The New Wild Read online

  As though the universe has read my mind, I hear something crunching in the bushes. Something way less graceful than a deer. I pray it’s not a bear. Axe, schmax—I know I’m helpless. Nevertheless, I rear back with the blade high in the air, ready to strike.

  A crop of strawberry-blond hair attached to a full-fledged man emerges from the brush. I let the axe fall, stunned.

  Xander.

  Chapter 6

  My stomach churns and I’m so mad I could spit. I can’t believe that, of all the wonderful people who died that night, this dipshit made it through Mother Nature’s little test.

  Xander’s covered in soot, wearing cargo pants and a torn, holey beater. His skin is so burnt from the sun he’s peeling and red all over, his eyes watery and yellow where they should be white. He looks awful, like he’s going to faint. But a butterfly, of all things, seems to be nesting in his red hair. It’s resting peacefully on the top of his head.

  “What the fuck are you doing with my axe?” he breathes. His voice is hoarse.

  “Well, nice to see you, too.” I chirp. “It’s my axe, I found it.”

  “I left that here and I need it.” I forgot how deep his voice is—deep and calming, like those old dudes on the radio.

  “Finders keepers, man. You shouldn’t have been so careless.”

  His green eyes grow wider and wider. “Give it back, Jackie,” he seethes.

  I sigh. It’s nice to actually see somebody I know, even if he’s the asshole who hurt Sarah and contaminated my shit. I notice he’s not carrying a pack. I wonder if he’s eaten or even drank water in the past two days. That would explain the ‘tude, and also why he left something so important as an axe behind.

  “How the hell are you even here? What have you been eating?” I ask, perhaps somewhat insensitively.

  He scoffs, disgusted. “How the hell are you even here? You really wanna know what I’ve been eating?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Fruit. Worms. Bugs,” he says bluntly. “I tried to catch a loose parakeet, but he got away.”

  “Oh yeah? I hear chipmunk meat is super good and easy to come by.”

  A weak laugh escapes Xander’s dry lips. That is, until he sees my face and my knuckles whitening around the axe’s handle. He shuts up, but I can tell I’m gonna have to wait for that apology. Idiot.

  “Sooner or later, I’m gonna reach a point the fire hasn’t reached, walk into a sub shop, and beg for my life and a ham and cheese sandwich.”

  “Ugh, yeah… Good luck with that,” I say sarcastically.

  “I don’t need luck,” he declares, “I need a break.”

  “Same diff. But I have to tell you, I’m not sure you’re gonna find a sub shop or anything like it,” I say.

  “And why the hell wouldn’t I?” he spits, his cheeks turning red.

  “Look around you, Xander. Have you been seeing any of this shit? Did you feel what I felt that night? I was literally floating in the sky, listening to everybody on the ground burn alive. I haven’t seen anything that looks the way it used to, not one lamp or store, least of all a goddamned sub shop. Have you?”

  He looks at the ground. “No,” he says softly, like he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Against my better judgment, I tell him everything Deb relayed to me, even the weird parts. That she thinks it’s Mother Earth teaching us a lesson, and that he and I and whoever else is still here—well, she’s starting the whole world over with us. Deb said only the most earth-loving people survived, the ones that truly adored her creations or at least treated them with respect. And then I let him know that a bunch of the extinct stuff has come back, too. I point to a big, gorgeous jee-bow. It turns green, like it knows I’m talking about it. Then I say that many man-made creations are not kosher with Mother Nature, so she burned them to bits.

  “Shit, hippie,” Xander says, looking at me like I’m totally nuts. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I’m not sure I believe it, either. But do you really think this was just any old fire? Think about it.”

  For a few seconds, I can see the wheels turning in his head. His expression goes from weirded out to terrified to despondent.

  “I need to get to my family in Montana as soon as possible,” he says quietly, then narrows his eyes and reaches out his hand. “Give me the fucking axe.”

  “I’m not giving it back,” I say, a little hurt that he’d think of leaving me when we’re headed the same goddamn direction. I’d rather walk with a lunatic than by myself.

  “Hand it over now, or you’ll be sorry,” he says, almost yelling.

  “Excuse me? I’ll be sorry? In case you haven’t noticed, everybody I know and like is probably burnt up right now. I’m hungry and exhausted and haven’t seen a shower, much less toilet paper, in three loooooong days. Just how, exactly, were you planning to make my life any worse?”

  He smirks, then starts singing the most annoying camp song ever. “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” And to make it all the more irritating, he’s doing it off key and off beat.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to collect my thoughts. If I don’t find a place to camp soon, I’m going to eat this chicken raw and drink its blood for water. I start walking ahead, doing my best to ignore him, but he follows, singing louder.

  “Is that your fave?” he says. “Maybe you’ll like this one more.”

  He begins singing, “Fat Cat, Tiny Litter Box,” the latest from The Sardonic Pills, a Japanese boy band. I cover my ears, but the sound is piercing—it penetrates my inner ear and rattles my brain. I want to turn around and plant the axe in his neck, but that would be unladylike.

  I’ll have to think of a better plan.

  Chapter 7

  We reach a crowd of bigtooth aspen trees. Xander's still “singing,” and I'm still gagging.

  I whirl around and look him dead in the eye. “Okay, Xander. I'm starving. I'm sick of pears and berries, but the only thing I want more than a camp-cooked meal is for you to shut the eff up.”

  “Well there's only one way that's gonna happen,” he sings in melody with the song without skipping a beat.

  I shudder and take a breath. “Here's the deal,” I say. “The first one of us to get dinner going over an open fire gets the axe.”

  He laughs and stumbles backward, clutching his chest.

  “Ha! You think you could possibly beat me? I'm from Montana, land of the he-men.”

  “Hells yes I can beat you. I don't give a crap where you're from. Montucky doesn't mean junk to me. I remember what you said, bug-eater, and you can't hack it."

  He takes step closer to me, a smug look on his face, rubbing his hands together in this menacing way. Like the rest of him, his hands are ginormous. Doubt flutters in the pit of my stomach. He catches me staring. I take a step back.

  “Yes, I am large and in charge,” he says. “And I can shoot a shotgun like nobody's business. Best shot in Jackson County two years in a row.” He puffs out his chest.

  “Good for you,” I say, pretending to be unimpressed. “See any guns?”

  “Well, no, but that doesn't mean—”

  “Can it, Xander. We're wasting time.”

  “Okay. I'll do this. But neither of us can use the axe.”

  “Whatever,” I say, and mean it. I have a head start: a chicken head—along with its fleshy body—to be specific, waiting in my bag to be cooked.

  I wander into the woods to find kindling and grass. It's all so lush, nothing's really dry enough. I grab some lichen that's hanging off a lower branch and pull a few twigs off the ground. I find one dry branch that could have fallen off in a storm—it's fairly lifeless and could fuel a decent fire. Across the way, I hear Xander stub his toe and start cursing.

  “You okay?” I say.

  “Yeah!” he answers, a little too quickly.

  “Cool!” I say, smiling. He's so not okay.

  I haul my kindling and firewood
back into the clearing. There are a few big rocks around. They're heavy, but I manage to pull them into a circle for a fire ring. I beat my blade against the flint, but nothing happens. I start to panic, feeling the pressure. I try again, hitting it harder and more slanted, but nothing happens.

  How did Deb make this look so easy?

  Xander eyes what I’m doing and snickers. Asshole.

  I keep hitting the rock, but I feel like all I’m doing is dulling my knife blade. Shit.

  Maybe if I hold the flint against something, and keep it steady?

  I try jamming it firmly against another rock, so it’s stationary. Finally, the blade starts producing little sparks that flit from the rock. I bend down and aim them toward the lichen, blowing softly. I do this for what seems like hours, but in reality is probably all of five minutes. None of them do anything—they just spark and disappear, like they were never there at all. Crap. Maybe my lichen’s not dry enough?

  Xander keeps looking over smugly, but it’s not like he’s doing any better.

  I pull up some dry, dead grasses that are set under a boulder. When I send the flint’s little flashes into the brown grass, eventually, it starts smoking. Finally. Little puffs of gray air rise into the vanishing daylight and disappear in the ether.

  I bend down, add a twig or two. I reach into my pocket and throw the Senior Slog itinerary sheet in, as well, which hurts a little. It takes a while, but when it does catch fire, I let out a whoop so loud a flock of chickadees fly out from their perch in an oak behind me. Xander turns around and stares. I just smile at him. He sits cross-legged in the dirt about ten feet away from me, and although the setting sun is lighting his strawberry-blond hair from behind like a little fire, he's not any closer to producing a spark than he was before he started. He's attempting to make fire by rubbing two sticks together. My face curls up into a grin. It’s actually kind of cute: he’s working so hard, but getting nowhere.

  “How's it going with that?” I shout as my fire starts to crackle.

  “Never better,” he grunts, gritting his teeth.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “You never studied cavemen, did you? This'll be bigger than yours in five minutes, guaranteed.”

  His twig snaps in two just as the words come out of his mouth. I stifle a laugh.

  “Shit,” he says under his breath. He grabs another stick, continuing to twist. “Won’t be long now!” he jeers.

  “You know, I did study cavemen,” I say. “When I’m done eating dinner and you’re still praying that’ll catch, I’m going to whittle you a bracelet that says, ‘What Would A Troglodyte Do?’”

  “You are so sweet,” he seethes.

  “You can thank me later.” I pull the chicken out of my bag.

  Xander stares at me and frowns. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “A friend gave it to me.”

  Xander looks like he’s going to whine about something like “cheating”, but doesn’t. I think he’s probably too hungry to put up any kind of fight.

  Killing this chicken was nauseating, but Deb called plucking it “the hard part”. I have to get all these damn feathers out from its skin. I start yanking them by the handful, huffing and puffing. The popping release when they detach from the skin grosses me out, and the red, raw membrane bleeds where the feathers connected. It’s so ridiculously hard I worry I can’t possibly get them all. They float all around me. I feel like I’m in the center of a particularly hard-core pillow-fight. Xander is still across the way, struggling to get a spark. When the chicken’s finally bald, I hold my breath and grip the knife in my fist, and with two deep stabs, I manage to slice open the body cavity. Some of the guts plop out onto the ground in red and blue slimes. I grimace and shove my hand into the hole, dislodge the rest of the organs, and they slip out and fall at my feet. I drop the carcass and cringe at the carnage on the ground. I hear Xander dry heaving, which makes me feel a little better, despite the bleeding, slippery flesh. The bloody head looks up at me from a few feet away. I can’t believe that not long ago I was ordering takeout with Bernard, making cookies for dessert with delicious chocolate and buttery dough from a tube, and now I kill my own food. My mom would crack up to see me do this, but my heart aches just thinking of her. I gather my senses and the bird, throw it onto a branch I’ve cut and placed over the fire, and race to the stream nearby to wash the blood off my hands, my face, my heart. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I shudder and splash water on my face to feel a little less like I’m drenched in that thing’s insides.

  When finally I get back to the fire, the scent rising from the smoke is so warm, so much like home, that I start to tear up. It’s every bit as delicious-smelling as the rotisserie birds Mom used to grab on her way home from work. I want to reach my hand into the flames and yank off a buttery wing, but it’s not done yet. I turn the stick to flip her and the top is still so raw it’s practically blue. Her underbelly, now facing up, is crispy and glistening with fat. Xander comes up behind me and combs both hands through his hair.

  “Holy shit, woman,” he says in disbelief.

  I don’t say anything. I just smile. I won. The axe and the delicious chicken are mine.

  “That’s amazing,” he marvels.

  “What?” I say.

  “That is amazing.”

  “What? The crackles, I can’t hear,” I lie, motioning to the fire.

  “Nice job!” he shouts.

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “Yes. That smells so good.” His voice is surprisingly kind and warm.

  “I thought you said I couldn’t do it?”

  “I was wrong,” he mutters, looking to the ground.

  “What?” I say, pointing to my ear.

  “Oh, shut up,” he smiles.

  Wipe that grin off your face, Jackie.

  “Oh my God, you earned it, Jackie,” he says, his eyes dazed and watery. “You can have the axe.”

  “I know,” I say, looking up to face him. His eyes are big and sad. He’s got the sad puppy dog thing down, and I’m pretty sure he’s not being facetious.

  He lies down in the grass and crosses his arms over his face, obviously giving up. The tiny brook is over to our right, and the sound of the bubbling water is making me more parched than the high desert in August and making me want to pee more than I ever have in my life.

  I look down again at Xander, who appears to be asleep. Despite the sunburn, his face is beautiful and perfectly symmetric. I’m glad he doesn’t catch me staring.

  Dusk is settled on us now, and little flies circle over and around the fire, their gossamer wings catching the last of the sunlight. I wander over toward the stream and go behind a tree, keeping one eye on Xander the whole time. He perks up as I’m almost done. Great.

  “Jackie?” he says, sitting up on his elbows. I pull my pants up as quickly as I can, totally pink-faced.

  “Uh, yeah?” I croak.

  “The chicken’s burning!” he yelps.

  “Well, take it off then! But don’t you dare eat it,” I add sternly. I guess I’m not done messing with him yet.

  “Fine. What the hell are you doing?” he says.

  “Uh… I’m getting water,” I holler.

  “Oh. Jackie?”

  “What,” I say, as I’m dipping my hands into the water for a rinse. God, what I would give for some soap right now.

  “Can I eat some when you’re ready?”

  I don’t say anything for a second. Let him sweat it out. I still remember the nasty chipmunk he stashed in my bag at Astor. It’s his time to pay.

  I look over at him and stare into his eyes. They look devoid of emotion, completely worn-out. The need for retaliation suddenly seems unimportant. We are the only two souls standing here, after all. I offer him an olive branch. “Will you stop singing appallingly bad songs?”

  “Yes,” he says, a little too quickly.

  “Forever?”

  “Long as I’m with you, yes.”

  It’s quiet f
or a second. I’m scooping up brook water into the copper pot Deb gave me to set on the fire to boil. We need drinking water we can trust. As easy as Deb said it is to die from a bout of extreme diarrhea, I’m pretty sure it’s easier to die from the embarrassment of having it around a guy.

  “Okay. You can eat. But not until I get back.”

  “Done,” he says, shaking his fists in the air. The boys in Portland were always saying that when something crazy happened. Second base with the prom queen while her linebacker boyfriend was home sick? “Done.” Won a grand from the Oregon State Lotto? “Done.” It’s pretty much the most over-used expression ever, except for maybe “cool,” which has been around since my grandmother was my age.

  I put some river water in my copper pan and walk back toward the fire. Xander’s just sitting there, staring at the chicken. He looks weak, and there’s a pale, bluish tint to his skin.

  I put the pot of water into the fire to get it boiling. When I do, the flames crackle and sizzle, and little sparks shoot up and pop in the darkening air.

  “God,” Xander snaps. “Can we eat already? You’re driving me insane.”

  I flinch. “What? I’m driving you insane?”

  “Yes!” he shouts.

  I instantly regret my generosity. I close my eyes and take a breath so I don’t I punch him in the face, take the chicken, and run. It’s the hunger. Nobody’s this much of a douche in real life.

  “You know, you wouldn’t be eating anything but an occasional cockroach if I didn’t come along and save your ass,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even, “and I don’t owe you shit. Eat a rotting fucking chipmunk. You’re good at finding those, right?”

  Xander opens his mouth and tilts his head like he’s gonna spew some kind of apology, but I don’t want to hear it. I interrupt him.

  “Fine. I’m going to give you some of this bird, but if you’re not nice to me after I do, I swear on your mom, I will leave you in the dust.”

  “What?” he says, his voice hard and surprisingly cold. He sounds like he’s genuinely pissed.