The Lost Village by Camilla Sten (best fiction novels TXT) 📗

vans and the car—what was left of them.”

“We can walk,” says Emmy, but Robert clears his throat.

“It’s at least twenty miles of rough terrain to the nearest road. And there were no cars there. Where was the nearest gas station? Another ten, twenty miles, right?”

“We don’t need to find anyone,” says Emmy. “We just need to get out of the dead zone.”

“How far was that?” Robert asks.

“Forty-five minutes,” says Emmy. “But I had to drive really carefully through the forest, so it was slow going. I don’t know how far it is as the crow flies.”

I look up long enough to see her fish her cell out of her pocket. She tries to turn it on but shakes her head.

“That call took the last of my battery,” she says. “What about yours?”

Robert just shakes his head. I don’t need to check mine to know it’s dead.

“Mine’s out,” says Max.

“Where was your charger?” asks Emmy. “In the Volvo or the van?”

“The Volvo,” says Max.

“Do you have a car charger?” Emmy asks him nervously. “One that you plug into the cigarette lighter?”

Max’s eyes flicker.

“I think so,” he says. “In the glove compartment.”

Robert shakes his head.

“But the engine’s shot,” he says. “You saw the car, there’s no chance—”

“But not the generator,” Emmy interrupts. “That was in the other van. It could still work. If we can plug Max’s charger into that outlet then we can charge his phone. Then hike twenty, twenty-five miles till we get signal.”

“Is it safe though?” Max asks. “We don’t know if the other van could blow.”

Emmy looks up over the rooftops.

“It’s stopped smoking,” she says. “And vans don’t just explode. If it’s the gas can that blew then there’s no reason the other van would be dangerous.”

“Not the van, no,” Robert says quietly. He doesn’t need to say anymore.

“There are four of us,” says Emmy. Her face is tense, won’t accept any arguments. “What’s one against four? We don’t need to be there long. We’ll just go there, find the charger and generator, plug in the phone and let it charge. We’ll keep a lookout. And we can get whatever we need from the back of the van—food, water, whatever’s left.”

I know I should keep quiet, but I can’t.

“It wasn’t Tone,” I say, my lips cold. “It can’t have been. She isn’t crazy. She isn’t violent, never has been. She’s just … sick.”

Max, his voice subdued, asks the question:

“But Alice, if not her, then who?”

I can tell he doesn’t mean it as a question so much as a way of shutting down my rambling, but it hits me straight in the chest. I think of the figure in the rain, of the shadow of a laugh on the film, of Tone whispering:

I heard something below us.

Of Emmy and her probing green eyes.

You saw somebody, didn’t you?

It’s to her I turn now.

Emmy’s lips are so pinched that they’re practically just a dash on her face.

“That doesn’t matter,” she says, to my surprise. “What matters is that we get help and get out of here. And to do that we have to get back to the square.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Max asks. His mint-green cable-knit sweater is flecked with soot.

Emmy scratches her neck.

“Worst case, we wait it out,” she says. “My mom was worried, so I told her that if she hasn’t heard from me in forty-eight hours then she should send in the police. That was when I thought I’d just be coming back here to put Tone in a van and take her to the hospital, but now…” Emmy shrugs.

“It’s best if we try to charge one of the phones and call for help today,” says Robert.

My voice dull and subdued, I say, “We have to get back to the square.”

 NOW

I lag a few feet behind the others as we slowly but surely make our way back to the square. My eyes stray down the alleys, search the shadows, the heavy clump in my belly making me slow and lethargic.

Tone. Tone. Tone.

I want to believe she didn’t set the van alight; want to be as sure as I’m trying to make myself sound. But however hard I think about it, I can’t find a better explanation.

Could it be spontaneous combustion? Some kind of manufacturing flaw? A leak, an engine left running, a spark at the wrong time?

Maybe.

Maybe it’s the curse of Silvertjärn. Or ghosts, or aliens.

Or maybe it was my friend, my friend who’s sick, who hasn’t been taking her meds. My friend who’s paranoid, and confused, and who thought she was defending herself against something that isn’t there.

My anxiety is cold, and its nails are sharp.

I don’t want to believe it.

The others have stopped ahead of me at the edge of the square. I catch up with them, and we still ourselves. Listen.

“OK?” Emmy says to us.

I look at the others. None of them says a word, but Robert nods.

For a second I’m struck by the absurdity of the situation, how impossibly cinematic it is.

I’m not ready for this. I don’t want this.

It makes no difference.

Emmy steps out into the square, and we follow her.

Most of the fire has waned and died out, leaving only the blackened remains of the vegetation on the sooty cobblestones. There are no alarms, no spinning wheels; the wreckage of the vans lies where we left it, the remains of our equipment still strewn across the square.

I can’t remember if our insurance covers bizarre accidents. Or arson. Surely this must count as arson?

I creep across the square, trying to go as quietly as possible. I can’t explain why I’m doing this: anyone close enough to hear my footsteps would surely be able to see me, too. But my primal instincts aren’t interested in logical arguments. Their primary concern is to make me as small and quiet as possible; to crouch, sneak away, disappear.

Prey.

The Volvo is standing on the far side of the square. It was set back slightly to begin with, which is probably why it wasn’t as badly affected by the