Die Again by Tess Gerritsen Page B

Johnny’s backpack. It unnerves me to see it stowed there, with the rest of our gear. Tents, check. Stove, check. Dead man, check .
    I climb into the truck and sit down beside Richard. Clarence’s empty seat is in view, a stark reminder that he’s gone, his bones scattered, flesh digested. Johnny is the last one to climb into the truck, and as his door slams shut I look around at our now cleared campsite, thinking: Soon there’ll be no trace that we were ever here. We’ll have moved on, but Clarence never will.
    Suddenly Johnny swears and climbs out of the driver’s seat. Something is wrong.
    He stalks to the front and lifts the truck bonnet to inspect the engine. Moments tick by. His head is hidden by the raised bonnet, so we can’t see his face, but his silence alarms me. He offers no reassuring It’s just a loose wire or Yes, I see the problem .
    “Now what?” mutters Richard. He, too, climbs out of the truck, although I don’t know what advice he can possibly offer. Beyond reading the petrol gauge, he knows nothing about cars. I hear him offering suggestions. Battery? Spark plugs? Loose connection? Johnny answers in barely audible monosyllables, which only alarms me more, because I’ve learned that the more dire the situation, the quieter Johnny becomes.
    It is hot in the open truck, almost noon, with the sun beating down. The rest of us climb out and move into the shade of the trees. I see Johnny’s head pop up as he orders: “Don’t wander too far!” Not that anyone intends to; we’ve seen what can happen when you do. Mr. Matsunaga and Elliot join Richard at the truck, to offer their advice, because of course all men, even men who never get their hands greasy, understand machinery. Or think they do.
    We women wait in the shade, swatting away bugs, continually searching for any telltale trembling in the grass, which could be our only warning that a predator approaches. Even in the shade, it is hot, and I settle onto the ground. Through the branches above I see vultures circling, watching us. They are strangely beautiful, black wings sketching lazy loops in the sky as they wait to feast. On what?
    Richard stalks toward us, muttering: “Well, this is a brilliant development. Bloody thing won’t start. Won’t even turn over.”
    I sit up straight. “It was fine yesterday.”
    “Everything was fine yesterday.” Richard huffs out a breath. “We’re stranded.”
    The blondes give simultaneous gasps of alarm. “We can’t be stranded,” blurts Sylvia. “I’m due back at work next Thursday!”
    “Me, too!” says Vivian.
    Mrs. Matsunaga shakes her head in disbelief. “How can this be? It is not possible!”
    As their voices blend into a chorus of rising agitation, I can’t help noticing that the vultures overhead are tracing tighter and tighter circles, as if homing in on our distress.
    “Listen. All of you, listen ,” Johnny commands.
    We turn to look at him.
    “This is not the time to panic,” he says. “There’s absolutely no reason to. We’re next to the river, so we have plenty of water. We have shelter. We have ammunition and a ready supply of game for food.”
    Elliot gives a laugh that’s thin with fear. “So … what? We hang around out here and go all Stone Age?”
    “The plane is scheduled to meet you at the landing strip in a week. When we don’t show up as expected, there’ll be a search. They’ll find us soon enough. It’s what you all signed up for, isn’t it? An authentic experience in the bush?” He regards us one by one, taking our measure, deciding if we’re up to the challenge. Searching for which one of us will crumble, which one he can count on. “I’ll keep working on the truck. Maybe I can fix it, maybe I can’t.”
    “Do you even know what’s wrong with it?” Elliot asks.
    Johnny pins him with a hard glare. “It’s never broken down before. I can’t explain it.” He scans our circle, as if searching for the answer in our faces. “In the