The Host (The Host #1)(32)
I jerked up to see the other man from the store, a plastic bag in his hand, standing beside me.
“Ah… thank you,” I finally managed, my pulse thudding behind my ears.
We waited, Melanie tensed as if to run, while he lifted our acquisitions into the car.
There’s nothing to fear. He’s being kind, too.
She continued to watch him distrustfully.
“Thank you,” I said again as he shut the door.
“My pleasure.”
He walked off to his own vehicle without a backward glance at us. I climbed into my seat and grabbed the bag of potato chips.
Look at the map, she said. Wait till he’s out of sight.
No one is watching us, I promised her. But, with a sigh, I unfolded the map and ate with one hand. It was probably a good idea to have some sense of where we were headed.
Where are we headed? I asked her. We’ve found the starting point, so what now?
Look around, she commanded. If we can’t see it here, we’ll try the south side of the peak.
See what?
She placed the memorized image before me: a ragged zigzagging line, four tight switchbacks, the fifth point strangely blunt, like it was broken. Now I saw it as I should, a jagged range of four pointed mountain peaks with the broken-looking fifth…
I scanned the skyline, east to west across the northern horizon. It was so easy it felt false, as though I’d made the image up only after seeing the mountain silhouette that created the northeast line of the horizon.
That’s it, Melanie almost sang in her excitement. Let’s go! She wanted me to be out of the car, on my feet, moving.
I shook my head, bending over the map again. The mountain ridge was so far in the distance I couldn’t guess at the miles between us and it. There was no way I was walking out of this parking lot and into the empty desert unless I had no other option.
Let’s be rational, I suggested, tracing my finger along a thin ribbon on the map, an unnamed road that connected to the freeway a few miles east and then continued in the general direction of the range.
Sure, she agreed complacently. The faster the better.
We found the unpaved road easily. It was just a pale scar of flat dirt through the sparse shrubbery, barely wide enough for one vehicle. I had a feeling that the road would be overgrown with lack of use in a different region—some place with more vital vegetation, unlike the desert plants that needed decades to recover from such a violation. There was a rusted chain stretched across the entrance, screwed into a wooden post on one end, looped loosely around another post at the other. I moved quickly, pulling the chain free and piling it at the base of the first post, hurrying back to my running car, hoping no one would pass and stop to offer me help. The highway stayed clear as I drove onto the dirt and then rushed back to refasten the chain.
We both relaxed when the pavement disappeared behind us. I was glad that there was apparently no one left I would have to lie to, whether with words or silence. Alone, I felt less of a renegade.
Melanie was perfectly at home here in the middle of nothing. She knew the names of all the spiny plants around us. She hummed their names to herself, greeting them like old friends.
Creosote, ocotillo, cholla, prickly pear, mesquite…
Away from the highway, the trappings of civilization, the desert seemed to take on a new life for Melanie. Though she appreciated the speed of the jolting car—our vehicle didn’t have the ground clearance necessary for this off-road trip, as the shocks reminded me with every pit in the dirt—she itched to be on her feet, loping through the safety of the baking desert.
We would probably have to walk, and all too soon for my taste, but when that time came, I doubted it would satisfy her. I could feel the real desire beneath the surface. Freedom. To move her body to the familiar rhythm of her long stride with only her will for guidance. For a moment, I allowed myself to see the prison that was life without a body. To be carried inside but unable to influence the shape around you. To be trapped. To have no choices.
I shuddered and refocused on the rough road, trying to stave off the mingled pity and horror. No other host had made me feel such guilt for what I was. Of course, none of the others had stuck around to complain about the situation.
The sun was close to the tips of the western hills when we had our first disagreement. The long shadows created strange patterns across the road, making it hard to avoid the rocks and craters.
There it is! Melanie crowed as we caught sight of another formation farther east: a smooth wave of rock, interrupted by a sudden spur that swung a thin, long finger out against the sky.
She was all for turning immediately into the brush, no matter what that did to the car.
Maybe we’re supposed to go all the way to the first landmark, I pointed out. The little dirt road continued to wind in more or less the right direction, and I was terrified to leave it. How else would I find my way back to civilization? Wasn’t I going back?
I imagined the Seeker right at this moment, as the sun touched the dark, zigzagging line of the western horizon. What would she think when I didn’t arrive in Tucson? A spasm of glee made me laugh out loud. Melanie also enjoyed the picture of the Seeker’s furious irritation. How long would it take her to go back to San Diego to see if this had all been a ploy to get rid of her? And then what steps would she take when I wasn’t there? When I wasn’t anywhere?
I just couldn’t picture very clearly where I would be at that point.