Barren Waters - The Complete Novel: (A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival) (2 page)

His thoughts threatened to slither beneath the locked door of his mind where memories of home lurked, but he pulled them back and held them firm.

“You ever see the Grand Canyon?” she asked in a dreamy voice.

He nodded. “Once. A long time ago though. I was just a boy and I saw it from an airplane. I’m not sure if it seemed big because I was so small or if it really was that breathtaking.”

“And a river really created all that?”

“Yup. A river did,” he answered. “But it took millions and millions of years. Something that beautiful could never be created overnight.”

Though her voice had dropped to a low whisper, he still caught her words. “No. Something that beautiful can’t be created overnight. But it sure can be destroyed.”

He didn’t answer that, choosing instead to rifle through his own pack. From its depths he pulled out the small air pump they’d found in the supply closet, and made his rounds to test the volume of their tires. He worried for the longevity of the rubber given the weight and added pressure they were putting atop them. Back at the college, he and Sam had crafted sloppy baskets with whatever materials they could find at the ready, and tied them as securely as they could to racks on the backs of the bikes. They’d gathered what few panniers they could find, secured them to the bike frames, and transferred as many supplies as they could fit into the large packs that hung from their backs.

It’d been a difficult decision for Jeremy to make. Take the bikes and reach their destination faster, or continue to walk and push their heavy cart? Initially, the idea of abandoning their supplies had seemed inconceivable, but then he’d wondered if he was crazy to actually consider leaving the bikes behind. Who in his right mind would pass on such an opportunity? But he had other concerns. The supplies were just as important and so they’d had to fashion the compartments to find a way to bring a large number of the items along. Jeremy worried that the weight was too much for the slim tires to bear, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

“Are you ever gonna tell me where we’re going?” she asked.

He could hear notes of exasperation in her tone. “I told you. It’s a surprise. Come on. Let’s move off the road. It’s getting dark.”

He lifted his bike and turned toward the road, then slipped into the forest that hemmed the edge of the bank. The trees were thicker here than they were at home, yet still offered little camouflage or protection. Acid rain was systematically choking them of vital nutrients, and as a result, they slowly shed leaves and limbs like an aging man fighting a losing battle for his hair. Some of the pine trees were still lush and full. It was the taller deciduous species that were the first to succumb. At the base of these, large and decaying fallen logs littered the ground, the bark covered in mosses and fungi. At least it was still green. Over time the forests at home had turned gray and brittle.

He pushed through the debris, hoping at least to negotiate the bikes as close to the riverbank as possible. The snapping of hollow branches marked Sam’s close passage behind him. “So why ‘Carp’? Did it taste good or something?”

She sounded a bit out of breath and he reflexively slowed his pace.

“I don’t know actually. Never tried carp, though I was lucky enough to try a piece of smoked salmon once.”

“
Smoked
salmon? Sounds disgusting.”

“Smoked or dried was the only thing left. My father had saved a few packets so I could try it.”

As were most days he’d spent with his father, Jeremy recalled that day fondly. They’d sat on the back deck of the cabin, far above the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, and enjoyed the spectacular view, though he remembered even then that the air had begun to thin.

“We’ve got to eat it now or it’s going to go bad,” his father said as he pulled the knife from his pocket and slipped the blade between the folds of plastic. The package opened with a tiny pop and a curious tangy smell lifted from its contents.

“Smells funny,” Jeremy said as he pinched his small nose.

“Not
funny
,” his dad laughed. “Fishy. Go get the encyclopedia from the house. The volume with the ‘S’ on it.”

He remembered running to their family library and pulling the heavy volume from the shelves. He loved to hear stories about the fish, loved to hear his father talk about anything, really, but tales of the once-glorious oceans were his favorite. His father slid off the chair and crossed his legs on the smooth wood planking, and with the tome spread across his lap, sifted through the pages and settled the book open with a small creaking of binding.

“There,” he pointed. “That’s what it looked like.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes and peered at the strange creature. “I thought fish were supposed to be small, but it’s big.”

“They were big,” his father acknowledged. “Back in the 1900’s they were quite large indeed.”

Jeremy traced his finger along its oblong silhouette. It was beautiful, its scales a shining silver that gleamed with pearl-like opalescence. His father handed him a piece of the pale orange meat and he tasted it warily and then spit it onto the deck.

“Ick. It tastes like smoke.”

His father’s laugh had always been hearty and warm.

“It’s an acquired taste I suppose, though one I’m afraid you’ll never have the opportunity to develop.”

Jeremy nearly tripped ever a fallen log, and then peered over his shoulder at Sam. “This is as far as we can get with the bikes. It’s getting too thick up here. We need to find a place to hide them for the night.”

She pointed toward a mound of fallen branches, still thick with decaying leaves, and the two worked in a companionable silence. Jeremy had always found tranquility in the tending of simple and repetitive tasks. And repetitive was a rather apt description of their existence now. They had to be diligent in their routine, maniacally so. Their survival depended on it. If any of the gangs that wandered the streets found them or their supplies, they’d be robbed and killed, or left to suffer the elements, which was often the same thing as dead. That was a dangerous predicament for most anyone, but it was a death sentence for Sam.

Having shrouded the vehicles beneath an abundant supply of dead foliage, they moved through the thick underbrush to the edge of the river. Wordlessly they stared at it. The sight always sickened Jeremy and again he wondered why she liked to come down here. Perhaps it was because the damage wasn’t all that visible here. The water still ran relatively clear in this spot, but the smell was revolting. Algae clustered and bloomed in thick reds and greens that stretched along the shallower edges in long ribbons, and he could detect a slight sheen to the surface of the water, a rainbow brilliance that bespoke of oil and chemicals that gathered like a poisonous layer of skin.

He heard Sam clearing the forest floor of sticks and debris, and settling their tarp upon the dead leaves.               “What should we eat?” she asked him as though this were a normal Sunday picnic.

He dropped to his knees and shrugged the pack from his shoulder. From their baskets he’d selected whole grain crackers and a few pieces of dried meat along with a can of baked beans.

She smiled, pulled a lighter from her pocket, and lit the small mound of wood she’d stacked at the edge of their camp. “I like the beans. They’re sweet. But I want them hot.”

He sighed and pushed himself to his feet to return to the bikes for a pot to heat them in. When he returned she’d spread their map across the tarp and was gnawing on dried crackers as she examined the purple line she’d drawn to mark their path.

“So, Chattanooga you say?”

He nodded and watched as she marked their passage on the tattered paper.

“Huntsville is about a hundred miles from here so we can make it there in two days time by my estimate. Where to after that?”

Jeremy worked the slightly rusted opener along the top of the beans and dumped the contents into the pot.

“Southwest toward Mississippi and Arkansas.”

“Can we follow the Mississippi river?” she asked excitedly.

“Hell no we can’t. We have to cross it, but we’re sticking to the roads and bridges. We’re not getting anywhere near that contaminated dump.”

He could sense her disappointment, but didn’t foresee her next words. She took him off-guard.

“I wish Mom were here.”

Jeremy released a pent breath. “I know. So do I.”

Leaning forward, she swirled their beans around the pot to even out the heat, took care to keep her eyes downcast. “What name do you think she would’ve liked?”

“For Mom?” he asked. “Hmm. ‘Angler’? Maybe ‘Perch’?”

She discarded both with a frown. “Terrible ideas. I think she would’ve liked ‘Starfish’ or ‘Minnow.’”

It still broke his heart to hear her speak of her mother in the past tense.

“Searobin,” he suggested quietly.

She met his gaze and nodded approvingly. “It’s beautiful. And perfect. Like she was.” She lifted her brow with mock approval. “Not bad, Carp.”

He had to make an attempt to lighten the topic of conversation. This subject matter could lead nowhere fast.

“Will you read to me tonight?”

Her lips were pursed. “I’m not in the mood. Not tonight.”

With that, he knew she’d settled into one of her moods and once she had there was nothing he could do or say to lift her out of it. She was a girl who’d recently lost her mother and he was a man who’d recently lost his wife. She deserved her moods and then some.

They ate in silence. A silence that was unnatural and rather freakish in this part of the country. He had to admit that she was right; the gentle purling of the water
was
rather calming. But it was the absence of sound that still bothered him so. Jeremy remembered his childhood and their cabin in the mountains of Sevierville. They would sit on the deck late into the evening, surrounded by the sounds of an animate forest. There was a richer diversity of species back then. Well, not rich, he corrected, just more, and insects, too, singing cicadas and chirping crickets, and the occasional croaking of a forest toad. None of which existed anymore, or if they did, their numbers had dwindled so much that their voices could no longer be heard. But this riverbank was seemingly devoid of life. What was that old saying? That insects would inherit the earth? Not so as it turned out. Even they had fallen victim to the death of the oceans.

Sam’s voice cut through the silence. “I wish we were back home.”

He scrutinized her shadowed face and the outline of her body, set aglow by the small fire. “You know, we don’t have to sleep outside. How many empty homes did we pass on the way here? How many side streets with large brick houses and white picket fences? Hundreds? This was your choice to stay out here, Sam. Not mine. Frankly its not really safe out here.”

“Just one more night,” she offered. “Then I think I’m done with the river. I just wanted to see it is all.”

She pushed her bowl aside and curled herself on her blanket. She always faced away from him when she slept, said she liked to know he had her back. He knew she was tired—physically and mentally—and again it amazed him how much their lives had changed in such a short amount of time. When they were a family, the three of them would stay awake late into the night. Jeremy and Susan would drink glass after glass of Cabernet from the ark while Sam would read to them from her Harry Potter books. Or the three would play cards or Monopoly by the soft light of candles. It was perfect. It was a private sanctuary on the side of a mountain and it belonged only to them.

Jeremy had always been a night owl, had always gone to bed late and risen later. How odd it was that he and Sam had reached a natural circadian rhythm that matched the rising and setting of the sun. He supposed he slept more soundly now than he had in years. He settled onto his back and peered into the starry sky.

“So what’s the verdict? Now that you’ve seen the river up close, what do you think of it?”

She murmured her reply in a sleepy voice. “It’s lovely, really. Peaceful. I guess I try to imagine the way it was before.”

Silence stretched between them until her soft voice punctuated it. “I’d like to know where we’re going, Carp. I don’t care much for surprises anymore.”

“Give me your number first.”

She groaned, yet raised herself on her elbow and held her arm out to the light of the fire. “One hundred seven,” she called out irritably.

“Perfect.”

He moved toward the fire and smothered it while she lay back down. It was never a good idea to sleep beside a fire. It was like a beacon to those roaming the night, a signal or lighthouse that could broadcast latitude and longitude to a dangerously diminished populace. It was a flare that marked the presence of life to any miscreant who traveled this tortured countryside.

“I’m waiting,” she whispered. “Where?”

“We’re going to San Diego, Sam.”

He saw her flinch. “You’re taking me to see the ocean?”

“Yup,” he replied. “It’s what you said you wanted, wasn’t it?”

He wouldn’t tell her the other reason he’d chosen it as their destination, wouldn’t tell her that her life all but depended on his ability to get them there, wouldn’t tell her the truth—that they were running out of time. Not yet. He needed to keep that to himself. Just a little longer.