The Survivors by Will Weaver Read Free Book Online Page B

soap, she washes the school cooties off her—soapy water curls away and disappears—then holds wide her arms and floats on her back. She closes her eyes as the river takes her a few yards, then she swims back upstream and does it again. Each time she floats downstream, she keeps her eyes closed a little longer, making a game of guessing which big tree she’ll see when she opens them.
    Emily grazes along, following her downstream. Soon they are out of sight of the cabin. There’s a bend in the river, and a deeper pool where Miles catches fish; he doesn’t like her swimming here because she scares them away, he says. She does it anyway.
    The pool, about twenty feet wide and eight feet deep, is very cold at the bottom. As she paddles down, she opens her eyes. Several shadows—fish—dart away; she stays down as long as she can, inspecting the bottom, the smooth stones, a couple of crayfish with their whiskery noses and oversize pincers.
    She surfaces, quietly, pretending she’s a rare freshwater mermaid whom no human has ever seen, and then sinks down again. Stays under longer this time. She hears faint chirping noises, like faraway birds or maybe minnows calling to each other, warning about the mermaid. As she heads back to the glassy ceiling, the noises are louder. Emily! Emily bleating and splashing in the water, tangled in her rope. Onshore, creeping along toward Emily, is the old dog.
    â€œShoo! Go away!” Sarah shouts, bursting naked out of the water. The dog freezes. Then in a swirl of gray, he runs away, kicking up dust on the bank, taking long, limping strides. One of his hind legs is either short or broken. The dog is the same color as the brush into which he disappears.
    Still wet, Sarah pulls on her clothes just as the whole family comes running down to the river.
    â€œWhat happened?” Miles shouts, leading the way. He has his gun.
    â€œI saw the dog on the bank,” she says, untangling Emily’s tether rope. “I thought he was going toward Emily, but he wasn’t.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Miles presses.
    â€œYou sure it wasn’t a wolf or something?” Nat asks.
    â€œNo. Just an old dog. He had a bad leg. He limped.”
    Miles kneels down to examine the dog’s tracks. “It’s been hanging around here.”
    Artie and Nat glance at each other. “Don’t go so far downstream, all right?” Natalie says.
    â€œSo I’m supposed to take a bath where everybody can watch me?”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m saying. Just stay a little closer, that’s all.”
    After her parents and Miles are gone, she dries her hair. Emily is still trembling.
    â€œHe was just an old dog,” Sarah says. “You’re fine.” Holding tightly to Emily’s rope, she heads back to the cabin.
    Emerging from the bushes, she pauses to stare at the shabby log cabin. The square little room that Miles is adding. The dusty path. The tumbledown sawmill shed. She drops to her knees and hugs Emily. Then her eyes catch sight of Miles’s shotgun leaning against the cabin wall. She walks over, picks it up; it’s heavier than she imagined, and the curve of its stock feels good. She hoists it; it sits awkwardly on her arm at first, then settles comfortably against her shoulder.
    â€œWant to shoot it?” Miles says from behind her.
    â€œNo!” she says quickly, and puts down the gun.
    â€œWouldn’t hurt you to learn,” Miles said.
    â€œForget it,” Sarah says. “I’m never shooting a gun.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
MILES
    RETURNING FROM HUNTING, MILES LOOKS up at the hazy yellow sky. It’s almost ten A.M . His mother is in the yard. “Is Dad up yet?” he asks.
    â€œSort of,” she says.
    Inside the cabin, Miles’s father is slumped forward over his breakfast coffee.
    â€œYou ready to work?” Miles says.
    â€œAbsolutely, son. Raring to go,” Artie says,