Barren Waters - The Complete Novel: (A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival)
Read Barren Waters - The Complete Novel: (A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival) Online
Authors: Julia Shupe
Barren Waters
A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival
Julia Shupe
Text Copyright © 2016 Julia Shupe
Cover Design Copyright © 2016 Julia Shupe
All Rights Reserved
For my lovely sister, Erin
For her strength, elegance, and beauty
Part 1
I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea—whether it is to sail or to watch it—we are going back from whence we came.
—John F. Kennedy
Somewhere outside Chattanooga, Tennessee
2,147 miles to San Diego
“Samantha. Sam, wake up.” He cursed himself and shook her bodily, “Sam, come on. Come back to me.”
He poked and prodded her, yet still she remained unresponsive. This was his fault. Laying a cool cloth across her forehead, he cursed aloud. How could he have been so stupid? So reckless? He’d known she was getting low, but foolishly hadn’t listened to the tiny voice inside his head that occasionally managed to speak a bit of sense. It was the same voice that seemed to become smaller and quieter with each passing day. For a brief moment he wondered if he’d finally lost himself, if somehow after all of this, somewhere or someplace along the way, he’d left a vital piece of himself behind.
Wanting them to make it as far as Huntsville by next week, he really thought he’d feel better once they crossed the Alabama border. But what would be the point? To say they’d gone an extra fifty miles? To prove they could cross a state line within the span of a single month? What was he trying to prove? More importantly, to whom was he trying to prove it? When all was said and done, whose timetable did they follow but the one they set for themselves? He made the rules and could just as easily break them.
Which is exactly what I should have done
, he thought with a frown.
“Sam. Come on Pike, open your eyes.”
He ran his hand along her scalp and his fingers came away damp. He should’ve known better. He knew all the signs. By now he’d become a master at recognizing them. About thirty minutes ago she’d begun to appear fuzzy.
Fuzzy
. That’s how he liked to describe it—fuzzy in the head. She’d stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused, muscles in her face gone slack. After that she’d become irritable and cantankerous, or worse, flat and emotionless. It was times like these that he preferred a grumpy Sam to a muted one. At least grumpy could be categorized as a human emotion. It was the dullness that so frightened him, the times when the edges of her smile bled to a frown and the spirited sheen left her eyes.
He’d been pushing her too hard these past few days and he’d known it. Yes, he had to admit, they’d made excellent progress, and though they’d worked hard, they’d also been blessed with a certain amount of luck along the way. But Jeremy had always believed that luck was a double-edged sword. Good luck could just as easily turn bad. And fast. This he knew all too well. Personal experience was the best of teachers.
But so far, their recent luck had been good. By some unlikely turn of fate, they’d picked up the bikes in Knoxville. It had been her idea and he had to give credit where credit was due. The idea was a good one. For days they’d followed the sleek curves of Neyland Drive, which clung to the contours of the Tennessee River, and by some slim chance she’d seen the sign for the University of Tennessee. It was remarkable that she’d seen it at all. Weeds and tall grasses had begun to expel it from the earth as if it were an infectious growth. It had begun to lean to one side, base bent and corroded by rust. The lettering had long faded, the red paint chipped and worn free. Fungi crawled over its surface and had begun a slow digestive process.
“Wouldn’t they have bikes at a university?” she’d queried thoughtfully.
“Probably rusted heaps of twisted metal by now, Sam.”
She’d frowned at that, tiny wrinkles creasing her brow. “You’re such a pessimist. You don’t know that for sure. We should at least go and check it out. What do we have to lose?”
And so they had. And she’d been right. Having initially picked through the rusted heaps of twisted metal secured to the bike racks at the edge of the campus lawn, they’d turned to the domiciles. They’d pushed through the warped doors of several dormitories before finally hitting pay dirt. He’d hoped that at the very least they might be able to find some discarded pieces of clothing that weren’t already moth-eaten, a hidden bottle of water, or a fresh pair of tennis shoes that weren’t split at the soles.
But damned if fortune hadn’t smiled—and smiled with a bit of teeth. Against insurmountable odds they’d found a neat row of bikes in one of the supply closets; a gleaming series of polished frames of reds, blues, and oranges with glinting steel spokes, and clean firm tires. Flat tires—yes—but firm, with thick rubber and deep treads. Jeremy had to admit that the sight had lifted his spirits as nothing else had in weeks, and he’d taken the gift and run with it, so to speak. The tires had needed air and the chains a bit of oil, but it was a treasure trove of good fortune and he was thankful.
The bikes were in such excellent condition that he’d truly hated to only take two of them. Who knew when the tires would pop or run flat or when the brake pads might disintegrate? But in the end it hadn’t mattered. Best not to think that way, right? Like a pessimist? Besides, he’d take anything at this point. They were becoming desperate.
Before the bikes, they’d walked for weeks and he’d started to feel the beginning stages of panic. Ironically, it wasn’t the walking that slowed their progress. It was the cart itself, the very vessel that contained the sustenance they needed to make the journey. The ark, as he liked to call it, was a burden, but a necessary burden. A vital one. Without their supplies they’d be dead in a matter of weeks.
Even with the bikes and the supplies both, you’ll still not make it
, the little voice in his head hissed.
Not with enough time to spare
.
The thought sparked renewed panic.
“Come on Pike,” he clipped sternly as he ignored the voice and shook her again. “Time to come back to planet earth.”
He peered beneath an eyelid and lifted her left arm to examine the indicator at her wrist. Forty-eight. Good. She was coming out of it. He lifted her head and coaxed a bit more of the juice into her mouth. Most of it dribbled down her chin, but still, she’d come around soon. She always did.
He felt like such a failure. He had to stop doing this to her. Her diet was unstable, her sleep unpredictable, and her stress levels were beyond what one would consider normal. This, a trifecta that would be bad for anyone, was downright dangerous for someone with diabetes. Even with the disk in place, she could still experience unpredicted highs and lows, particularly after periods of excessive physical exertion. But at the time, and given current circumstances of course, none of it could be helped, and he was doing the best he could. He was pushing her only because he knew there’d be light at the end of this long tunnel.
Knew it? Or hoped for it,
the little voice nagged with a mocking sneer.
Knew it
, he thought with defiance.
Knew it.
And that was the whole point of this journey wasn’t it? To find a place that might bring a small measure of stability to her life. He just needed to get her there. And get her there fast.
Again he lifted her arm and inspected the indicator. Fifty-two. She should be waking.
“Sam. Can you open your eyes?” He massaged her hands and then inspected the boniness of her elbows and knees. She was far too thin.
Her eyes fluttered and a lazy smile spread across her face.
“Who’s Sam?” she muttered in a weak voice. “The name’s Pike.”
“Right. Are you sure you want Pike, though? I mean, wouldn’t you prefer ‘Anchovy’ or ‘Orange Roughy?” He tucked a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear. “Pike is a boy’s name, Sam.”
She allowed him to lift her and prop her against his thigh, and she grasped her juice with hands that still trembled in a way that set his teeth on edge.
“It’s not a boy’s name,” she admonished. “I just like it. It fits me. Besides. You chose ‘Carp’. That’s terrible. You’re much more of a ‘Bass’ or ‘Salmon’. Maybe even an ‘Eel’.”
He smiled, “Nope. I like Carp. Or maybe ‘Thresher’.” Mockingly he inhaled through his nostrils as if he were about to offer an astute analysis. “Okay. ‘Salmon’ is a nerd’s name, and ‘Bass’ is a girl’s name.” He furrowed his brow and added, “and I’m definitely not comfortable with ‘Eel’. ‘Eel’ is a pervert’s name. So that leaves ‘Carp’. Final decision.” He supported her neck and pushed the cup toward her mouth. “Drink up. We’re done for the day.”
“Where’d you come up with ‘Thresher’? What kind of fish is that?”
He pulled a kerchief from one of the pockets of his cargo pants and shook his head.
“Wasn’t a fish. A thresher was a type of shark. Long ago extinct I’m afraid. Extinct along with everything else that swam.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her throat. “A shark? Oh no. You’re definitely not a ‘Thresher’ then. ‘Carp’ is better.” With dismay she pushed dank clumps of hair from her face and peered toward the side of the road where her bike had fallen onto the thick grass. “Was it bad? Did I fall?”
“Nope. Caught you before you fell. Knew you were going to. You got fuzzy again.”
She crinkled her nose and set down her cup. “I don’t get
fuzzy
, Carp.”
His belly clenched as he watched her lift the bottom of her damp shirt to inspect the meter that lay two inches to the right of her navel.
“Thirty-eight percent,” she called out. She lifted her head and met his gaze squarely. “That’s why we’re in such a hurry, isn’t it? We’re running out of disks.”
“We’re not running out of disks,” he lied.
“Okay. Then show me how many we have left.”
He lifted his fist and shook it at her. “How about I show you a knuckle sandwich instead?”
With a roll of her eyes she pushed herself to her feet and bounced on her heels to test the strength in her legs.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’m not stupid. I’ll just look inside your pack when you’re sleeping.”
He watched her stretch and survey their surroundings, his hand reflexively moving to the side pocketing of his pants. He traced the outline of the disks against his thigh, and immediately found comfort in their familiar shape.
“So how far did we make it?”
He stood and dusted his jeans. “If you weren’t fuzzy, you’d remember.”
“Didn’t make it to Huntsville I take it?”
“Not even close. I think we’re somewhere outside Chattanooga.”
He watched as she lifted the tail of her shirt and mopped the sweat along her brow, and the gesture brought to mind his own discomfort. He peered out toward the west. Though the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, it was still hot. Unnaturally so. Or was it natural? he countered. This
was
the new natural, wasn’t it? The thickness of the heat, and the fungi that crept over the tops of everything like an invading alien species—this was the climate now. This was summer, autumn, winter, and spring.
This, and of course the thin air that occasionally caused moments of internal panic. Every now and then, if they pushed themselves too hard, they’d begin to succumb to the dizziness and lack of coordination, and the curious black spots that began to emerge at the corners of the eyes and creep steadily toward the centers. The oxygen was lower now and the death of the world’s oceans was the cause. And the oxygen wasn’t just lower at high elevations anymore. It was uncomfortable everywhere. Uncomfortable and hot, he thought with distaste. Perhaps they’d spent too much time in the mountains where it was cooler.
“Let’s go camp by the river,” Sam suggested as she lifted her bike and kicked the stand to the ground.
“It’s gonna stink down there, Sam.”
“It’s not so bad. Don’t you find you get used to certain smells? You notice it for a little while, and then you don’t anymore.” She shouldered her pack and then swayed beneath the weight.
He eyed her warily. “We’re not going anywhere until you eat something.”
He searched through his pack and pulled free a bottle of water and a very old Balance Bar and then leaned against a rotting tree as he watched her eat it. What was this fascination she’d developed with the river? It had been her idea to follow it in the first place. And it really did smell. Even from here. Not of fish or of plants or of common river tang. There
were
no more fish. Not for decades now. No. It was a chemical smell, an acetic and caustic perfume, reminiscent of bleach or fertilizer. It lifted with the delicate breeze and burned the nose. The water was most likely infectious and Jeremy hated even to look upon it.
“You get used to the smell,” she repeated around a full mouth. With a shrug she added, “Actually I don’t really care if it stinks. It’s just that I haven’t ever seen naturally flowing water before. I kind of like it. I guess I wonder where it goes. I mean I
know
where it goes, but it’s kind of amazing, you know? It runs for hundreds of miles and cuts through the hard-packed earth, gradually widening its path over time. I suppose it earns its path with hard work.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Where’d you learn all that?”
She shrugged. “Found a Grand Canyon brochure back at the last house.”
“So you like to imagine where it goes.”
She continued to sip at her juice. “That, and I like the sound. It sounds like mom’s old sound machine, the one she always liked to fall asleep to. Remember? She’d scramble for batteries and set it on white noise, but I’d always change it to babbling brook when she fell asleep. Babbling brook or ocean…” she added quietly.