Until the Beginning
Page 10
I prop myself up to see over the side of the truck. Miles is asleep under the blanket I draped over him last night. I shake him gently. “Miles?” I ask.
His eyelids flutter and open. He rolls his head toward me, and his groggy expression turns to one of alarm when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“We need to move,” I say. “A Blackwell Pharmaceutical plane just flew past. They were headed northward. But if they’re combing the park for us, they’ll be back soon, and might spot us this time.”
Miles clenches his hands into fists and strains as he lifts his head slightly off the truck bed. He holds the position for a second and then, groaning, eases his head back down. “I still can’t move,” he says.
“I could camouflage us,” I say, “but if they’re focusing on this area, I’ll have to either keep it up for hours or turn it off and on every time we hear them coming. And what we really need is to get out of here.”
“Can’t you just cover me with a blanket and hide in the tent next time they fly by?” Miles asks.
“The plane is flying low enough that they might notice a suspiciously person-shaped lump covered with a blanket in the back of a pickup truck.” I shake my head. “I’ll have to use the dirt bike loader to get you down.”
Decision made, I spring into action. Unhitching the back of the pickup, I pull it open and hop up into the bed. Miles presses his eyes shut as I shuffle him away from where the metal ramp is attached. I take it firmly in my hands to lift it off its supports, and . . . nothing. I yank it again. It doesn’t budge.
I wiggle it around, trying to get it unstuck, but it only becomes more firmly attached. I lean over to see that one of the pins the ramp hangs on is bent out of shape. I’ll need a hammer or some kind of wedge to bend it outward before the ramp will come free.
Far away, it sounds like the aircraft is turning. As the buzzing gradually becomes louder, my heart thuds hard against my rib cage. I feel my hands tremble and realize that I’m afraid. The close shave with the helicopters that kidnapped my clan, and my own traumatic experience in Mr. Blackwell’s private plane have shaken me. I break out in a cold sweat. Even if I tried to camouflage us now, I’m not sure I could reach the Yara in my current state of anxiety.
I jostle the ramp again and run through my inventory in my mind: There are some tools in my repair kit that might work. I’ll need to run back to the tent to get my pack. But the buzz of the plane is getting louder, and panic grabs me by the throat and squeezes hard.
I force myself to move, running for the tent. I eye my pack, but know there’s not enough time to use tools now. Instead, I grab the pillows and covers and, sprinting back to the truck, I spread them on the ground beneath the tailgate.
I roll Miles to the edge, and lying down on top of him, press my chest to his and wrap my arms and legs around his body. His eyes are wide with alarm. “Juneau, what are you trying to—” he begins, but I interrupt.
“Just shut up and try to relax any muscles that are working,” I say. And with all of my strength, I use my right arm and leg to wrench Miles’s body up from the truck bed, and roll us off the back of the tailgate. For a split second we are falling, and then we land hard, Miles on top of me.
The cushion I made from the pillow and blankets breaks the worst of the landing, but my breath is completely knocked out, and it takes all of my strength to push Miles off me and sit up. Five heartbeats go by and then I am gulping in air.
The plane is closing in—the sound is coming directly toward us. I scramble to haul Miles beneath the truck. His feet leave furrows in the dry earth. Scoot and pull. Scoot and pull. The truck sits high up on big wheels, giving me enough room to sit crouched over underneath it as I drag his body.
My mouth is full of dust as I grasp Miles under his arms and give one last pull, then I clamber forward to hide my legs and feet under the cover of the truck. The airplane is on top of us: Its insect whine fills my ears as it passes overhead and continues on southward.
I lie for a moment, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath. I cough, and my mouth tastes like dirt. I roll my head sideways to look at Miles, and there he is, inches away, his body turned slightly toward mine, arms limp by his side. His face is covered with sand, and there’s a large scratch on his forehead. He watches me with that wide-eyed look and then licks his dry lips. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, are you?” I ask, panting.
“Of course I’m okay,” he says. “I landed with my full weight on top of you. I’m surprised you weren’t crushed.”
I can’t talk, so I just shake my head as I close my eyes and press my chest hard with my palms. We are silent as the sound of the plane becomes distant and disappears.
My breathing slows to normal, and my heart no longer feels like it’s going to explode. A sliver of pain shoots up the back of my neck, blooming poppy red behind my eyes. I’m going to be very sore tonight.
“Juneau?” I hear Miles say.
“Yes,” I respond, turning toward him.
“You’re amazing,” he says, with an awestruck expression. “Trust me when I say you are, hands down, the toughest girl I’ve ever met. And I mean that as a compliment—in my most heartfelt please-don’t-hurt-me-anymore kind of way.” His teasing smile has returned, and this time it fills me with a happiness that makes me forget my aching back and mouthful of desert dust. This feels like complicity. Like we’re a team. Like we’re together.
His eyelids flutter and open. He rolls his head toward me, and his groggy expression turns to one of alarm when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“We need to move,” I say. “A Blackwell Pharmaceutical plane just flew past. They were headed northward. But if they’re combing the park for us, they’ll be back soon, and might spot us this time.”
Miles clenches his hands into fists and strains as he lifts his head slightly off the truck bed. He holds the position for a second and then, groaning, eases his head back down. “I still can’t move,” he says.
“I could camouflage us,” I say, “but if they’re focusing on this area, I’ll have to either keep it up for hours or turn it off and on every time we hear them coming. And what we really need is to get out of here.”
“Can’t you just cover me with a blanket and hide in the tent next time they fly by?” Miles asks.
“The plane is flying low enough that they might notice a suspiciously person-shaped lump covered with a blanket in the back of a pickup truck.” I shake my head. “I’ll have to use the dirt bike loader to get you down.”
Decision made, I spring into action. Unhitching the back of the pickup, I pull it open and hop up into the bed. Miles presses his eyes shut as I shuffle him away from where the metal ramp is attached. I take it firmly in my hands to lift it off its supports, and . . . nothing. I yank it again. It doesn’t budge.
I wiggle it around, trying to get it unstuck, but it only becomes more firmly attached. I lean over to see that one of the pins the ramp hangs on is bent out of shape. I’ll need a hammer or some kind of wedge to bend it outward before the ramp will come free.
Far away, it sounds like the aircraft is turning. As the buzzing gradually becomes louder, my heart thuds hard against my rib cage. I feel my hands tremble and realize that I’m afraid. The close shave with the helicopters that kidnapped my clan, and my own traumatic experience in Mr. Blackwell’s private plane have shaken me. I break out in a cold sweat. Even if I tried to camouflage us now, I’m not sure I could reach the Yara in my current state of anxiety.
I jostle the ramp again and run through my inventory in my mind: There are some tools in my repair kit that might work. I’ll need to run back to the tent to get my pack. But the buzz of the plane is getting louder, and panic grabs me by the throat and squeezes hard.
I force myself to move, running for the tent. I eye my pack, but know there’s not enough time to use tools now. Instead, I grab the pillows and covers and, sprinting back to the truck, I spread them on the ground beneath the tailgate.
I roll Miles to the edge, and lying down on top of him, press my chest to his and wrap my arms and legs around his body. His eyes are wide with alarm. “Juneau, what are you trying to—” he begins, but I interrupt.
“Just shut up and try to relax any muscles that are working,” I say. And with all of my strength, I use my right arm and leg to wrench Miles’s body up from the truck bed, and roll us off the back of the tailgate. For a split second we are falling, and then we land hard, Miles on top of me.
The cushion I made from the pillow and blankets breaks the worst of the landing, but my breath is completely knocked out, and it takes all of my strength to push Miles off me and sit up. Five heartbeats go by and then I am gulping in air.
The plane is closing in—the sound is coming directly toward us. I scramble to haul Miles beneath the truck. His feet leave furrows in the dry earth. Scoot and pull. Scoot and pull. The truck sits high up on big wheels, giving me enough room to sit crouched over underneath it as I drag his body.
My mouth is full of dust as I grasp Miles under his arms and give one last pull, then I clamber forward to hide my legs and feet under the cover of the truck. The airplane is on top of us: Its insect whine fills my ears as it passes overhead and continues on southward.
I lie for a moment, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath. I cough, and my mouth tastes like dirt. I roll my head sideways to look at Miles, and there he is, inches away, his body turned slightly toward mine, arms limp by his side. His face is covered with sand, and there’s a large scratch on his forehead. He watches me with that wide-eyed look and then licks his dry lips. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, are you?” I ask, panting.
“Of course I’m okay,” he says. “I landed with my full weight on top of you. I’m surprised you weren’t crushed.”
I can’t talk, so I just shake my head as I close my eyes and press my chest hard with my palms. We are silent as the sound of the plane becomes distant and disappears.
My breathing slows to normal, and my heart no longer feels like it’s going to explode. A sliver of pain shoots up the back of my neck, blooming poppy red behind my eyes. I’m going to be very sore tonight.
“Juneau?” I hear Miles say.
“Yes,” I respond, turning toward him.
“You’re amazing,” he says, with an awestruck expression. “Trust me when I say you are, hands down, the toughest girl I’ve ever met. And I mean that as a compliment—in my most heartfelt please-don’t-hurt-me-anymore kind of way.” His teasing smile has returned, and this time it fills me with a happiness that makes me forget my aching back and mouthful of desert dust. This feels like complicity. Like we’re a team. Like we’re together.
