The Disaster Days

by Rebecca Behrens

  It’s funny how I thought of “they” as these all-knowing, super-capable experts who could problem-solve immediately. Like they weren’t normal people who might also have become trapped in their homes, or injured, or worse. Like “they” didn’t need passable roads or electricity or working phones to begin fixing what the earthquake had destroyed. I shuddered. The people with the skills to help might be as helpless as I was.

  Zoe let out a small sigh. “I guess you’re right. We can’t live in a tent and pee in the woods forever, and I’m really sick of being cold and soggy.”

  “Zoe!” Oscar’s tone was wounded. He looked at his sister like she was a traitor. “I don’t want to go.”

  She patiently crouched at his level. “Hey, I know. But we need to, Oscar.”

  I knew how to convince him. “It’s like in your video games—it’s time to go to the next level. That’s always a new place. Don’t you want to level up?”

  His chin quivered, but he didn’t cry. “Fine.” Honestly, I couldn’t believe how tough he was being. He had a broken leg, after all. If I were in his situation, I would probably cry nonstop. Pride for him blossomed in my heart. This must be how parents feel, when their kid does something good that surprises them.

  How would my parents feel if they had been watching me all this time?

  I didn’t know. I had made so many mistakes.

  But I was also doing my best. That’s what Dad always says: All you have to do is try your best. I really was. I hoped that would make them proud.

  Zoe and I snapped into action, first by dashing over to Andrea’s fenced-in garden to harvest some veggies—so we didn’t have to live on the scraps of crackers and marshmallows that were left. Or maybe pillage was the right word—although Andrea had planted the veggies with the goal of her kids eating them someday, right?

  But the plant beds only had sprouts to offer. Not even literal sprouts, like what my mom always puts in her turkey-and-avocado pitas. Sprouts like seedlings, which we couldn’t eat (1) because the vegetables hadn’t grown yet, and (2) because I would have felt guilty about killing the teenage plants, especially when they’d already survived an earthquake.

  “So much for living off the land,” I said to Zoe.

  “I still don’t understand why you wanted to get dirty veggies from the yard when there’s probably food we missed in the house,” she said.

  “Because we could avoid digging through the debris piled up in the kitchen if we got our sustenance from the garden.” She looked skeptical. “Fine, you’re right. We’ll go inside.”

  The truth was, going back into the house scared me. I didn’t want to have to hold my breath, especially now that my breathing had calmed down. I could get enough air into my lungs, and my fingers weren’t tingling, although I still had a wheeze. But even if we’d been able to collect food from the garden, there were other things inside we needed in order to leave, like food pellets for Jupiter (if we could find them), and more water. And then something to carry everything in. Wait, we still need a way to transport Oscar so his leg stays stable. How had I forgotten that? I massaged my temples, giving myself a moment to think the plans through again, so I wouldn’t forget anything important. “Zoe, do you guys have a wagon?”

  She nodded. “It’s in the carport.”

  “Let’s get that first.”

  We dashed to the carport. The pavement where the car normally would be parked had a long, deep crack in it. The lawnmower and various garden tools—a hoe, a shovel, and a couple of rakes—had all toppled over. A pyramid of firewood had collapsed, spreading logs and kindling across the covered area. A couple of terra-cotta flowerpots had shattered, but the metal ones looked fine, although full of rainwater. One of the rakes had fallen onto the wagon, which had rolled to the middle of the parking space, like it had taken the opportunity to sneakily steal the car’s spot.

  “Excellent,” I said, dumping the wagon on its side and giving it a couple of shakes to get all the gunk out. Then I grabbed the handle and motioned for Zoe to follow me back to the porch.

  I parked the wagon next to the door. “Okay, here’s the plan. If you see food—grab whatever hasn’t spoiled or opened or possibly been contaminated. We need Jupiter’s food pellets. We need more bandages and pain relievers, if we can find them. And we need bottled water—or juice; anything we can drink.

  “We’re going to run in, gather what we can, then dash back out to the wagon. Don’t breathe too much air in the kitchen. And let’s be really careful moving across the floor—stuff might have shifted or fallen. We don’t want to trip and get hurt.”

  Zoe nodded. “It’s like that game show, the one where you have to get through the grocery store super fast and stay within your budget.”

  “Exactly like that, except our ‘budget’ is what we can safely carry.” I craned my neck to look over at the orange tent in the middle of the yard. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Oscar—are you and Jupiter all right in there?”

  Weakly, I heard: “Yeah. If you find fruit ropes, can you bring me some?”

  “We will totally do that,” I bellowed back. Then I pulled my shirt over my mouth and nose again and motioned for Zoe to do the same.

  “Ready? Let’s go.”

  Reentering the house, it didn’t feel like the same space at all. It had a creepy, abandoned vibe—like somehow in the few hours we’d spent outside in the tent, cobwebs had formed and dust had coated all the surfaces. Actually, all the surfaces were covered in a layer of grimy silt, but it was from the earthquake’s damage, not neglect. Even with my ears pounding, I heard strange noises—hisses and groans and drips. I hunched forward, in a protective posture, as I stepped carefully through the living room mess and into the kitchen. Zoe followed right behind me, so close that if I paused for even a half second, we’d collide. Even with my shirt over my nose and my breath held, I could smell the gas. My heartbeat picked up its tempo.

  In the kitchen, we went straight for the cupboards and countertops. There wasn’t much left in them, thanks to our previous foraging. What remained was mostly unusable—like pasta you’d need to cook to eat. I grabbed a few smushed granola bars tucked in the back of the cupboard. And I found the can of refried beans that Andrea had joked we could eat if we got “desperate.” It was dented but hadn’t burst. Well, we’re desperate now. Best of all, it had a pop-top lid. The odds of me being able to find a can opener in the kitchen nightmare were slim to none.

  Next to a split-open bag of basmati rice on the countertop was an intact box of matches. I swiped them. They might come in handy later—and it seemed like extremely bad judgment to leave any fire starters in a kitchen that smelled like gas. After they were zipped in my pocket, I felt like a walking bomb.

  I’d only sneaked a few breaths while I’d been filling up my arms, and my chest was achy. My eyes were watering too, possibly from the fumes. I motioned to Zoe, who had turned her shirt into a makeshift basket, holding a thing of rice cakes and a fresh box of bandages—the small ones, unfortunately, but still good to have. I motioned for her to follow me back outside, grabbing my backpack on the way.

  At the wagon, we took stock of the food. Not great options—but enough to get us to my house. We wouldn’t need any more than that, though, right? Unlike the Matlocks’, where we’d started out with little food even before the earthquake ruined most of it, my kitchen was fully stocked. Mom had gone to the grocery store the day before the quake. Once we got there, we’d be fine. And full.

  “Now all we need is water and more pellets for Jupiter,” I said. “Oh, and fruit ropes, for Oscar.”

  Zoe frowned. “I didn’t see any more water. All we had was that jug—which we drank.”

  “There must be something inside for us to drink. To stay hydrated.” I paused. “I’m going back in to check. Why don’t you see how Oscar’s holding up?”

  Zoe nodded, taking off across the y
ard. As she ran, she hugged her injured arm close to her side, like it hurt to be jostled.

  I took a deepish breath, then another. Water. Pellets. Fruit ropes. Last trip in, and then I’d be going home.

  To my delight, I stumbled on the fruit ropes as soon as I stepped back into the kitchen—the crushed box had slid underneath the edge of the kitchen island and I almost tripped over it. Sweet. I tucked them under my arm. I just needed water—or juice boxes; whatever was drinkable—and pellets. The shavings for Jupiter’s cage had been in a cabinet below the window. Maybe the pellets were in there too. I bent down and tried to open the door, but it was stuck shut.

  Come on, I begged. I slapped my palm against the wood to jar it loose. I crammed my fingernails into the crack between the edge of the door and the rest of the cabinet, pulling to pry it open.

  I sucked in another breath, my nose scrunching at the smell. I had to let it go—even if Jupiter’s pellets were inside, I couldn’t spend any more time trying to get them.

  Fluids. I ran back to the cupboards, sweeping debris out of the way. No bottles of water; no boxes of almond milk. I shined my phone’s flashlight in, hoping for the glimmer of a silver pack of juice pouches, at least. Nothing. My heart sank. I’d even take a bottle of prune juice and consider that a victory.

  I turned to the sink. Maybe the water coming out of the faucet had gone back to normal. Gingerly, I turned the knob, holding my breath in hopes that the water would run out crystal clear—or at least clear-ish—but after a few seconds of a weird clanging, sucking noise, rusty brown came sputtering out again. The faucet shuddered from the effort. I turned it off. The shuddering continued.

  It wasn’t only the faucet. Everything was shuddering—an aftershock.

  I dropped to my knees and hunched protectively, folding my arms over my head. Why didn’t I look up “earthquakes” in the encyclopedia and find out exactly what you’re supposed to do when it starts shaking and you’re already in a half-destroyed room full of potential missiles: heavy bags of lentils and little glass jars of spices that managed not to roll to their deaths on the floor? Not to mention swinging light fixtures and cabinet doors. I whimpered, tightening every muscle in my body, like if somehow I turned myself rock solid, the ground would go back to being that way too.

  Should I make a run for it back outside? Outside. What was going on out there? Were Zoe and Oscar okay? What if the tent had collapsed on them? Or what if a crack formed right underneath and then it fell inside…or the ground turned to that quicksand stuff below them. I gasped in a breath, pressing one hand to the floor. What if this is the tremor that turns a gas leak into an explosion?

  I wobbled up to standing, then took off through the living room. The shaking wasn’t as strong as the first aftershock. If the fridge hadn’t already face-planted onto the kitchen floor, I don’t think the current level of quaking could’ve toppled it. But still, I had to get out of the house. For all I knew, the tremor was just a warm-up.

  I burst out of the screened porch, the door slamming behind me. The clatter seemed to echo in the silent outdoors. Zoe’s head popped out of the opening in the cozy orange dome. Relief flooded me. They were okay.

  The fish pond wasn’t, though. The water in it sloshed back and forth like a wave pool at the water park. A mini tidal wave had formed. It rushed past the rocky boundary of the pond and deluged the grass. A much smaller scale of what had happened to the coast. To my dad. Had he been beyond the wave’s reach? Please don’t let the wave have taken him. I thought I might throw up.

  “Hannah! It’s shaking,” Zoe called.

  “I know!” But it was already ending. The pendulum wave in the fish pond slowed like a metronome coming to a stop.

  In the newfound stillness, I fully felt how out of breath I was. I hunched with my hands on my thighs, begging my chest to relax and my lungs to fill. After they did, I put the fruit ropes in the wagon and slowly wheeled it toward the tent.

  “Another aftershock,” I called to Zoe, my voice portraying a calm I definitely hadn’t felt while inside the trembling house. “It’s over now. How’s Oscar?”

  Zoe shrugged. “The same, I guess.”

  I ducked inside the tent, which felt at least a couple of wonderful degrees warmer than outside. Body heat, I suppose. However, it was also starting to smell strongly of stinky bodies and wet socks. I sat down next to Oscar, who was lying on the cushion, his head propped up by a wad of blanket. He gazed up at me with bleary, pain-filled eyes. I thought my heart would snap into pieces.

  “I got you the fruit ropes,” I said gently, holding up the box. I reached in, pulled one out, and started to undo the cellophane wrapper for him. Whenever I was sick and my mom brought me Popsicles and Italian ice, she always undid the wrappers for me. Like she wanted every ounce of energy I had to go toward healing. It made me feel so safe to know that someone was there, making sure that I had all the care I could possibly need. Poor Oscar, who was hurt and also aware he wasn’t getting any of the treatment he deserved. He must be so scared. I handed him the rope.

  He stretched his arm out limply to take it. “I’m really thirsty, Hannah. But we’re out of water.”

  “Completely?” I was hoping that at least a cup would be left, to wash down the remaining pain-reliever chewables.

  He nodded.

  My heart sank. I had nothing to offer him. Other than what was left in the scuzzy fish pond. This was another instance when Neha would probably be a much better, and more prepared, babysitter than me. She always has a water bottle. She says she just likes to stay hydrated, which is a good idea considering all that running on the soccer field. But I liked to tease her that the shiny silver water bottle she totes to class, on Main Street shopping trips, on the ferry, to my house, even to bed at night is her security blanket. Once she forgot it in her locker after school ended, and she actually convinced her dad to drive her back to get it.

  Neha would have that water bottle on her if she were babysitting. And she probably would’ve had the foresight to start rationing the water, just in case, as soon as she realized that an earthquake had happened. I’d let us go through a jug in a single morning. I sighed.

  There we were, stranded on an island suburb of Seattle, the city known for its constant rain—in fact, my clothes were still damp from this morning’s downpour—and yet we had no water. That was irony. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

  Wait—this morning’s downpour. I pictured the metal flowerpots spilling over with fresh rainwater that I’d navigated the wagon past. We do have water.

  Except you can’t drink rainwater collected from dirty metal pots. That’s a surefire way to end up with some kind of horrible infection or disease like cholera. Whatever they got on the actual Oregon Trail. You’d have to purify it in order to drink it.

  Another Neha memory popped into my head: standing in front of the stove with her mom, laughing as she dropped Neha’s post-yogurt-shop-trash retainer into a pot of boiling water. “Bye, yogurt germs.” Neha had looked skeptical. “I promise this will kill them all,” her mom had reassured.

  We could drink that rainwater, if we boiled it first.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty to drink,” I said. “We just need to get that going.” I pointed to the firepit.

  14

  One of Zoe’s contributions to our emergency survival notebook, neatly copied from the Girl Scout Manual, was step-by-step instructions for building a fire. Of course, step one was preceded by a warning message, which she’d written in shout-y block letters: FIRES SHOULD ONLY BE BUILT AND STARTED UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF AN ADULT, SUCH AS A PARENT OR TROOP LEADER. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO START A FIRE ON YOUR OWN. WHEN BUILDING A CAMPFIRE, MAKE SURE TO DO SO IN A SAFE, DESIGNATED PLACE, SUCH AS A CAMPSITE FIREPIT. KEEP A BUCKET OF WATER OR EXTINGUISHER HANDY FOR EMERGENCIES. AT ALL TIMES!!!

  Well, until we started boiling it, we’d have a bucket of
rainwater handy. Or rather, a flowerpot. The other parts of the warning message, regrettably, I had to ignore.

  The Matlocks’ firepit wasn’t actually a pit. A small square of the yard had pebbly gravel instead of grass, bordered by larger stones. In the middle of the square sat a dark steel dome—the firepit. The top opened so you could put in logs, and there was even a flat grate over half the area that rested above the flames—kind of like a grill? We could set the flowerpot on top of that once the fire got going, which was a big help—I wouldn’t have to figure out how to string up the pot over an open flame.

  The hardest part would be getting the fire started, and even that didn’t seem terribly hard. I had matches, after all.

  “These are good instructions,” I said to Zoe. “Really clear.” She’d penciled in tiny illustrations of each step , which made me smile:

  That was it. She’d even included the instructions for putting out a campfire:

  Start by sprinkling, not dumping, water on top. Stir the embers around to make sure no sneaky coals are left smoldering.

  Zoe and I had returned to the carport and loaded the empty wagon—we’d transferred all the food and other supplies into the tent temporarily—with dry logs, sticks, and wads of newspaper. Now we hunched in front of the firepit, Zoe handing me pieces of tinder, which I tucked inside the belly of the pit. When I had a nice little pyramid of tinder, I called for the kindling. That was a lot harder to stack. The drawing in her instructions showed that the sticks should rest in an upside-down cone shape. But whenever I tried to rest them against one another, they’d topple like dominoes. It took three tries until I got all the sticks stacked and steady. Then I still had to pile on the big pieces of firewood, without collapsing everything.