Free The Hunted by Gloria Skurzynski Page A

Jack protested, but Ashley had already reached the pump and was pulling on the handle, lifting it and then shoving it down, again and again, until water began to gurgle and then came pouring through the spout. She held the sneakers on their sides beneath the rush of water, pumping the handle continuously. If the cloth in the sneakers didn’t look much better, at least all the mud was being washed off the soles.
    Miguel stood on the metal door that lay like a lid over the concrete compartment sunk coffinlike into the ground next to the pump. “¿Qué es?” he asked, lifting the lid and pointing to the pipes inside.
    In answer, Jack showed him the small red sign on the front of the pump. “It says ‘Notice, this water is treated with iodine.’ I guess those pipes are part of the….” How was he supposed to explain the process of iodization to Miguel, when he couldn’t even get him to understand that the police in the United States didn’t go into closed campgrounds and crank up rock music to catch illegal aliens? He could sign the basics to Miguel, like food or a haircut, but ideas were something else. He needed words. Words that he didn’t have. The whole thing was so frustrating! “Uh, the pipes put stuff in the water, that’s all.”
    â€œGive it up, Jack, he doesn’t understand a thing you’re saying. Here you go, Miguel,” Ashley interrupted, holding out the dripping sneakers.
    â€œGood show, Ashley,” Jack said. “Now every step he takes, he’ll squish.”
    â€œBut if he tries to run away from us, he might go slower.” She nodded at Jack, a small smile curling the edge of her lips.
    Jack answered with a grin. Sometimes his sister could be pretty smart.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    A shley in front, Jack in back, with Miguel in the middle, they hiked down a lane with two dirt tire tracks running in dusty parallel strips. The road through Quartz Creek Campground was shaped like a lasso, a straight stretch topped by a gigantic loop. The Landon camper was parked on the left side of the lasso; the sound seemed to have come from the farthest edge of the right side of the loop. Whoever they found would be too far back to know anyone else was in the campground.
    Stopping abruptly, Ashley asked, “Ooooh, do you smell that awful smell?” Wrinkling her nose, she said, “It’s like something really rotten.”
    Jack hadn’t noticed it before, but once Ashley mentioned it, he could smell it, too, especially when a small breeze wafted toward them. “I don’t know what it is,” he answered, “but this whole thing is getting strange.” Maybe the mystery would be solved when they got a look at who or what was back there in the trees. Or maybe it wouldn’t turn out to be much of a mystery: Probably hikers had come in from the back country, not needing to unlock the chain at the entrance.
    The farther they walked, the worse the smell became. With every breeze, a fresh wave of stench would curl up Jack’s nostrils, as if death itself were riding the wind.
    It didn’t seem to bother Miguel, though. Nothing, it seemed, bothered him, not the rough ride in the camper, not the lack of food, not his dirty clothes, not anything except the police, whom he had good reason to fear, and even that danger he was prepared to face. With his frayed shoes and borrowed clothes, Miguel was at ease in his own skin. That kid, Jack mused, could teach him a lot.
    Suddenly Miguel grabbed at Ashley’s arm and motioned for Jack to stop. “Por allí,” he whispered, pointing. “There.”
    â€œWhat?” Jack hadn’t noticed anything, not the slightest movement or flash of color.
    Miguel pointed, then repeated, “Por allí.”
    â€œOK, I’ll go first. You guys follow,” Jack instructed.
    â€œNo,” Miguel said. “I go first.”
    He must want to see if the police are there, Jack