall blinks a third time.
He shakes the memory from his head.
Tyler remains bent over, his back rising and falling with labored breaths. Hector—that fat slob—isn’t much better. He stands, wearing his poor man’s denim jacket with his hands on his knees just above the snowdrift.
“Give him a rest, then head that way, but not too far,” Randall says. “He needs his energy for the hunt. I don’t want it to be too easy.”
“We’re already breaking the rules. Why don’t I stay with you?”
“Absolutely not.” Randall raises his voice above the wind. “You go on the east side of the lake, and I’ll go on the west. We can’t risk shooting each other.”
“I don’t think mine’s going to make it.”
“He’ll make it. Use the adrenaline shot in your prep bag; that’s what it’s for. Remember to give it to him before you get Barry. Oh, and I know it’s been a while for you, so don’t forget to give him the knife.”
Hector straightens up. Grasps Tyler’s zip tie. “I know how to do it.”
“Wait.” Randall unzips his prep bag and pulls out a walkie-talkie. “Let’s test this.”
Hector pulls his out. “Breaker. Breaker.” In horrific unison, Randall’s walkie-talkie squawks, “Breaker. Breaker.”
“Good,” Randall says. “Any sign of Lance, you tell me.”
“Why are you so worried all of a sudden? You said he couldn’t have made it here from Texas overnight, right?”
“I’m not worried. I don’t worry.”
“Then why do you want to know if—”
“Your hunt might run long, and Lance is a liar. You don’t know if he was actually in Texas when you spoke to him, do you? You are aware of how cell phones work, right? He could have been anywhere.”
“I guess.”
The wind rushes in from the west, hitting Randall in the face. It’s okay. It’s better this way. The wind is at Hector’s back, and that fat slob needs all the help he can get.
They part ways.
“Move.” Randall shoves Cam.
“How much farther?” Cam asks.
“Not much.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“I don’t care.”
“Can you take my hood off? I’m going to throw up.”
“Can you take my hood off?” Randall mocks. He hits Cam in the back of the head. “Feel that?”
“Ow.”
“Worry about your head, not your stomach. Your weak stomach isn’t going to save you.”
To comply with the excursion manual, Randall must pull Cam through the forest another mile and a half. In this weather, with the sun coming up and the threat of Lance arriving early, there’s no way they’ll be going that far.
Another broken rule.
Ah, but rules are meant to be broken. Adaptation requires it.
Cam stops abruptly. Tips his head forward. “Agh-gha. I’m sick.”
“You’re faking it.” Randall pulls on the moron’s zip tie. “Keep walking.”
Cam retches. Brown liquid leaks through his hood. Syrupy bile appears on his neck and runs down his chest.
Randall’s stomach rolls. “You moron.” He continues pulling Cam forward. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I did.”
“I did. I did.”
“I—”
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear another word. Moron.”
The snow isn’t as high around the base of the trees. Randall weaves his way under the branches, choosing the path of least resistance. Cam moans each time they change direction. “Oooh. Oooh,”
“Oooh. Oooh. Oooh, poor me. Oooh.”
“Please. Take my hood off. I can’t breathe.”
“Please, take my hood off.” Randall stops. Cam’s vomit poisons the air. “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Shut up, you baby. Your cousin stabbed me in the leg, and you don’t hear me whining.”
“Who? Amanda?”
“Shut up, moron. We’re here.”
Randall has found the perfect tree. Not too big. Not too small. No branches at the base to get in the way. Perfect.
Cam gags. “Just shoot me. I can’t take any more.”
“Don’t worry. All in good time.” Randall slips the prep bag off his shoulder and shoves Cam’s back against the tree. “For the love of Darwin, you’re a mess. Nothing so disgusting deserves to survive.”
Cam convulses. Fresh stomach syrup runs down his neck.
It’s all Randall can do not to puke, himself. Randall steps back and pulls a rope out of the prep bag. It’s new and incredibly thick. The kind used to lash boats to docks. “Hold still.”
He lashes Cam’s waist and legs to the tree, winding the rope down to the ground.
Cam convulses again.
Randall uses his fingertips to pull the moron’s hood off. Despite Cam’s weak stomach, the shoe polish has held up well. His blackened face reminds Randall of the Blue Man Group in Las Vegas. He misses Vegas. When he’s in charge, he’ll set up a command center there and run excursions remotely.
He can’t wait.
Cam swallows.
There’s something stuck to Cam’s cheek. It’s black, like his face. A piece of burnt steak, maybe. What a moron.
Randall takes a hunting knife out of the bag and cuts Cam’s zip tie, freeing his wrists. “Listen carefully to everything I have to say.” Cam’s eyes are at half-mast. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” Frothy spit bubbles form on Cam’s lips.
“You are the prey. You will be hunted. You do have a chance to live, though no one ever has.”
Cam licks his lips. Rubs his wrists. Looks down at the massive rope running across his waist, binding him to the tree.
“Which is your dominant hand?”
“What?”
“Let me put the question in terms you can understand. Which hand do you wipe your ass with?”
“My left, but I’m right-handed.”
“Of course you are, moron.” Randall grasps Cam’s right hand and pulls it backward behind the tree where Cam won’t be able to reach it with his left hand.
“Ah, stop. You’re going to break my shoulder.”
“Ah, stop. You’re hurting me.” Randall takes a new zip tie out of his pocket and fastens Cam’s wrist to the rope. He steps back in front of Cam. “Ah, stop. You’re hurting me.” He takes Cam’s left hand and places the hunting knife in it.
“I’m not left-handed.”
“I know. It should take you about an hour to cut through the rope if you don’t drop the knife.”
The knife shakes in Cam’s hand. He glances at his feet.
“Don’t even think about it. The ankle bracelet is way too strong. You’ll never cut through in time.”
“You’re a psycho.”
“Look, let me give you some advice. Be careful not to drop that knife. If you do, we’ll find you right here later, and you’ll be dead. One shot. But, if you can cut yourself free, I suggest you run that way. If you try to run to the cabin, you’ll run into us on your way there, and you’ll be dead. Understand?”
“You won’t get away with this. I’ll escape and call the police.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Randall chuckles. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Do you know how many times I’ve ‘gotten away with this’?”
“I know these woods.” Cam saws on the rope. “I’ll escape. I’ll make it back to the cabin and tell everyone what you’re doing.”
“What makes you think there’s anyone still alive at the cabin?”
Cam ignores him. He feverishly slices at the rope.
“You’re all alone out here, little rabbit.” Randall looks to the sky. “You’re going to die.”
Cam doesn’t look up. He keeps sawing away.
“Apparently, you weren’t listening, so I’ll say it again. If you go back to the cabin, we’ll find you, and you’ll be dead. You should go west so you don’t accidentally run into your cage buddy and get shot. That is, if you ever cut through the rope. You’re holding the knife all wrong, moron.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Ha,” Randall laughs. “That’s rich.” He turns his back. “Enjoy the hunt.”
Randall trudges through the snow with purpose. He has no worries. Hector should not have suspected Randall was worried about Lance’s arrival. Randall doesn’t worry. Ever. He never worries because he is a man of action.
Let Lance come.
The sky turns blue where it meets the mountaintops while the remaining stars hang onto their perches high overhead. It’s going to be a terrific hunt. A tough hunt in this snowbound wasteland, but a terrific one. The weather is already cooperating. The snowfall has diminished to a few flakes here and there.
Randall pushes on toward the cabin.
Not far to go now.
He hopes he won’t need to kill Kennedy when he arrives. He hopes she’s still asleep in her bed. But, if she’s not, and if she opens her mouth again, spewing nonsense about her online presence, her insufferable Twitter followers, he might have to kill her just to keep his sanity.
