The Variables

Dean had acquired a long, weathered piece of wood and was using it as a walking stick; he stopped and pointed down a side road that hugged the river. “I think we venture off the highway.”

“How close were we to Montana when the tire blew?” Darla asked as she reached into her backpack to consult a map. She put her finger along Highway 12, assessing how it bifurcated the state and took them straight into Missoula. They’d find a car before that, though. Tiny towns dotted the landscape, and Darla estimated they had to be nearing one of them.

“Close in a car or close on foot?” Dean clarified and then he shrugged. “Neither, really.”

“Fine. Stick close to the Lochsa River.” She tucked the map back into her bag.

“Come on, just a little bit to go, then,” Dean encouraged.

They worked their way down off the highway, and a mile down a small road called Indian Grave Creek, they found what they were looking for: a tiny town, complete with a one-room storehouse and four or five houses situated along the river. A quick assessment of the store was shocking. The shelves had been cleared. There was not a stray grain of rice, a rotting apple or a crumpled candy-bar wrapper in sight. It had been picked clean. Even the gum stand next to the cash register was empty.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Ainsley said as she wandered the aisles, and then she opened up one of the freezers. Poking her head inside, she inhaled and made a face. “I think this has been cleaned, too.”

“I’m done trying to figure out the basics of human behavior,” Darla replied, looking out the storefront window into the parking lot. No cars. “You can’t expect people to behave rationally or logically. As a matter of fact, expect chaos and crazies and you’ll never be disappointed.”

“Should we check out the houses?” Dean asked, pointing off toward the nice river homes sitting off in the distance. “Sleep in a bed tonight?”

Darla was quiet for a long time, and Ainsley and Dean watched her. Then she stepped out of the store and looked around. “No,” she called back inside. She walked back into the barren grocery and put her hand on an empty shelf. “I just can’t handle any discoveries...no gore, no bodies. I think we should get wood and make a fire in the parking lot, and sleep in the store if we get cold.”

“I don’t mind doing the search—” Dean said, but then he caught a glimpse of Darla’s exhaustion, the deep pockets forming under her eyes, her shoulders slumped as he suggested it. “Yeah, kid. Sure. Parking lot.”

“Get ready for some beans and barbeque-sauce,” Ainsley added in a dry, even voice. “It’s a party.”

The fire had died down to the coals, glowing red embers. Dean had popped the can of beans directly into the fire, perched on a bed of intricately placed sticks. They ate greedily, shoving di

Ainsley pulled out her Leaves of Grass book and thumbed through the pages. She tilted it upward so the words were visible by the firelight. After a moment, she held the book to her chest and watched the flames lick at their collected pile of sticks and shrubbery.

“This is taking too long,” Darla said to herself. She let her head collapse into her tucked-up knees. She mumbled, “First thing in the morning, a car. Then...no rest until Nebraska.”

“That was the original plan,” Dean reminded her. “We’re getting there.”

Ainsley sniffed. “I bet they have real food. Pizza. Donuts.”

Dean shifted his attention, “Where? In Nebraska?”

“Yeah,” Ainsley breathed airily. “Nebraska.” She smiled. “I’m going to dream of pizza.” She stretched her arms and stood up, yawning deeply, with a little squeal at the end, and then she wrapped her arms around her body she shivered. “Was there a bathroom inside?”

“Nope,” Darla replied. “Twenty feet to the shrubs over there...”

Ainsley turned and pivoted and bounced down the steps, she lowered her head and began to wander away from the fire and the moonlight. Watching her disappear into the brush, Darla took her own cue and stood up.

“I’m turning in, Dean,” she said. When Dean didn’t reply she looked over and found him nodding off, his head bobbing like a cork in the water.

From beyond the parking lot, Darla heard the snapping of twigs and the rustle of the brush. She was about to call out to Ainsley and tell her not to wander too far, but she paused. The sounds of a scuffle grew louder. And then she heard the scream.

Darla jumped, the hairs on her arm stood on end, and her heart began to race. Ainsley was screaming—loud and shrill, a solid cry for help. Then her shriek turned muffled, and slid further away, and the forest went quiet. It all happened so fast that Darla hadn’t even made her way off the porch. Dean heard it too and was up on his feet, reaching for his gun.

But before either of them could react, Darla felt her body seize. Every muscle tensed and went into shock, and Darla fell straight over, hitting her head against the railing. A splitting pain traveled from her temple to her jaw.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dean fall as well, his body vibrating against the wood, his mouth tight and rigid. His eyes rolled back in his head and she tried to scream, but her lungs wouldn’t take in or expel air.

When she was able to finally focus, Darla saw the black mask, and the green cylindrical filter. The eyes behind the filmy lenses were bright blue and wild: full of raw fear. Hands, covered in elbow-high gloves, reached out and patted her body. They discovered the gun and flung it out into the dirt. Her body started to correct itself and find its way back to normalcy, and she gasped for a breath, the pins and needles floated down her extremities. Darla took her wobbly arm and reached up at the face, but the masked person grabbed her arm and hoisted her upward and began to drag her down toward the fire. She thudded down the steps, her whole body hitting the wooden boards in turn.

Then Darla’s body drifted over Ainsley’s book, and she tried to reach for it, but her hands wouldn’t obey her brain’s commands. Stopping, the figure noticed Darla’s failed attempt and bent down and picked up the Walt Whitman. The person examined the outside cover briefly, and then tossed the book on to their fire where the small flames licked greedily at the thin pages, black tendrils of smoke filtered upward as the pages singed.

“No,” Darla breathed, but it sounded like a wheeze. “No.”

Without reply, the figure took a free hand and leaned down; something cold and metal jabbed into her neck and she thrashed wildly against it.

The stun gun incapacitated her again.

CHAPTER TEN

Darla’s limbs were shaking, and her heart beat rapidly inside her chest. She tried to process her surroundings in quick bursts as the Hazmat-suited kidnappers edged around her vision in their bright yellow and protruding gas masks. On the floor beside her, Ainsley curled up into a ball, unmoving, and behind them was Dean, his breathing ragged. The Taser-wielding people, one man and one woman from the looks of it, hovered above them, inspecting their victims with noiseless curiosity. Dean, Darla, and Ainsley were cornered, and an escape was out of the question.

The room was lit with candles, glowing and flickering against the wall, casting long shadows that crawled up to the ceiling. Upstairs a floorboard creaked; they were not alone.