Page 117 of Marked

“Go get your truck,” Nate said to Ollie. “Did you bring my bike?”

“Yeah.” Ollie wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “That’s why I borrowed the truck in the first place. Thank God I did. I didn’t think I’d be transporting a fucking body, too.”

“Move it,” Nate said. “I’ll finish this. People are gonna be up any minute.”

“Be back in a second.” Ollie broke into a run through the trees.

I stepped closer, watching as Nate rolled the trash bags around the feral shifter’s feet and calves.

“Nate?”

“Help me with his hips,” he said, distracted with the work.

I sighed and did as he asked, lifting the lower body up while he wrapped the legs. His face was drawn as he concentrated on his task. He finally glanced up as if to say something, but his face gave a look of terrified surprise as he looked over my shoulder.

“Shit, someone’s coming,” he whispered. “Hurry, cover him with leaves.Move.”

I glanced over my shoulder. One of the camp staff was walking the footpaths with an extendable hook, picking up trash. He was heading right toward our cabin.

“Cameron, help me.”

Unsure what his plans were, I whirled around and gathered handfuls of leaves, twigs, and patches of moss, spreading them across the body until it looked like some strange hump in the earth. Nate sat down and leaned against the body like he was relaxing in the morning air. I did the same.

A moment later, the worker strolled by. Catching sight of us, he waved. “Morning, folks. Sleep well?”

“Sure did,” Nate called back with a smile.

“Good for you. Breakfast starts in a half hour.”

“We’ll be there,” Nate replied.

The man continued on his way, slowly using his little hook device to pick up litter. A few seconds after he disappeared, Ollie pulled up, driving down the same path. It was barely big enough for the pickup, but he made it.

Nate let out a relieved sigh and leapt to his feet before hurrying to help Ollie with the bike. He threw the tarp off the vehicle and began to undo the ratchet straps that held it in place. The mere sight of the bike sent a lump to my throat. Was this really the end? The motorcycle was like a symbol of Nate’s freedom and the road he’d be riding down in a few hours, twisting the throttle and screaming down the highway. Leaving me behind.

“Here,” Ollie said from the open passenger door, tossing Nate a small first-aid kit. “For your arm. It’ll heal fast, but you need to cover it.”

Nate caught the kit. He furrowed his brow as he glanced down at his injury. It was as if he’d forgotten about it in the stress of the last few minutes. He smeared some ointment on the wound, then bandaged it. He tossed the kit back to Ollie, and as he did, I saw a faint red stain seeping through the gauze.

While Nate pulled a thick board out from the back of the truck to act as a ramp for the bike, Ollie ran back to the creek to get the body. Everything was happening around me, like I was watching a movie rather than living it. By the time Nate began to roll the motorcycle down, it was like I couldn’t breathe. Each second was dragging me, kicking and screaming, toward the moment that we’d be separated. No matter what words I thought up in my head, none of them sounded right. None of them conveyed what I wanted andneededto say.

“Jesus, this fucker is heavy,” Ollie cursed as he hauled the body toward the truck, his head snapping back and forth to make sure the coast was clear.

He managed to heave the wrapped body over the edge of the truck bed and into the back. The bodythunkedagainst the metal of the truck bed, and I winced in disgust. Ollie threw another tarp on top of the body, then tied it down with the same straps that had held the bike in place.

Nate rolled his bike to the porch of the cabin and flipped the kickstand down.

“Nate, can we talk before I leave?” I asked.

“I gotta grab my stuff,” he grunted, and rushed past me back into the cabin.

Ollie eyed me suspiciously. “What the fuck is up with him? Seems stressed about something.”

“You could say that,” I mumbled.

“You ready to go?” he asked.

“Give me a second.”

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