Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) by Mikey Campling Read Free Book Online Page B

outside the forest . I chewed my lip. Wasn’t that the sort of advice they gave on those survival shows—“stay put, conserve your strength”? But my parched throat and my tortured stomach said otherwise. I had to have water, and soon.
    I tried to judge the lie of the land. It still seemed like a good idea to head downhill if I could. The problem was, the ferns were so lush and tall, it was hard to decide which way to go. “I’ll just have to take a chance,” I said. I nodded to myself and chose a direction, then I picked up my backpack and set off, walking in as straight a line as I could, the ferns swishing and rustling against my legs as I went.
    At least I was doing something. At least I was getting somewhere. And that thought helped. For a while. But as I walked, my headache crept back and tightened like a metal band around my skull. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, hear the blood whistling in my ears. My legs were weak and wobbly, as though I’d run for miles. “Come on,” I croaked. “You’ve only been walking for a few minutes.” I staggered on, breathing hard through my mouth, feeling my throat grow drier with every breath. But I had to keep going. I had to. “One more step,” I whispered. “One more step,” over and over again, until I wasn’t even sure if I was still saying it out loud or just imagining the words. I probably shouldn’t talk anyway . I should’ve been breathing through my nose, trying to conserve moisture. One more step . Those words were my mantra. They were the only thing that stopped me from giving up, lying down, and closing my eyes. I was so focused on those words, so intent on putting one foot in front of the other, I almost didn’t notice the splash.
    “What was that?” I stood still and tried to think straight. Surely, I’d only imagined it. Or I’d just made a mistake, like I had with the wind in the treetops. But then I realised my feet were getting damp. I looked down, gaping stupidly at the ground. I was standing in a shallow patch of muddy water. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I dropped my backpack, squatted down and pushed the ferns to one side. The ground dipped slightly and it had collected a puddle of water. It was murky, swirling with the dark mud of the forest floor, but my stomach churned and gurgled at the sight of it. I cupped my hands and lowered them gently until they just broke the surface. I stared at the water as it flowed between my fingers. Was I really going to drink this? Shouldn’t I do something clever to somehow filter it? Probably. But I didn’t care. My hands trembled as I raised the scant handful of water to my lips. My dry lips burned as I sipped. The water was gritty and acidic, but it was water. I swallowed it down and sighed. Again, I cupped my hands and scooped the water as carefully as I could. It was harder this time. The puddle was already lower. I drank and wondered whether it would be worth digging a hole to see if it would fill with water. I could use the chisel. Or maybe I should just wait and see if the mud would settle. In the end, I did neither. I couldn’t wait. I pressed my hands down into the soft mud and collected as much water as I could. It would be my last handful and it was more mud than water, but I drank it anyway, doing my best to leave the worst of the grit in my hand. It was better than nothing. But what was I going to do now?
    I stared at the damp patch of earth where the puddle had been. I felt a little better for having had the drink, although I could still feel the grit between my teeth and an acidic aftertaste clung to my tongue. I was a little bit appalled at what I’d done. Normally, you couldn’t have got me to drink from a puddle if you’d paid me. But that was back in my normal life, where water was on tap and finding the next meal was a short walk to the kitchen. The kitchen . Suddenly, the image of a well-stocked fridge burned in my mind. I pictured an enormous pizza, piled high with