Downburst (19 page)

The blood hammers in my head, the pain converging in the gash on my brow. My body shakes from my cold, wet clothes, from my galloping heartbeat. The only thing I can hear is the ringing in my ears. The screams of the dying. All I see are the blackened faces and twisting tattoos. Bulging, rolling gasps are working their way up my chest.

Rye raises a finger to his lips. I stuff the sleeve of my jacket into my mouth, and he peers through the bushes, his finger curving around the trigger of the rifle. I can’t hear, but I can see. Dark shapes, stalking through the forest. Prowling on the ground. Hovering in the air. Moving aside branches with their automatic weapons.

I close my eyes and burrow my face in the dirt. I focus on lying perfectly still, try to stop shivering. A mosquito lands on my neck and drills its nose into my skin. The sweat drips into my ears. Something tickles my foot. But I don’t move. My legs are rigid; my lungs burn. The ringing in my ears grows louder and louder, pounding me into the earth.

After an eternity, I feel Rye relax beside me. They must be gone. To be safe, we stay in the bushes for twenty minutes more. I stare at the yellowing leaves, at the tiny holes the bugs have left, at the quivering twigs. The ringing in my ears has morphed into a buzzing, and the thrumming noise pens me in more than the bushes do, pressing against every surface of my body until I think I’m going to collapse into myself like the camp.

The buzzing must be a good sign, however, because when Rye says, “I think we should go now,” I can actually hear him. We climb cautiously out of our hiding spot, and, without a word, Rye begins walking north, parallel to the river. I follow him.

We move quietly, saying nothing. To our left, billowing clouds of charcoal cover the sky. The fire will have destroyed all signs of the testing grounds—and the carnage. Fortunately, the flames haven’t spread to the trees over here. The river must have helped contain the blaze. A hollow, pulsing ache spreads throughout my chest. It’s all gone.
They’re
all gone. Rye and I could very well be the only survivors.

Soon we enter a section of forest that looks familiar. I recognize the clump of bushes, the tall pine. It’s the place where I hid my backpack.

“Wait,” I croak. Rye turns around and looks at me, eyebrow raised, as I walk over to the bushes, push past the branches, and stop under the tree. I look up. It’s still there. I climb the trunk and remove the pack then drop back to the ground.

Rye widens his eyes slightly at the sight of the bag on my back, but he doesn’t ask any questions. He just keeps walking, moving noiselessly through the trees, still heading north. I wonder where he’s going. This isn’t the way back to the town. Is he circling around the camp, taking a roundabout route so we aren’t discovered? I don’t want to say anything, don’t want to make any noise, so I decide to just wait and see.

At first I look at the sky as I walk, keeping my hand on the gun. The people in black could still be around, and I focus on making my steps as quiet as possible. But after an hour of walking, I stop looking up and pay less attention to where I’m stepping.

I also give up trying to keep track of the direction we’re going. Rye leads us on a circuitous path, twisting one way and then another, probably to confuse anyone who might come looking for us. I can only assume we’re finally pointed toward the town. As I walk through the thickening forest, pushing the branches away from my face and wishing we had kayaks, I try to keep their images out of my head. I keep my eyes on Rye, on the sweat spots on his shirt. Damp circles on a strong back.

Jeremy. Despite my best efforts, his soft, blue eyes swim in my vision. I feel his breath on my face, his lips on my forehead, his strong, protective arms.
Why did he do it?

I think back through the last week, replaying every interaction. The looks he sent me, the concern in his voice, the way he held me when we danced.

And now he’s dead.

I smother my face in my hands. How can he be dead? His teasing smile, citrus skin, steady hands. It can’t be real.

And what about Lila? Is she dead? Swallowed by flames. I never thanked her for being kind to me, for being my friend. Just like I never thanked Charity. Never even asked her real name.

All the others, are they dead too? Aponi and Damon and Holly. Titan and Bullseye, Dee and Dum. Tornado and Buck. I look at Rye’s taut neck, his eyes focused on the forest. Did he lose his best friend today?

My whole body shakes, but I try to steady it, try not to make too much noise. I don’t want the people in black to find us. Those men—who are they? Why were they killing unarmed kids, the way they killed Aura? I squeeze my nails into my palms, rub my forehead, but still those tortuous black tattoos stay with me. They’re permanently etched in my brain, forever linked with death, with Aura’s purple blood, Charity’s scorched skin, Jeremy’s lead-filled body.

I drop to the ground. How can he be gone? “Jeremy,” I whisper.

The sound of a stick snapping makes me jerk my head up. Rye is standing there, looking down at me with steady eyes. He extends a hand, and I take it, weakly. He pulls me to my feet, places his other hand on my shoulder, says nothing, just continues to peer into my eyes while I shudder and gasp. Then he removes his hand and keeps walking.

I focus on putting one foot down after the other, concentrate on moving forward. I try to clear away the smoke, but the caustic smell stays with me, and so do the faces.

When the sun is heavy in the sky, Rye finally stops walking. It’s hard to say how far we’ve traveled, but we’ve been hiking for several hours—long enough to cover a quarter of the distance to the town, I’d guess.

“We’ll make camp for the night,” Rye announces, the first thing he’s said since we left our hiding spot. I set down my pack and take off my sweat-soaked jacket. “Got anything useful in that backpack?” he asks.

I show him the camping supplies. The crackers in my pocket are crushed, but the apple and the freeze-dried meals are fine, and when he sees the food and water purifying kit, the lines around his eyes soften. As we eat, I realize how famished I am, and how thirsty.

“How did you know this backpack was there?” Rye asks when his meal is finished.

“I put it there.” I frown—I hadn’t planned on telling him the truth.

“I guessed as much. But why?”

I hesitate. “For emergencies,” I tell him.

“Your counselor let you keep your bag?” He looks skeptical.

“I didn’t exactly ask permission,” I admit.

“Good thing.”

I nod, but I can’t help thinking that if I had left this morning after breakfast, I would have been gone before the attack.

Suddenly, I remember why I didn’t leave this morning, and I avoid looking at him. If our camp hadn’t been attacked, it would have been Rye who kissed me today and not Jeremy. How long ago that seems, a different world. Even though we’re together, alone in the wilderness, I feel no thrill in my veins. Kissing Rye is the last thing I want to do.

“How long do you think it will take us to get to the town?” I ask. I don’t want to follow my train of thought any further.

“What town?” His forehead wrinkles.

“The town where we got the kayaks. Isn’t that where we’re going?”

“Definitely not. We can’t afford to go near any cities. The Rangi would pick us off easily. Our only chance is to stay in the forest and go to the
Wakenunat
. As it is, the Rangi might still find us.”

My brain aches, and I press my head into my hands. The Rangi—are those the people who attacked us? And what is the
Wakenunat
? More Yakone jargon I don’t understand.

What I
do
understand is not good, that the killers could be looking for us, that I have to go to this place if I don’t want to die.

“Are you okay?” he asks me.

“My head hurts,” I mumble. “I think I need to go to bed.” I stand up shakily and walk toward the backpack, pulling out the sleeping bag and bivy shelter, picking up my jacket to use as a pillow.

I’m walking toward a mostly flat piece of ground to spread out my sleeping bag when Rye calls after me. I turn around and see him crouching down, picking something off of the dirt. My heart drops when I see what’s in his hand. An I.D. It must have slipped out of my pocket.
Please be the fake license
, I pray.
Please be Flor Garcia.

Rye’s face turns a shade paler. He looks at the I.D. then he looks at me. Back at the I.D., back at me. Finally, he narrows his eyes and says the words I’ve been dreading:

“You’re not Aura Torres.”

When the clouds reach higher altitudes, the raindrops finally fall. The cooled air sinks rapidly, and the skies become more turbulent and electrically charged. There is a significant drop in temperature.

From the Algonquian people, we know that the Thunderbirds helped to create the universe. They are the ancestors of the human race.

The Kwakwaka’wakw tell how the Thunderbirds, in their human form, lived by themselves on the northern tip of Vancouver Island. Some of them even married into human families. The people forgot the true nature of the Thunderbirds, and one time a neighboring tribe attempted to enslave them. But the Thunderbirds put on their feathered cloaks and destroyed every last person with their lightning and strong winds.

Unhappy with the human race, the Thunderbirds went away. Now they live in the furthest part of the earth, and we no longer see them.

“What?” I stammer, trying to form a plan. How do I convince him I’m not a threat, not a spy?

Before I can think of what to say, Rye strides toward me and points a finger at my face. “Are you Aura?”

“I … um … ” I take a step back.

“Are you?” he presses.

“Yes … ” I falter. “I mean no.” I shake my head, backing up some more. “I mean, maybe.”

He steps forward and grabs me by the shoulders. I try to free myself, but his fingers dig into my skin. His frown deepens, and I hold my breath.

He points to the puffy cut on my brow. “Can you remember hitting your head?” he asks.

“Yes, I think so.” The words come out in gasps. “The explosion.”

“What day is it?”

I open my mouth to answer and then hesitate. What day
is
it? Wednesday? Thursday? How long have I been here? I lift up my Quil to check.

Rye stops me, pushing my arm back down. “Do you remember why you came to the
maitanga
?”

“Um … ”

“Can you remember your parents?”

My parents.
Their faces are wrapped in haze. The thick, black smoke smothers my lungs, and I gnaw the inside of my cheek.

“Do you understand what’s happened? Where we’re going?”

“No!” I burst out, the pressure exploding in my chest. “I don’t know who attacked us, or why, or what the
Wakenunat
is, or why we’re going there because I’m not Aura!”

There I said it. I stumble back, keeping my eyes locked on his face.

Rye exhales slowly and runs his hands through his dirty hair. “Okay, why don’t you sit down for a second?” He leads me over to a rock then crouches in front of me. “Aura”—he clears his throat—“I think you hit your head harder than you realize.”

“What?” I stare at him.

He coughs again. “What I mean is, I think you might have had a concussion.”

“No, that’s not … ” My voice trails off as I finally process what’s just happened. I don’t say anything for a moment. I just try very hard to think. This could be it, my way out.

“Aura?” Rye says, watching me closely.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay, let’s start by figuring out what you do and don’t remember. Do you recall anything before the attack?”

“Yes,” I say slowly.
Now’s my chance to figure things out, to ask questions
.
“Bits and pieces,” I tell him.

“Do you remember your contests?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Do you remember coming to the camp?”

I nod.

“What about before that? Do you remember your family? Your friends?”

“No,” I pitch my voice higher and try to look panicked.

“Okay, all right, calm down. Do you remember that you’re a member of the Yakone tribe?”

“That sounds familiar,” I say.

He pushes his fingers back through his hair. “Do you remember what you ate for breakfast?”

I honestly don’t, so I tell him no.

He exhales slowly. “My name is Rye Slade,” he says, watching me sharply. “Do you remember me?”

“You won the Challenge on Day One.”

“That’s good.” He closes his eyes for a moment then stands up. “Does your head hurt?” he asks. “Is your vision blurry?”

“It hurts a little, but I can see fine.”

He nods. “Let’s see how you’re doing in the morning then. Maybe your memory will return. I’ll stand watch. You get some rest.” He turns away.

“Wait!” I say. He looks back at me. “Who were those people who attacked us?”

His gaze drops to the ground. “I’d rather not talk about it. Maybe you should be grateful you don’t remember.”

“Rye, please. I need to know.”

He pauses for a long moment before answering. “They were from another tribe. The Rangi, our enemies. They’re ruthless and savage, and they’ll kill anyone, even children. They’ve never come this far north before, which means they’re on the warpath. That’s why we have to go to the
Wakenunat
.”

“What’s the
Wakenunat
?”

“It’s our fortress, the only place we’ll be safe. The whole tribe will be gathering there. Or what’s left of us anyway.” He turns and walks into the trees.

I finish laying out my sleeping bag and setting up the bivy shelter. The work distracts me from my thoughts, but I get everything ready far too quickly, and as I slip between the slick polyester, my mind goes back to the camp.

The Rangi. That’s what those people are called. Another tribe of windwalkers. How many tribes are there? And why were they attacking the Yakone teenagers—kids at a summer camp?
No, not a summer camp, a testing center.
Suddenly, I see the paintball matches in the Aerie, the arcing bodies and spraying bullets. Those mock battles weren’t just for fun. The initiates’ martial skills were being tested. They were preparing for a real battle.

I think of the tomahawk flying out of Rye’s hands, the way he yanked the blade free of the Rangi’s skull. He had been trained to do that. I shudder. What kind of a world have I entered? And how do I get out of it?

I can’t.
Not if there are Rangi prowling around the forest. If I leave Rye and try to make it back to the town on my own, I won’t stand a chance. It doesn’t matter that I’m not really a windwalker. I’m dressed like one, and they won’t bother to ask questions before they kill me. I know that much.

But I can’t go to the
Wakenunat
either—I’m still pretending to be Aura, and that won’t last long once I get to the fortress where the whole tribe is gathered. Her family might be there, and when they find out I’m not her …
I’m screwed, big time.
If only I had left this morning, before the Rangi attacked.

I squeeze my hands around my sleeping bag and press the fabric against my ears. The night is so loud. The eerie cries of the loons, the incessant buzzing of the mosquitos, the interminable hissing, droning, warbling. What are those sounds, really? Could that rustling in the bushes be one of them, sneaking up on us? Suddenly, the echoing rings of gunshots and the stench of scorched flesh overwhelm my brain, and all I can see are warriors with swirling tattoos.

I slide further into my bag and shut my eyes, but the images and sounds only become more intense. The shots, the war cries, the blood. The air in my bivy grows hot and stuffy, and sweat runs down my neck. Will they find us? Swoop down on us in the middle of the night? Trapped in this little tent, I won’t be able to run away. They’ll shoot me before I know it’s coming.

I jerk open the flap on the shelter and scoot out into the cool night air, breathing deeply for a few moments. Then I fold the tent up. I’m not going to be able to sleep in that thing again. I gather the sleeping bag around me like a blanket and walk over to the rocks. I’m not going to be able to sleep at all.

I sit down and stare into the darkening forest. It’s not Aura who jumps out of the blackness now. It’s Jeremy and Charity, Naira and Gander, and all the people I saw die I didn’t even know. Their mangled faces crowd my head.

I’m glad I didn’t see Jeremy’s corpse. It’s bad enough that I watch him perpetually being shot down in my mind, his back distorting in pain. I try instead to think about his eyes, his smile, the way he looked when he was alive. I reach out for the scent of lemongrass, but all I get is pine.

I don’t know how long I stay like that, caught between waking nightmares and my attempted vigilance, but after a while I hear something. The quiet crunch of pine needles. I dig the .38 caliber out of my pocket and grip it tightly. A shape, outlined by the moon, moves out of the trees.

“Rye?” I whisper.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. His voice sounds thick, like he’s been crying, but maybe I’m imagining it. He sits down on a nearby rock, and the lunar beams spill silver along his ears. Neither of us says anything further.

We stay like that, silent, tortured away from sleep, while the black clouds swallow the moon.

The morning is harsh and gray. My limbs are stiff, and the cut on my head is even more swollen and tender. We eat two of the freeze-dried meals without speaking. Only four left.

As we resume our march, tromping through the dripping grass and thick fog, I wonder how far away the
Wakenunat
is. Hopefully, it’s within forty miles. Our food isn’t going to last us very long. Through tomorrow, at most. After that, we’ll have to hunt if we want to survive.

I rub the bump on my head, try to keep my mind on the food, on survival. That’s easier to think about.

How long
, I wonder. How long before the images fade? I can’t handle one more night like the last, where every time I close my eyes, I see his face torn apart by tattooed monsters and when I keep them open I imagine I hear the creatures coming for me. I can’t bear another morning like this, where everything I see or think reminds me of how empty the world is.

“Aura?”

I flinch then look around quickly. I don’t see Rye—I must have fallen behind.

A branch ahead of me moves back, and he steps through the bushes. “There you are. The wind’s back, and it’s cleared up the fog. Time to get a move on.”

What do you think we’ve been doing all morning?
And then I understand.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I stammer.

“We’ll stay low so the Rangi don’t see us.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What then?”

I hesitate. He studies my face for a moment and then frowns. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to ride.”

“Why don’t we just stay on the ground?” I suggest.

He stares at me. “This isn’t happening,” he mutters. “Please say this isn’t happening.”

“What?” My throat is squeaking again.

“Aura,” he says, his voice rising, “the
Wakenunat
is in the Rocky Mountains—in the Northwest Territories! That’s close to eight hundred miles away! We can’t make it there on foot.”

I lean against a tree.
Eight hundred miles!

“Aura,” Rye barks. “Hello! Please focus.”

I look up. “Sorry,” I mumble.

“I don’t think you’ve really forgotten how to windwalk,” he says. “I just think you’ve forgotten that you
know
how to windwalk. It’ll be fine once you try it.”

I shake my head. “No. I won’t be able to.”

“You have to try! I can’t carry you eight hundred miles, and the Rangi will find us if we don’t get moving.”

“Just leave me behind then,” I snap. “You go to the
Wakenunat
. I’ll figure something out.”

“You have got to be joking,” Rye says, more to himself than to me. “Look, I can’t leave you behind. You’ll be fine. You just have to trust me on this.”

Before I can say anything, he grabs my hand and pulls me through the trees, stopping when we’re standing on the shore of a lake. The breeze blows loose strands of hair across my face.

“Okay,” Rye says. “Look across the water. Can you see it?”

“See what?”

“The wind!”

No, I can’t see the wind!
I remember a poem we memorized for that 4-H wind course.
Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: but when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through.

My eyes drift automatically to the pine boughs. The needles are quivering, and I still feel the air tickling my cheeks, though not quite enough to blow out a flag. I think of the Beaufort wind scale.
Light breeze. Four to seven miles per hour.

“No, I don’t,” I say stiffly.

“C’mon,” Rye retorts. “Of course you can. Your eyes still work. Try harder.”

I want to punch him—how did I ever think he was attractive?—and yell that I can’t see the wind because I’m not a windwalker, but, of course, I can’t tell him that. So I scowl at the air above the lake.