“You ready?” he asks quickly. I can barely hear him.
A few leaves ruffle in the bushes close to us. All three pairs of eyes focus on it.
“Just a hedgehog,” Fynn assures us.
Maddie is scared stiff. I help her to the car. She gets in the back. I throw the backpack into the trunk, then sit shotgun. I’ll let Fynn drive this time, and maybe even catch some shuteye. Seems like nothing’s going according to plan. These scenarios are already nerve-wracking enough, even when it all does go according to plan. But, this… I dare not think what awaits us by the end.
Chapter 15
We drive for what seems to be a small eternity, and I keep dozing on and off in the car. My anxiety and fear are keeping me awake, but the softly fluctuant ride on the occasional bumpy road lulls me to sleep. I think of my mother’s loving smile. I remember my father’s strong arms and how they always made me feel so safe. Now, I wonder if there is any place in the world which I could call that. I doubt it.
And yet, one glance forward is enough for me to calm down, at least a little. I see Fynn’s eyes in the rear view mirror. I see the determination in them. I see a promise. I can’t see Anderson. All I get are the random pops of his curls that appear from behind his seat. I don’t see it, but I know he turns around from time to time, to check up on me. My eyes are closed, but it’s one of those looks you can feel, even when enshrouded in darkness.
We arrive in the early hours of the morning. Fynn gets out of the car first, then Anderson. He opens the door for me, and when I exit, I realize we’re in the middle of nowhere again.
“This is an even bigger middle of nowhere than last time,” I say, feeling an unexpected surge of optimism. I attribute it to the rising sun in the distance and the sweet chirping of the birds from a nearby tree. The bushes are thick, hiding the view from us.
“That’s exactly what we’re looking for,” Anderson nods. “Fynn, lead the way. It’s been ages since you brought me here, I doubt I’d find the way in myself.”
“Just follow the road,” Fynn tells us.
“What road?” Anderson wonders.
Instead of reply, Fynn points his index finger. It takes a while to find a small clearing in the bushes, and once we push some of the branches aside, we see a slightly trodden path.
“You can only find it if you know what you’re looking for,” Fynn explains, leading the way.
“Good old Fynn,” Anderson smiles, going last, urging me to go before him.
The road is narrow, there are branches scratching us from all sides, but we keep going. Finally, we see a door, behind a padlocked gate. My first thought is that someone had closed up Fynn’s place, and we wouldn’t be able to get in. But, then, Fynn’s hand dives into his pocket and extracts the key which opens up the lock in seconds. The door screeches as it moves, slowly and unforgivingly, but finally, the door itself opens as well. A damp smell of mildew hits my nostrils. I cough a little.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t smell like the Ritz,” Anderson chuckles. “Even I can smell that.”
I turn to him, not getting the joke.
“Oh, you don’t know,” Anderson slaps his forehead jokingly. “Of course you don’t. I had this treehouse when I was a kid. My dad built it for me. My mom added the little touches, you know, like the curtains. I mean, I hated those things. I thought the guys would all make fun of me for that. I got this awesome treehouse and the windows have curtains. Like, what the fuck, right?” He pauses as he tells me the story, and I can actually feel the warmth of his memory. “But, eventually, I grew to love those horrid flowery things. It just made the place more of a home away from home. Even though the home was right there. I could see the house from the treehouse, but I was still far enough away to consider it my own little castle.”
“Boy, when you tell a story, you really take it from the top, don’t you?” Fynn snorts.
“You’re just complaining because you heard it before,” Anderson replies, then continues. “So, as I was saying, my friends and I were at the treehouse one day, being boys. You know, smoking, maybe looking at porn magazines I stole from my dad, maybe not, I’m not saying this one for sure.” I laugh, as Fynn disappears through the door.
I hesitate to follow. I turn to Anderson.
“Let’s finish the story outside, and then we’ll go in, how’s that?” he seems to sense my apprehension, and I feel a wave of gratitude. “So, we’re smoking and suddenly, one of my friends drops his cigarette, and the whole place catches fire like that. We’re all sliding down the ladder, waiting for one another. I, as the proud and now infamous owner of the treehouse am left last. I wanted to make sure everyone got out safely before I rush down myself. But, by the time everyone was out, the fire was raging, and it caught my pants. I managed to put it out, and finally rushed down the ladder, following the others, but I inhaled too much smoke. I spent two weeks at the hospital after that, I could barely talk during those two weeks. That’s when they told me that I’m left with about 15% of my sense of smell. But, I should consider myself lucky, I guess. We could have burned to death, all of us. It’s weird how it all happens so quickly, like flicking a light switch. On. Off. And poof. You’re no more.”
“But, you should be really proud of yourself, too,” I remind him. “You made sure everyone got out before you did. That’s something.”
“Now that I consider it, I guess so. But, back then, I wasn’t thinking about it. It was just the right thing to do and I just did it. As simple as that.”
He shrugs as he speaks, and I see a glimmer of the boy he once was. Short shorts, skinned knees, dirt underneath his fingernails. That’s how I imagine him. Fynn - not so much. He sounds like the kid who’d shoosh you in the library for whispering too loudly.
“You guys coming, or what?” Fynn appears at the door, as if called upon.
Anderson and I smile at each other, and I enter first. Still in a good mood from the story I just heard, I don’t mind the smell of mildew so much any longer. I realize it’s an entrance to a mine, and they made it into a big, elongated hallway. It probably gets pretty cold in here in the winter months, so hopefully we won’t stay here long enough to find out exactly how cold it gets.
“These things over here are mine,” Fynn points at several black bags filled to the brim and closed up in the corner, so it’s impossible to guess what’s inside, based on the shape of the bag alone.
“In other words, we won’t be getting near those,” Anderson adds.
I appreciate his light jokes. They allow me to escape the grim reality of my current existence, if only for a short while.
“There are two beds over there,” Fynn points. “You can choose which one you’d like,” he tells me. “Anderson and I will use the other one. We’ll never be asleep at the same time anyway, so not like everyone needs their own bed.”
“Good point,” I nod.
I can see that Fynn is still on edge, much more than Anderson and I are. Or, maybe, we’re just better at hiding it.