The Well's End (9 page)

I shove down the image of him folded in wrinkles and coughing up blood. “We won't, Jo. He'll know what to do. He
told
us to come.”

She rubs her face with her hand, her purple sparkling nail polish at odds with how we're all feeling. “Whatever, Mia. He's your dad. You decide if you want to infect him.”

I'm stung by her words, but try to let them go, considering what she's just gone through. Rob's pretending not to watch the exchange. He's putting on his deep brown North Face jacket and fiddling with the zipper. When we don't say anything for a while, he glances at me.

“I've been on the roof with some of the others,” he says. “It's true, they've got us fully wrapped in soldiers.”

I frown and go to the window, peer out toward the gates and see an armored vehicle parked there, spotlights set high, shining across the walls. “Where are they the thinnest?” I ask, though I already have a strong hunch about this. It's integral to the plan.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “At the lake.”

And why wouldn't they be? Jo and I share a look. The lake makes up a section of the eastern border of the school. It's more of a frozen pond, really, but big enough to hold crew practice in and to ice-skate on for fun.

“How many?”

“Five,” he replies instantly. Rob's never wrong about numbers. “One patrolling the school side, four in the woods beyond. Looks like they'd rather steer clear of us.”

“We all have skates?” I ask, worrying more about Brayden than anyone else. It's practically mandatory for every kid in this area of Colorado to have skates. They nod anyway. Rob says he'll be right back and runs to get his.

In that moment, our first alone, I check in on Jo. “Are you okay?” I ask lamely. But what else can I do? I'm distracted by the need to get moving, by my own nagging guilt at us being here still, by the new kid who's packing downstairs. I realize that I'm not the only one with a single parent here. I'm worried about getting to Dad while Jo gets to realize that her mother, Nancy, is at home, oblivious to her husband's death.

But she doesn't have any idea of what's going on in my head. She only sees me asking, sees the concern in my face. She smiles sadly and says something I would never have imagined: “Let's just get out of here first, then do all the ‘are you okay?' stuff.” I kiss her hand and then we turn, energized, to pack our things and grab our skates.

There's a knock on the door, which means it can't be Rob. I smile and rush to open it, but it's not Brayden either. Instead, Odessa and Jimmy are there, both with bags, Odessa with a Tumi roller. They hurry inside.

“What are you two doing?” I ask, freaking out, imagining our escape blown.

“After all my late-night parties, you of all people,” Odessa says, sitting on my bed, “know how thin these walls are.” She smiles her innocent smile, but I can tell how worried she is. Her bright red hair is tucked haphazardly in a bun and she's chewing her lips, gnawing at them.

Jimmy looks even bigger than usual, his heavy down jacket like a comforter wrapped around his shoulders. He has a wool cap on his head and looks like an Inuit. The door opens, and there's Rob, who peers at them and then—it's almost funny—his shoulders sag as he accepts their arrival.

“Odessa,” Jo says, zipping up her backpack, “we're going, you're not. I'm sorry. That's too many of us. You'll be fine here.”

Jimmy shakes his head, his jacket rustling loudly. “No way. Not after Devin. Not after all the crazy that's gone down.”

I feel my hands go moist. I look at Rob. “What happened to Devin?”

But Rob doesn't answer, his face suddenly haggard, and instead it's Jimmy again, his eyes out the window. “He's started to get weird. Something's happening to him. His voice went all deep, and he started losing hair on his head.”

“It took ten minutes,” Rob says, agreeing with Jimmy in a quiet voice. “I watched it happen.”

“Is he dead?” I ask, fearing the worst.

Rob shakes his head. “No, he just looks like a guy who's prematurely balding. It's weird, like he's suddenly thirty-five years old.” That's odd, I think. He's not dead, just aging. He might have been bound to go bald as an adult. I guess since he was younger, he has more time to age?

“We're not staying here,” Odessa says, looking as earnest as I've ever seen. She pulls on a tight red Gore-Tex jacket and a pair of earmuffs that look like headphones. Her freckles pucker in worry. “Mia . . . we just want to go home.”

“Since when has that been the case?” Rob asks. He's never really liked Odessa.

“What?” she snaps back at him. “You aren't worried about your parents? I'm not allowed to care about my family?” He looks chastised and ducks his head. She's staring at me, entreating me to understand.

“What if you're infected?” Jo barks, angry, unmoved, bringing up the argument we just had, and I can tell she's unable to bear speaking of someone else's parents. “What if you give them the virus?”

“What do you mean, virus?” Jimmy asks, his face alarmed.

“What did you see in the school?” Odessa asks at the same time. “Is it true? Are they dead? It's a virus?” I realize that she looks different, and it takes me a moment to get that she's not wearing makeup. Wow, it's been years since I've seen that. More important, I understand that she's not messing around with us. She's serious, scared and looking for help. I don't want all of us to fight, and I don't want to have to explain everything we saw in the school, to keep bringing up Mr. Banner in front of Jo, so I search my closet and pull out an extra Arc'teryx backpack and throw it at Odessa.

“We don't know if it's a virus, but it looks that way. Drop the rollie, fill this up. Jimmy, go get your skates and Odessa's. And some water. Hurry.”

Just then another knock. We freeze, but Rob peeks through the eyehole, gives a thumbs-up and opens the door. Brayden's there, the only one smart enough to dress all in black. His thick eyebrows shoot up at the numbers in our room, but I'm just as surprised that he's brought his own skates. Surprised and, almost irrationally, proud. Even Jimmy grunts, gives him a bump on the way out.

“Got everything?” I ask.

“Think so.” He turns to Odessa. “Hi, I'm Brayden. Newly designated townie.”

Odessa's smile is firm and confident, her usual self. “Welcome to the club. We're the only real people at Westbrook.” She always says that sarcastically, but this time it feels genuine.

There's a hiss of static in the air, and we all flinch and glance up involuntarily at the announcement speakers. A deep voice begins to speak slowly, carefully, enunciating each word.

Students of Westbrook. Do not be alarmed, but please listen.

This is clearly not Dean Griffin. There's no way Griffin is still alive, as old as he was.
From now on, please stay in your rooms. Soon you will be visited by a soldier, so do not be alarmed; they are merely registering your presence and are going to hand out information on the new schedule that will be in place during this short quarantine. You are NOT to leave your rooms under any circumstances. I assure you that the incident at the gate this morning was completely unavoidable, and we are deeply sorry for your losses. There will be no further incidents of this nature as long as you follow these instructions. Please, children, let us help you.
He pauses to cough, but it sounds normal, not deep and hacking like Devin's viral one.
One final note: I'd like to ask Miss Mia Kish to come to the office, please. Mia Kish—to the office.

My body locks up. Even though they're my friends, the stares of everyone in the room make me feel weak and naked. Like they could turn me in to the guards at any moment to help themselves. It's him, isn't it? Sutton, standing in the dean's office without a hazmat suit or a care in the world. He's ordering me to come to him. Dad warned me not to meet with him. He warned me about a few things.
Dad,
I think,
I won't ignore you this time.

Jimmy bursts into the room, his bulky brown skin glistening with sweat, skates swinging from the laces he's clutching in his fists. He heard the announcement too, of course.

“We have to go,
now,
” I say.

Odessa finishes shoving her clothes into the bag. The others put on their winter jackets, their gloves, their hats. We are very quiet and very efficient. No one asks why I was called to the office. No one thinks I should go. I see Jimmy help Odessa tighten her straps, and she looks grateful as his huge hands grip her shoulders comfortingly. I guess they are on again.

“Mia,” I hear, and I turn to see Brayden standing at the window. It's a small room, but he's carved out a very tiny nook of privacy, and I join him.

“What do you see?” I ask, craning my gaze out to the courtyard. It hasn't snowed in a few days, which is lucky. Though bad for covering tracks. I don't see anything special, just one soldier pacing leisurely along the path.

“You're going to be okay,” he says, his voice urgent with belief.

“I know,” I respond, almost automatically. He called me over here to make sure I was okay. I smile, a genuine one, and try again. “If you bring your bat, I will be.”

He looks at it, leaning against the bed. Then he grabs my fingers lightly. His hands are sweaty; so are mine. “I will. And I'll protect you.”

There's no noise, not at all, and suddenly I turn to everyone else. They're ready, no more rustling or packing, all just waiting to get moving. I set my face serious, and Brayden does too, though his dark eyes shine at me.

“Where to?” asks Jimmy, looking so intense under his cap that he reminds me of a bulldog.

I look at them all; they look back. Rob nodding to himself, already agreeing with me, his upper lip sheened in sweat. Jo knows the answer; she's heard my dad's message, and her face is grim and determined. Jimmy and Odessa next to each other, his enormous hand resting on her curly head as she leans against him. And Brayden's holding his bat.
We can do this,
I think, for the first time. And so we will.

“We're going to the aqueduct.”

THE SNOW IS THICK ON THE EAVES, HANGING HEAVY
and full. It clings to the windows, sits gently on the frozen lake. It spills from the mouths of the gargoyles that line the ledges of the great halls. Lights flash in the woods, on the hills, bright strobe lights that burst across the fields as they pass through the gaps in the trees. There are smaller lights too, flashlights held by guards, men that squeak as they walk in their white suits. The lights are on in the dean's office. They're waiting for me.

We have a plan, but we're already exposed and in danger. There are no excuses for all six of us, bundled as we are against the weather, to be casually breaking out of our dorms for an evening stroll.

Odessa and Jimmy are crouched against the wall at the back of our line. They're breathing fast, clouds of mist billowing from their mouths. Closer to me are Rob and Jo, the former with his mouth covered in a black scarf, his gothness quite useful for espionage. Jo's scared; she's pressed as close against the wall as possible, so that the ivy that hangs above us seems to reach for her. Brayden, directly behind me, grabs my hand to steady me. I start, fighting the simultaneous feeling of fear and pleasure—I grab some snow, squeeze it to slush to help me focus. There can be no distractions now.

The nearest guards are twenty feet away, staring at the quad. They're whispering, but are too far away for us to make out what's being said, and then they move on, following a well-trodden path, ignoring the vast expanse of open snow.

I motion with my hand, and we move, skirting the wall, scrunchy step after step, the drift shin high in places. Whenever someone comes near, we crouch like before, sometimes lying flat on the ground in the snow, letting it provide cover. I'm wearing thermals, ski bibs and three pairs of socks, and sweating so badly my eyes sting. As we move, I grab some snow and stuff it in my mouth to cool down. Rob sees me and does the same. Pretty soon, we're all sucking on snow.

The lake is on the other side of campus from our dorm, and is the only gap in the wall aside from the front gates. We're almost there, about fifty yards away on a small hill overlooking the school. From our vantage, I see clumps of soldiers patrolling in pairs. On the other side of the lake, we see the soldiers Rob mentioned, fanned out, right in our way. I can see the statue of Socrates too, a Westbrook make-out point; technically, it's off campus, but it has such a perfect view that it's not hard to understand why it was built there. I'm sure whichever alum donated the funds for the Greek philosopher would totally love its more general use. I'm nervous, because I had hoped we could just skate over the lake silently, easy and quick, but with the soldiers so clearly keeping watch on the other side, there's no way we can make it across without being seen. I guess we'll have to go with Plan B.

I glance back and spot a massive army truck parked near the school. The glass front doors of the school open, and out come two more soldiers carrying a limp form, clearly a body. Then another set of soldiers joins them. There's a hollowness in my gut, an anguish for all the dead. I check if Jo's okay, and she's not, her eyes are as wide as they get, and she's shivering. I catch Rob's gaze, his face slack and sad. He pats her arm. I wish I were able to help. But I can't, because Plan B calls for me to go solo.

I point at Jimmy, who's in the rear, and indicate down one side of the hill toward the lake. He frowns, confused as to why he's leading now, but starts off. I guess football players are good at taking orders. The others follow, staying low. I grab Brayden's shoulder, and he stops. I start pulling off my jacket and boots and bib and hand them to him along with my bag, which has the rest of my gear. He doesn't question me, which I can't help but love, only reaches for my skates. I shake my head and toss them into the snow.

“When you get down there, tell everyone to put on their skates. Then wait for me to distract the guards.”

“What?” he asks, his voice in a panic, steam puffing from his mouth. He rubs the birthmark below his eye as if it's bothering him. “Where are you going?”

“A different way. It's safe. Trust me.”

“I'm coming with you,” his says, his voice firm. The funny thing is, his conviction makes me feel stronger, more capable. Like now that I have someone talking to me like this, there's no way I'm going to screw it up and get caught. The others are halfway down the hill. I push him in their direction.

“Trust me, Brayden.”

He stares for a beat, angry even, a vein shivering on his forehead, but then nods reluctantly. Before he goes, though, he scrambles back up to me and pecks my lips, quick and cold but exhilarating and wonderful. “Be safe, Mia.” Decision made, he's gone, hurrying off to the others, and I'm alone, trying to catch my breath.

Below me, I see another set of doors open, these near the dean's office, and four soldiers emerge, striding purposefully across campus. Straight to the dorms. I'm willing to bet my room is where they're going. My nerves, already frayed, splinter. But at least I know I can't wait. We have five minutes, tops, before they discover I'm gone. Ten minutes before they find our tracks.
Now or never
—I think this to myself like a mantra over and again to beat my fear, pushing out of my crouch and down the other side of the hill and to the far end of the lake, away from my friends.

• • •

I can trace the outlines of the others in the air as they huddle in the trees about fifty yards down, waiting for me, wondering what I'm doing. But I'm not sure I know, myself. What I do know is that they have to be far away from me, just in case I'm caught, just in case this doesn't work. Ahead of me is the lake, iced over, and beyond that are the hills and forest and bright strobe lights of the hazmatted soldiers. Socrates is pointing at me, telling me this is a stupid idea.

The lake is about a quarter-mile across, but it narrows significantly at one point, exactly where I'm headed. There, it's only about the length of our swimming pool to the other shore. The water flows stronger there, thinning the ice, making the area notoriously dangerous to skate on. Signs dot the edge: they are bright red, with a stick figure in water, drowning, his mouth a big O. It says
DANGER
, but honestly, that's an understatement.

I approach the edge and take off my scarf and socks and stand shivering. The water sloshes gently out from a broken hunk of ice. The water's dark, the snow along the edge of the lake turns to mush and then disappears into the deepest black liquid. I stare like I would at the pool, waiting to jump, but knowing I'll hate the first moment, that instant of near shock when the cold hits my body.

I grab a couple of icy rocks, and with a few careful plunks, I crack the ice more, a splash of liquid hitting my ankles, numbing my toes. There's a hole about three feet across now. The size of a well. I stare at the darkness, and there's nothing else. My father, my friends, the soldiers, the virus, all of it gone. Filtered out as my eyes zoom in.

“I can't,” I whisper, but no one hears me. I think I stutter; it's hard to tell. I take deep breaths like I'm supposed to, hyperventilating purposefully, getting as much oxygen into my body as possible, as if that's an excuse for any delay. But I don't move. How can I? What the hell was I thinking with this plan?

There's a crunch in the snow. The others must have sent someone to help me. For a moment, I hope it's Brayden, and I know I'm pulling a sheepish smile onto my face. I glance over but instantly drop down into a crouch, impressed by my own reflex, because a soldier is walking up the bank this way. Beyond him, I see the outlines of my friends move, as if to duck deeper into the brush. I glance at the hole, where the ice appears to be glowing, pale and sickly.

The soldier's flashlight cuts a path to the trees inland. He won't expect to find me here; he's not even looking my way. But he's walking on the edge of the water, and my clothes are here in a small clump, along with the jagged hole. We're screwed. My fear of the murky water is gone, or rather, overwhelmed by the fear of being found out and letting everyone down, so without thinking too hard or looking behind me, I pick up my scarf and socks and slowly walk backward into the water, goose bumps so hard and strong they break my skin. I feel like a duck in the worst way possible. The water is so cold it burns, the thin band of its surface rising like lava up my legs, but the soldier is close, and I've no time—just years of experience getting into freezing water (if not
this
freezing). I clomp my teeth down on my tongue, feeling the fleshy muscle and squeezing until I can taste the copper of blood in my mouth. I shove what few clothes I have under the ice, goggles squeezing so hard over my eyes that my head aches. I fleetingly wonder what the soldier would make of me, a blue, shivering girl in a Speedo, goggles on, rising from the water. The Lady of the Lake. He'd probably freak out and run back to campus. Or shoot me. Both bad options.

I'm grateful for the pain, for the distraction from the panic that's going through me. Before swim meets, we always sat alone, listening to music, jiggling our legs. Day one, they told us, if you panic, you're done. Panic makes your blood flow quicker, makes the oxygen dissipate. I breathe out, as if I had air stored in my toes, and then in, inflating myself, my body, and with a masochistic dive, I'm under.

Swimming was a fear for a long time. Darkness still is. It has taken me years of obsessive combat with my own neuroses to get into a bathtub, then a kiddie pool, then the Olympic-size one at school. Now I can almost get into a pool without flinching. R.E.M.'s “Nightswimming”? Not my favorite song.

I'm immediately numb and swallowed in the black. So numb it's hard to move my arms and legs. It's not like I was loose, ready to go. I kick, pull, swim through the turgid water, the moonlight faint above my head as it squeaks through the opaque ice. I am the fastest girl my age in the United States. I have been known to swim this distance in 23.3 seconds. But I can't today. Because I can't see anything. My goggles don't work. I don't know where I'm going. There's no noise, no splashing beside me or cheers or screams. My muscles are sluggish, and I don't even hear my own wake, because I'm trapped under the ice. Stuck. No perfect 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Suddenly, I want up. I involuntarily jerk, and my head bumps the ice. The panic sets in, and I can feel my body simultaneously begin to shut down and scream for help, my muscles burning. For a moment, I stop swimming, let the panic overwhelm me and slam my fists into the ice. I imagine that it bends or cracks, but I'm not sure. I look around, unable to see even a foot ahead or behind, just a wall of swirly black, and suddenly I'm back in the well, freezing, floating, waiting to die.

There's a moment passing before me, an eternity when I see my hands flutter near my face. When I can't help but think in the small of my mind, a little voice, something my dad whispered:

Baby Mia, who fell down the well

scratched her legs but then felt swell.

Spent a couple days underground—

we pulled her up, safe and sound.

I didn't die in the well. I survived. I got out. I'm alone this time with no one to help, but I'm not a baby anymore. I can do something about it. I force the panic back down my throat. Because if I panic, I might as well be dead already. The water feels resistant against my skin, but not cold any longer, and I take that as a bad sign. In my ice-smacking mini freak-out, I didn't keep track of my direction. I have no reference point. I'm in an empty room filled with water, and there's only one way to the door. I'm shivering, but my lungs don't care; they are starting to clench, as if someone were squeezing them from the inside. Even with all my training, I'm running out of air.

I pick a direction and swim, fast now, as fast as my lethargic body will move. I keep my head against the ice, skimming. If I'm swimming upstream or downstream, I'm gone. The only hope is across the current, toward the near shore. If I accidentally turned around, back toward the campus, I could be caught and certainly won't be able to try this again. But then it gets brighter, the moonlight real and not an opaque haze, and I can almost see the moon's shape. The ice must be thinning. I feel a surge of heat, the adrenaline spiking, and I push on, my muscles screaming, and suddenly the lake's bottom jumps up to meet my arms and stomach and I'm there, thrashing through the ice, making tons of noise when I'm supposed to be quiet but can't possibly make myself be.

A bathing suit, even a full-body one, is not a wetsuit. It's not built for scuba, and I'm shivering immediately. Violent shivering. My fingers don't work. I want to curl up into a ball. There's a cloud in front of me, and I rip off my goggles to see that it's my breath.

“F-f-fire,” I stutter stupidly to myself, breathing shaky. My mind is nearly as slow as my body. I know there's no fire, there are no clothes, I'm still in my bathing suit. The only good news is that I am on the correct side of the lake. But I'm nowhere in the clear yet. If I don't get some warmth, I'll freeze.

You'll have about six minutes before you freeze to death,
our coach had said after one of the boys jokingly asked if we could practice in the lake.
If you run, if you keep moving, keep your blood pumping, you might make it to eight.

“Eight minutes.” The ground is rocky and hurts, but quickly turns to snow and my feet become lumps of ice. I run, using whatever momentum I had underwater. Up the hill, step by step, to the make-out spot where Socrates points beyond me to the school as if to damn us forever. I can see lights from up here, the town still twinkling. Maybe the virus hasn't spread yet. Maybe the quarantine actually saved the town. Maybe Dad knows what to do, maybe his secrets were to protect me. The hope is all I need to wake me up.