Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
The third thunk against the tree—against their snowboards!
—made them scream again, their bodies tremoring, knees yielding enough for matted strands of damp white fur to slip between their snowboards before they both pushed with their feet, driving it back, like trying to prevent a wall from toppling.
Their screams rang inside the small hollow, both sisters waiting for the Beast to grab one of them by the leg. Or both.
But the dead old tree went still. The only sound was their shrieking.
Imani tasted blood. She thought she had bitten her tongue, but sourness flooded her mouth and throat from inside, not from an injury.
Maybe nearly dying had a taste. She had witnessed her own death, seeing the Beast so close.
Her body vibrated with the memory of the Beast thumping against their feet.
Their legs still trembled as they braced their boards.
Neither of them spoke for what seemed like a revolution around the sun, their breaths heaving.
The space felt tighter and colder while they waited for the Beast’s return.
Sharise reached for her jacket, which was behind Imani, and zipped it back on.
Her snowboard shifted slightly when she moved. Her shallow breaths jittered.
“Maybe it left?” she whispered.
“Or it’s waiting.”
Sharise gave Imani a deflated, disdained look.
People thought animals were stupid, but ordinary animals were much smarter in their habitats than most people thought—and the Beast was not ordinary.
It had opened Mom’s car door. It had recognized the rifle as a threat.
And it probably was counting on them to believe it was safe to leave their shelter.
Hell, no. This was the safest Imani had felt since the RAV.
She might never want to leave this miracle tree.
“It’s so cold in here,” Sharise said, trembling beside her.
“It’s not colder—we’re just not moving anymore.” Imani wanted to say, Stop complaining, but she didn’t have the energy to pretend they were still playing the same lifelong roles from yesterday. Sharise the Whiny Bitch. Imani the Wild Child. Barely a memory now.
Instead, Imani wrestled her thoughts to her backpack, imagining the contents.
“I have emergency blankets,” she said.
“Of course you do.” The old Sharise would have been sarcastic, but instead she shuddered with gratitude. “Do you have water?”
Imani shook her head. How was it possible that they had only been without water for a couple of hours?
It seemed like days! Sharise must have been feeling the same sharp thirst making Imani’s throat so dry that it was hard to swallow.
Compared to this, she had never been thirsty.
She couldn’t think of a close second place, or a distant one.
She couldn’t think of the last words she’d said to Mom. Or Dad.
She couldn’t think of the last words they’d said to her.
She couldn’t think of what color the rented RAV was. Was it white, or was that the abandoned Jeep? Was their house in Baldwin Hills painted peach, or painted orange? What color was the paint in their foyer at home? Imani’s old life felt imaginary, pieces shuffled and lost.
Was she remembering Mom in that red robe, or only Mazelle’s portrait on the wall?
“Let’s rest our legs,” she said to make her thoughts quiet. Only actions soothed her.
They arranged their snowboards one atop the other so they would stay in place without the support of their legs. They both scooted as far as they could from the hollow’s blocked opening, in case the Beast’s teeth pushed through while they rested.
Quickly, Imani studied the space with her flashlight, which was still on, illuminating the side of the hollow, making their shadows large.
This gap inside the full width of the tree jutted back a couple feet farther than they could fit because it grew so narrow, vanishing to a thin dark maw.
Their compartment was cramped, but it was large enough for them to sit up with their legs crossed if Sharise stooped.
Maybe three feet high, four feet deep before it narrowed, more than five feet across right after the gap. No wind, no leaks. The perfect shelter.
Imani leaned closer to see the rear, where that thick bed of twigs and pine needles was arranged in a way that didn’t feel random.
“Some kind of animal lived here,” Imani said.
“I’m just glad we found it,” Sharise said. “It’s dry.”
Imani propped up her flashlight to spill the contents of her backpack on the packed, mossy soil between them.
She’d felt overprepared when they left home, but now their supplies seemed woefully slim.
First aid kit in a black zippered case with pills, bandages, and gels.
Compass. Emergency blankets. A whistle. Two protein bars as heavy as bricks.
Three-inch red pocketknife with a can opener. Why hadn’t she brought a better weapon?
Sharise eagerly unfolded a silver blanket, which was supposed to be big enough for two, but barely stretched across her shoulders. “It looks like tinfoil,” she said.
“It stores like ninety percent of body heat. I’m gonna give one to Mom.”
Sharise stared up at Imani with pursed lips and then whispered, “Good idea.”
Sharise was polite enough not to mention that they didn’t know where Mom was, or that they were trapped inside a dead tree.
But Imani could feel her not mentioning it.
She felt sorry for Sharise for not believing.
But Mom couldn’t be gone. It wasn’t possible.
They just had to survive long enough to find her.
Imani gasped with sudden panic. She fumbled to search inside the backpack.
“What?” Sharise said, alarmed without knowing why yet.
Where was her firestarter? Imani was sure she’d grabbed it when Daddy was scared and told them they had to rush outside to the RAV. The backpack’s outer pockets were empty except for a pack of Claritin for her allergies, a packet of Kleenex, and a handful of leftover Tootsie Rolls from Halloween.
“Do you have your lighter?” Imani asked Sharise.
Sharise shook her head sadly. “I never grabbed the rest of my stuff.”
Neither of them talked about how Mom kept asking Sharise why she had a lighter, or about her hidden stash of weed. Last night’s echoes filled Imani’s stomach with acid.
“I can’t find my firestarter,” Imani said, her tears already flowing. Now she was the one shivering as if the temperature had dipped below zero. The wrongness of this day was an endless assault. “I g-grabbed it from the fireplace before we left. How did I lose it? I’m so stupid!”
“Calm down, okay?” Sharise said, stroking Imani’s shoulder. “You’re not stupid. I saw you grab it. Did you check your pockets?”
Imani wanted to scream at Sharise that she would know if it was in her pocket, but when she patted her back pocket, she felt the firestarter’s solid bulk, the size of her pocketknife.
She pulled it out, blinking fast because she could hardly believe it was in her hand.
The firestarter’s rod looked like a smooth cylindrical key strung to a grooved steel striker.
It was scarred from her backyard practice and lighting the fireplace last night.
“See?” Sharise said. “I knew you had it.”
“I’m gonna make a fire,” Imani said. “A lot of animals are afraid of fire, like wolves.” She couldn’t remember if bears or lions were afraid of fire too. Or bats. What animals did this Beast share characteristics with?
“There’s nowhere for the smoke to go.”
“Not in here—just outside,” Imani said. “Under that little ledge to protect it from the snow.” With any luck, building a fire at their shelter’s entrance would both keep the Beast out and invite in more warmth.
If they were here a long time, maybe they could figure out a way to get to that creek and find water to drink.
All she needed was an old tin can, and they could boil it.
Most of the twigs in the rear of the trunk were thin, but a few larger sticks were buried in the nest. Those would be the foundation of her fire.
She made stacks of wood of different sizes, organizing her project.
She would arrange larger branches outside in a firepit.
Inside, she would delicately flick her firestarter on a soft nest of kindling until it caught.
Then she would transfer the burning pine needles into her waiting tower of twigs.
She had seen it a million times on TV. She had practiced it a dozen times in her backyard.
“It’s gonna take time,” Imani said. “I’ll get the sparks in here first. But remember how long it took last night.”
“We have time,” Sharise said.
Imani hoped that was true. The Beast’s snout might crash past their snowboards and try to bite them if they were caught off guard. It might attack despite their fire.
Sharise helped Imani gather old pine needles for the tinder pile until they had a mound. Most survivalists Imani had seen on YouTube used birds’ nests, which held together better, but pine needles would catch a spark and probably burn fast. She was glad she had a lot of them.
“Can you push your feet up against the board again?” Imani said. “We need a firepit.”
“But fast, okay?” Sharise said. “I can’t hold it back by myself.”
While Sharise propped up the higher board with her boots, Imani peeked outside to see if there were signs of the Beast. Her limbs were tense, expecting an attack.
The Beast’s tracks outside of their shelter made a wide, uneven V shape, maybe from its arrival and departure.
And none of the nearby snow looked deep enough to hide it.
Imani surveyed the pine grove they had traveled through and the rocky escarpment maybe fifty yards away.
New snowfall halfway coated their footprints already.
“Is it there?” Sharise whispered.
Imani found a nearby stone and tossed it out into the snow to trigger a response, just to be sure. The stone sank out of sight, but barely. Not that deep. Nothing moved. “I don’t see it.”
“Please do what you need to do and be careful.”