On the sand road he forced himself into a painful jog trot. Through the constant background noise of insects he heard the unmistakable single-note wordless Johnny Cash song of a male gator, so low and powerful it made his back prickle. He heard the creaky complaint of a disturbed heron. Then he heard the distant thrum of an engine and the scrunch of tires on sand. Vehicle approaching. Nobody drove through the swamp at this time of night with any good intention; even if it was not Stoat, it had to be alligator poachers or drug dealers or some other kind of slime with a crime to hide. Instantly, without needing to think about it, Justin lengthened his stride to run off the road into the woods, crashing through brush like a deer. And seeing headlights between the trees now, afraid to be caught in their white beams, he dropped to the ground, or rather shallow water, behind palmettos. He did not care what he might disturb there, poisonous spiders, scorpions, snakes, whatever, because he was more afraid of Stoat than any of those things. He could not see the vehicle, but at least he felt pretty sure whoever was in it could not see him, because he kept his head down and he wore the old green baseball hat that Lee had found.
Good thing. The passing vehicle, with a coughing, wheezy engine, really sounded like Stoat’s van.
But that may have been because he had Stoat on his mind, Justin told himself. After it had driven past and he could no longer hear it, he got back onto the road and on his way, running as long as he could, then slowing to a walk, then running again.
During the night he hid from two more vehicles, getting himself wet and grimy in the process. When daylight began to intrude on night’s protective darkness, Justin thought it would be a good idea for him to get off the road, now that he had come close to the edge of swampland. Instead of sheets of scummy water, he saw a real creek meandering through forest that sometimes flooded, judging by the splayed trunks of the trees, but right now was dry. Almost as dry as his mouth. In a kind of mental dawning, an epiphany, Justin allowed himself to recognize that he was very thirsty.
The water in the creek ran clear. He could drink it.
Picking his way through the woods to get there, Justin discovered that he was also very weary, so fatigued that he wobbled on his feet. And when he crouched to drink, he very nearly toppled into the creek. Bracing himself with one hand, he managed to cup water in the other and slowly drink his fill. Then he would have liked to bathe, but he felt as if he might drown if he tried. So exhausted. Falling-down tired. Could barely keep his eyes open.
And no wonder, he realized foggily. When had he last slept? Not this past night, and not the one before either; then he had been hiding from Stoat in the river. And the two nights before that, he’d stayed awake to feed Lee.
Sheesh, thought Justin, yawning as if he would dislocate his jaw. Definitely it was time for a nap, if he could find a safe place.
Luck favored him. Farther up the creek bank he spotted an old, leaf-littered, and very likely forgotten wooden rowboat beached upside down. Justin waded along the edge of the creek so he could get to it without struggling through thorny vines. Once there, he used what felt like the last of his strength to tilt one side of it off the ground and peer at the bare earth underneath, checking for snakes or scorpions.
A few beetles scurried away and a few worms squirmed their way out of sight. Nothing he couldn’t deal with under the circumstances.
Whispering, “Sweet!” Justin crawled underneath the rowboat and let it drop back to the ground so that it formed a carapace over him, a big high-domed wooden tortoise shell. Lying on soft, sandy earth in sheltered darkness felt heavenly. Closing his eyes, Justin told himself he would sleep just a few hours, until the heat of the day awoke him. . . .
• • •
Sweating, Justin awoke from sleep so deep he could not at first recall where he was, especially when it was so dark he couldn’t see a thing. He explored with his hands, and his fingertips encountered wooden planks.
Duh. No wonder it was dark, under a rowboat; he remembered now. How long had he slept? His gut growled like a predator. He had to get home and find something to eat.
Crouching in the boat’s dark belly, he pressed his shoulders against the thing and heaved. Flipping it like a road-killed armadillo, he stood straight up. But the darkness surrounding him remained. He felt a breeze cool his sweaty body, heard it soughing in trees all around him, then looked up between their boughs and glimpsed stars.
“Jesus,” he said, incredulous, “it’s nighttime again.” Could be just after dark, could be late night, could be nearly morning. No way to tell. He’d wasted a whole day.
Which wouldn’t have mattered if he had brought food with him. But he hadn’t. He’d expected to reach home—well, Stoat’s place, assuming he could elude Stoat—before he got really hungry. But now he felt as if his guts had grown teeth and were gnawing him from inside.