The Host (The Host #1)(33)

Look, a dry wash. It’s wide enough for the car—let’s follow it, Melanie insisted.

I’m not sure we’re supposed to go that way yet.

It will be dark soon and we’ll have to stop. You’re wasting time! She was silently shouting in her frustration.

Or saving time, if I’m right. Besides, it’s my time, isn’t it?

She didn’t answer in words. She seemed to stretch inside my mind, reaching back toward the convenient wash.

I’m the one doing this, so I’m doing it my way.

Melanie fumed wordlessly in response.

Why don’t you show me the rest of the lines? I suggested. We could see if anything is visible before night falls.

No, she snapped. I’ll do that part my way.

You’re being childish.

Again she refused to answer. I continued toward the four sharp peaks, and she sulked.

When the sun disappeared behind the hills, night washed across the landscape abruptly; one minute the desert was sunset orange, and then it was black. I slowed, my hand fumbling around the dashboard, searching for the switch for the headlights.

Have you lost your mind? Melanie hissed. Do you have any idea how visible headlights would be out here? Someone is sure to see us.

So what do we do now?

Hope the seat reclines.

I let the engine idle as I tried to think of options besides sleeping in the car, surrounded by the black emptiness of the desert night. Melanie waited patiently, knowing I would find none.

This is crazy, you know, I told her, throwing the car into park and twisting the keys out of the ignition. The whole thing. There can’t really be anyone out here. We won’t find anything. And we’re going to get hopelessly lost trying. I had an abstract sense of the physical danger in what we were planning—wandering out into the heat with no backup plan, no way to return. I knew Melanie understood the danger far more clearly, but she held the specifics back.

She didn’t respond to my accusations. None of these problems bothered her. I could see that she’d rather wander alone in the desert for the rest of her life than go back to the life I’d had before. Even without the threat of the Seeker, this was preferable to her.

I leaned the seat back as far as it would go. It wasn’t close to far enough for comfort. I doubted that I would be able to sleep, but there were so many things I wasn’t allowing myself to think about that my mind was vacant and uninteresting. Melanie was silent, too.

I closed my eyes, finding little difference between my lids and the moonless night, and drifted into unconsciousness with unexpected ease.

CHAPTER 11

Dehydrated

Okay! You were right, you were right!” I said the words out loud. There was no one around to hear me.

Melanie wasn’t saying “I told you so.” Not in so many words. But I could feel the accusation in her silence.

I was still unwilling to leave the car, though it was useless to me now. When the gas ran out, I had let it roll forward with the remaining momentum until it took a nosedive into a shallow gorge—a thick rivulet cut by the last big rain. Now I stared out the windshield at the vast, vacant plain and felt my stomach twist with panic.

We have to move, Wanderer. It’s only going to get hotter.

If I hadn’t wasted more than a quarter of a tank of gas stubbornly pushing on to the very base of the second landmark—only to find that the third milestone was no longer visible from that vantage and to have to turn around and backtrack—we would have been so much farther down this sandy wash, so much closer to our next goal. Thanks to me, we were going to have to travel on foot now.

I loaded the water, one bottle at a time, into the pack, my motions unnecessarily deliberate; I added the remaining granola bars just as slowly. All the while, Melanie ached for me to hurry. Her impatience made it hard to think, hard to concentrate on anything. Like what was going to happen to us.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, she chanted until I lurched, stiff and awkward, out of the car. My back throbbed as I straightened up. It hurt from sleeping so contorted last night, not from the weight of the pack; the pack wasn’t that heavy when I used my shoulders to lift it.

Now cover the car, she instructed, picturing me ripping thorny branches from the nearby creosotes and palo verdes and draping them over the silver top of the car.

“Why?”

Her tone implied that I was quite stupid for not understanding. So no one finds us.

But what if I want to be found? What if there’s nothing out here but heat and dirt? We have no way to get home!

Home? she questioned, throwing cheerless images at me: the vacant apartment in San Diego, the Seeker’s most obnoxious expression, the dot that marked Tucson on the map… a brief, happier flash of the red canyon that slipped in by accident. Where would that be?

I turned my back on the car, ignoring her advice. I was in too far already. I wasn’t going to give up all hope of return. Maybe someone would find the car and then find me. I could easily and honestly explain what I was doing here to any rescuer: I was lost. I’d lost my way… lost my control… lost my mind.

I followed the wash at first, letting my body fall into its natural long-strided rhythm. It wasn’t the way I walked on the sidewalks to and from the university—it wasn’t my walk at all. But it fit the rugged terrain here and moved me smoothly forward with a speed that surprised me until I got used to it.