The Host(38)

I loaded the water, one bottle at a time, into the pack, my motions unnecessarily deliberate; I added the remaining granola bars just as slowly. All the while, Melanie ached for me to hurry. Her impatience made it hard to think, hard to concentrate on anything. Like what was going to happen to us.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, she chanted until I lurched, stiff and awkward, out of the car. My back throbbed as I straightened up. It hurt from sleeping so contorted last night, not from the weight of the pack; the pack wasn’t that heavy when I used my shoulders to lift it.

Now cover the car, she instructed, picturing me ripping thorny branches from the nearby creosotes and palo verdes and draping them over the silver top of the car.

“Why?”

Her tone implied that I was quite stupid for not understanding. So no one finds us.

But what if I want to be found? What if there’s nothing out here but heat and dirt? We have no way to get home!

Home? she questioned, throwing cheerless images at me: the vacant apartment in San Diego, the Seeker’s most obnoxious expression, the dot that marked Tucson on the map… a brief, happier flash of the red canyon that slipped in by accident. Where would that be?

I turned my back on the car, ignoring her advice. I was in too far already. I wasn’t going to give up all hope of return. Maybe someone would find the car and then find me. I could easily and honestly explain what I was doing here to any rescuer: I was lost. I’d lost my way… lost my control… lost my mind.

I followed the wash at first, letting my body fall into its natural long-strided rhythm. It wasn’t the way I walked on the sidewalks to and from the university—it wasn’t my walk at all. But it fit the rugged terrain here and moved me smoothly forward with a speed that surprised me until I got used to it.

“What if I hadn’t come this way?” I wondered as I walked farther into the desert waste. “What if Healer Fords were still in Chicago? What if my path hadn’t taken us so close to them?”

It was that urgency, that lure—the thought that Jared and Jamie might be right here, somewhere in this empty place—that had made it impossible to resist this senseless plan.

I’m not sure, Melanie admitted. I think I might still have tried, but I was afraid while the other souls were near. I’m still afraid. Trusting you could kill them both.

We flinched together at the thought.

But being here, so close… It seemed like I had to try. Please—and suddenly she was pleading with me, begging me, no trace of resentment in her thoughts—please don’t use this to hurt them. Please.

“I don’t want to.… I don’t know if I can hurt them. I’d rather…”

What? Die myself? Than give a few stray humans up to the Seekers?

Again we flinched at the thought, but my revulsion at the idea comforted her. And it frightened me more than it soothed her.

When the wash started angling too far toward the north, Melanie suggested that we forget the flat, ashen path and take the direct line to the third landmark, the eastern spur of rock that seemed to point, fingerlike, toward the cloudless sky.

I didn’t like leaving the wash, just as I’d resisted leaving the car. I could follow this wash all the way back to the road, and the road back to the highway. It was miles and miles, and it would take me days to traverse, but once I stepped off this wash I was officially adrift.

Have faith, Wanderer. We’ll find Uncle Jeb, or he’ll find us.

If he’s still alive, I added, sighing and loping off my simple path into the brush that was identical in every direction. Faith isn’t a familiar concept for me. I don’t know that I buy into it.

Trust, then?

In who? You? I laughed. The hot air baked my throat when I inhaled.

Just think, she said, changing the subject, maybe we’ll see them by tonight.

The yearning belonged to us both; the image of their faces, one man, one child, came from both memories. When I walked faster, I wasn’t sure that I was completely in command of the motion.

It did get hotter—and then hotter, and then hotter still. Sweat plastered my hair to my scalp and made my pale yellow T-shirt cling unpleasantly wherever it touched. In the afternoon, scorching gusts of wind kicked up, blowing sand in my face. The dry air sucked the sweat away, crusted my hair with grit, and fanned my shirt out from my body; it moved as stiffly as cardboard with the dried salt. I kept walking.

I drank water more often than Melanie wanted me to. She begrudged me every mouthful, threatening me that we would want it much more tomorrow. But I’d already given her so much today that I was in no mood to listen. I drank when I was thirsty, which was most of the time.