Earthbound e-1 Page 15

  Quinn is like a will-o’-the-wisp, always ten feet ahead no matter how fast or slow I walk. I’ve given up trying to catch him; it only makes him go faster. Better to focus on not running into bushes or low-hanging branches—I already have one stinging scrape on my cheek.

  The fear I pushed away when I started following Quinn is back. Even if Quinn won’t hurt me, I’m completely exposed. Not to mention that I’ve left Benson totally unprotected. If anyone found the car—Sunglasses Guy, Elizabeth, hell, who knows how many people are looking for me—they could easily off Benson and then put a bullet in my head from behind.

  Worst of all, in this forest, my body might never be found.

  The thought sends a new chill up my spine and I clench my fists and force myself to pick up the pace. It’s too late to turn back—I’m just going to have to deal with the consequences.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We walk—Quinn heading roughly back in the direction of Camden, but still deep within the trees—for what feels like hours. With nearly numb fingers I check the time on my phone.

  I left the car almost an hour ago. I’m so cold I can hardly move my toes, and it’s snowing hard enough I can barely see Quinn just a few feet in front of me.

  “Quinn,” I call softly, jogging forward to try to catch up with him yet again. “I can’t go on much longer,” I say, surprised when he lets me draw close. “How far is it?”

  But he’s silent, still. I look around, my light flashing narrow beams over the dense forest. We’ve got to be almost two miles from the car, but other than that, I have no idea where I am. I try not to think about how cold I’m going to be by the time I get back.

  Or how far up the sun will be.

  “There are people—” I stagger and have to take a second to right myself. “People following me. Shooting at me. I can’t just wander off like this. My … friend Benson is still back at the car. Quinn!” I whisper-yell, but my voice is muffled by the fresh powder.

  A mound of earth covered in snow, with withered grass barely poking up through it, catches my attention as my light skims over it, and even as I take a step toward it, Quinn is moving with me.

  “This way,” he whispers. He gestures to the small hill and I walk, leaves and snow crunching beneath my feet.

  Suddenly my feet break through some kind of weedy covering and I fall on my butt, with my legs sunk to my knees in foliage.

  “I crafted these steps specifically to blend in.” Quinn’s voice is quiet above me.

  “Well, thanks for the warning,” I mutter, the cold taking its toll on my attitude. I can already feel the soft snow melting through my jeans, soaking my underwear. Fabulous. This midnight stroll had better lead somewhere good. My patience is past the wearing thin point, and hypothermia is not going to improve my mood.

  Quinn says nothing, just looks off into the distance as I clear away enough debris to make my way down six stone steps that end in front of a weather-worn door that looks like it was laid right against the hill. Shelter, finally.

  I pause as something prickles at my awareness. I study the door and the stairs, covered with old leaves and sticks. Despite knowing where this place is, Quinn hasn’t actually come down these steps. At least not recently. You can’t fake this kind of overgrowth. “Why didn’t you come here before?” I ask, staring at an elaborate locking mechanism. “Maybe clear things away before you came to get me?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  I give myself a moment to stare back, to let that liquid heat in his gaze slip into me and warm my chest. Just for a moment—I’m so cold—then I turn regretfully away and try to open the round latch.

  “It’s locked.” I wonder if this whole trip was for nothing and try to tamp down my frustration.

  “You can unlock it. Anytime you desire.”

  “How about now?” I mutter. My toes and fingers are starting to ache and I wish I could get out of the wind, even for just a few minutes. I’m wondering briefly if I can simply make heat, or maybe just something that produces heat, but I shy away from the idea. I’m not desperate yet; and with my track record I’d probably burn down the whole forest, and Camden with it. Quinn’s voice breaks into my dreary thoughts.

  “I’ll talk you through it this time, Becca.”

  “Tavia!” I correct through chattering teeth, wanting to lash out at him. I laid my very life on the line to get to him—not to mention Benson’s—and he calls me the wrong name. I fight down the urge to just leave. But then this whole escapade really would be a complete waste. I need to know what’s behind this door. But frustration simmers in the back of my head.

  More than simmers. Boils.

  Maybe that will keep me warm.

  “See the four pegs?” he asks.

  I look down and notice that there are four iron pegs in a deep niche just above the strange lock. I blow on my hands to warm them, then reach for the pegs. They’re the same width, but each one is a different length. I crouch down beside the door and shine my light. There are six holes in the lock, just the right size for the pegs.

  “The longest goes in the third one down,” Quinn says, and I fumble for the pegs, slipping the longest into the small hole, having to jiggle it a little before it snaps into place.

  Quinn talks me through the next three pegs and when they’re all in, I grasp a large knob and turn it clockwise until I hear something metal click. My hands touch the surface of the door but are so numb I don’t feel anything.

  I push, but nothing happens. In the end I have to ram my shoulder against the door before it pops open a few inches with a squeal that cuts the silent night air. I try not to consider all the people who could have heard that who would love to kill me right now.

  When I glance back, Quinn doesn’t look nearly as nervous as me, but then, he knows what’s going on. Freed from the time-shrunken door frame, the ancient door swings on its squeaky iron hinges. The sound grates in my eardrums and I open it just enough for Quinn and me to slip through.

  The scent of mold and paper and damp dirt hits my nose in a pungent wave. I gag and then cough as I pull in another lungful of the musty air and remind myself how glad I am to be out of the falling snow and swirling wind. I flash my light around, but the beam is too small to make out much. Crates, mostly. What look like books bound in thick brown paper but torn through on the corners. Chewed through, maybe.

  Don’t even think about that.

  Or the fact that my phone’s battery is going to give out any minute. Maybe I could make a flashlight? Do I know how to make a flashlight? I grit my teeth—I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Hopefully I won’t have to.

  There’s a long wooden table, covered with grainy clumps of dirt—probably from the root-braided ceiling—strewn with papers and several items I’m not close enough to identify, like whoever made the place left in a hurry. I step forward, my feet silent in the warm, soft-floored burrow.

  A book, several scattered bits of paper, some pieces of tarnished silver jewelry. Coins.

  Coins?

  I squint at them, then pick one up. The metal is heavy in my hand. Solid gold. I don’t think these are actual money, but I feel like a thief even touching one. The ice-cold surface seems to burn into my palm.

  I set it back down and turn to the open book instead.

  It’s covered with the same layer of dirt as the rest of the table, and I lean closer to flick the rubble away from one of the pages, trying not to smudge it into the fragile paper. I wish I had some kind of brush or cloth.

  My light shines near my fingers and my mind catches several of the words before I’ve cleared them.

  Like you this way.

  A tingle of warning jets through my belly and I hold my breath, trying not to show any kind of reaction as I clear more of the dirt away, my eyes straining to read the faded, curlicued cursive.

  Before I could stop him, he touched my cheek and whispered, “You’re beautiful, you know that? I like you this way.” Never has a man spoken
to me thusly!

  My breathing is ragged and tight, but my eyes are already darting ahead.

  Especially not Mr. Quinn Avery, whom every girl in town is pining for, though he be only a newcomer. I should have struck his face, walked away, shamed him. But I only stood, as though spelled there. Mayhap I was. Spelled by those green eyes.

  I refuse to look back at Quinn—it can’t possibly actually be his name, not after this. Pretending I saw nothing, I gingerly flip the pages, looking for the title page.

  I know what I’m going to find, but I need one more scrap of proof. My fingers are shaking as I turn to that front page and read the name etched there.

  Rebecca Fielding.

  Becca.

  I whirl around to face Quinn before he can do whatever sinister thing he has planned, my phone held up like a weapon. But my beam of light shows an empty space where Quinn was standing. I haven’t decided if he’s a run-of-the-mill stalker/murderer, or maybe in league with Sunglasses Guy and whoever else is chasing me, but I am not waiting for him to come back.

  Sweeping up the journal, I run for the entrance, bursting out without bothering to close the door. I have to get to Benson!

  I stop.

  My footprints are completely gone.

  A good couple of inches of unbroken snow has covered everything in the brief time I was in the dugout and now I have nothing to follow. I’m disoriented, but I have a fuzzy sense of which direction we came in. As long as I keep running that way, I should—at worst—pop out on the main road.

  I’ll be able to find Benson from there. Hopefully, before I freeze to death. And before the people hunting us find me.

  I don’t even know which people that means anymore.

  My ears strain for the sound of footsteps behind me as I tear through the forest, not bothering to keep quiet. My leg throbs and my lungs ache from the frosty air, and it’s all I can do to keep running at all. The snowflakes sting my already-freezing face and blur the forest all around me until I feel like I’m running in circles.

  Maybe I am.

  Gratitude fills me when I see lights peeking between the tall tree trunks, and in a shorter amount of time than I thought possible, I’m back on the road.

  But I’m not safe.

  I’m on the wrong side of Camden; that’s why I got to the road so quickly. In order to reach Benson, I’m going to have to go all the way through the middle of the city.

  There’s no other option. I have to keep running.

  It’s past two in the morning now and the streets are full of ghostly silence and a few drunk people, probably wending their way back to chintzy bed-and-breakfasts. I stand out, I’m sure. But I suspect no one will stop me unless they see a tall guy in Revolutionary War era clothing chasing me.

  And then he’ll be caught.

  And he won’t be able to bother me again.

  I hate that tears are streaking down my face, making icy lines along my cheekbones. I was so certain—every instinct within me screamed that I could trust Quinn. It’s bad enough when you can’t trust your family or your therapist. Now I can’t even trust myself.

  Maybe I never could.

  My body is so exhausted I can barely see when I finally get to the other side of the town. The sidewalk ends and turns into a crumbly shoulder thick with wet mounds of new snow and my feet skid out from under me. I can’t think of a word bad enough to express the agony that shoots up my hip when I land hard on my side, so I clamp my teeth down against a weak whimper instead. I take one second—maybe only half a second—to sweep my eyes back, peering into the flake-speckled darkness behind me.

  A hint of movement.

  Quinn?

  I don’t know, but I’m on my feet and running again before my mind can process whatever my eyes did or didn’t see.

  Finally I reach the road where we parked the car. Every muscle in my body hurts, and my hands are so numb they can hardly grip the keys as I dig them out of my pocket. I throw the door open and crash into the driver’s seat, my finger instantly pushing the lock button. I’m still fumbling the keys into the ignition when Benson’s voice reaches my ears.

  “What’s wrong?” he demands, not sounding particularly sleepy. “What happened?”

  “Quinn found me; we’re leaving.”

  “Quinn? But you”—he hesitates, then adds in a small voice—“you came here because of Quinn; you … you like him.”

  “Not anymore,” I say, but the pain in my chest calls me a liar.

  My lungs burn and my leg muscles complain as I press on the gas pedal, forcing myself to stay within the speed limit, grateful to be alive.

  I should never have come to Camden. I’m so stupid. Quinn’s never been trustworthy—never given me the time of day. Why did I think this time would be different?

  My entire body is filled with the deepest, most mournful sorrow I’ve ever experienced. Somehow worse even than the moment I realized my parents were dead. The world swirls around me and I want to scream, to curse the universe for taking him from me, just as I was getting a taste.

  I want to cry, but I’m past the point.

  He’s gone.

  I’m alone.

  And a part of my heart I never knew shatters.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I focus on the news on the television the next morning. Anything to keep from looking at Benson. There are more victims of the mystery virus—these ones in a small town in Texas. It makes me think of Jay. Mark. Whatever the hell his name actually is. I wonder briefly if he really was working on the virus or if that was a lie too.

  “We can find no connection between the victims or their towns. No common threads whatsoever,” the reporter says, staring into the camera like this is the most important story in history.

  Who knows, maybe it is.

  I flinch as the chime on the front door dings, and I try to turn and look without being too obvious. Just some guy in Wranglers. His eyes drift by me before his face lights up and he waves at a woman waiting in a booth.

  I let myself breathe again.

  “Okay. I’m done,” Benson says, smacking his hand down on the table.

  I jump at the noise, nearly spilling my tea.

  “Tave,” Benson says, softer now. Probably because everyone in the dinky little restaurant is looking at us. Waitresses included. The whole restaurant is way too intimate for my taste—it’s like one of those diners you see in old movies, the tables so close together that you can just turn your head and join in someone else’s conversation.

  Which I have no doubt happens frequently.

  I’m not sure what town we’re in. Last night I just drove until I felt safe. Not safe, but safe enough to sleep.

  For a little while. As much as one can in wet jeans.

  Benson didn’t ask questions, but I had the sinking feeling he hadn’t actually slept much while I was gone.

  And judging by the shifting of our bodies once I found a new place to park, neither of us slept much in the wee hours of the morning, either.

  When the sun came up, I could see I had brought us to another oldish town like Camden—a throwback to the fifties with the addition of smart phones. I think they do it on purpose, actually—bright storefronts, rocking chairs in front of the shops. I even saw a guy sweeping his sidewalk.

  The people here look set in their ways, and I bet most of them don’t even have to order their breakfast anymore. My regular, Flo, I can hear them saying in my head. And she just nods and brings it out because the cook already had it made.

  “Please, talk to me.” Benson reaches for my hand.

  I flinch away before my weary mind comes back to the present.

  “I haven’t pushed; I’ve tried to give you space. I haven’t asked any of the million questions I have about everything we learned yesterday. But you brought us out to Camden, and don’t try to tell me that was some random decision,” he says, cutting off a protest I didn’t even have the energy to make. “I know it had something to do with Quinn. So I
waited; I trusted that you had a reason not to tell me. Then you snuck off in the middle of the night under the pretense of a bathroom break and came back two hours later—yes, I noticed and worried about you every second since by the time I realized you were not, in fact, peeing, I couldn’t follow you—covered in snow and half frozen and said you found Quinn and you don’t like him anymore—which, just so you know, I’m totally in support of—and proceeded to drive like a crazy person for two hours and then conk out in the front seat in some waffle place parking lot in the middle of nowhere without saying a word. Talk, Maple Bar.”

  I have to smile a little at his pastry nickname.

  “There we go,” he whispers, touching my bottom lip. “Come on. You’ll feel better if you tell me.” I feel his fingertip rub under my eye, and it’s the first time I notice there are tears rolling down my cheeks.

  Benson hesitates for a moment, then scoots off the bench and comes over to my side of the booth and wraps both arms around me, squeezing me tight against him.

  “Go ahead, cry it out. My shirt needs to be washed anyway.”

  I giggle and hiccup, and that just makes me laugh and cry all at the same time. For a few minutes we sit, my face buried against Benson’s shoulder, his arms tight around me. “You must think I’m so stupid.”

  “Nah,” he says, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, but it’s still too short to stay. “People do irrational things for the people they love all the time.” He pauses, then adds in a whisper, “Really stupid things.” I look up when he stops speaking, but after a few seconds he squishes me a little harder.

  I give him a sort-of smile, but I don’t really feel it. When I woke up this morning, curled unnaturally into the front seat with my knees braced against the steering wheel, every muscle in my body ached. On top of that, now I have a long scab across my face from a tree branch. My legs are sore from running and my arms from simply being terrified.