As Davy stared at Rodney’s stupid face, he realized the man would prove to be useful, regardless of past events. In an instant, he saw his father’s brilliance: Rodney would redeem himself in doing his father’s bidding. As soon as the fat man would become useless, Davy would kick him to the side, water-less; he’d have to rely on the sweat of his brows to drink. This is how Davy justified everything. This was his father’s full intention. Rodney was a pawn!
Namiane quivered as she looked at Davy’s face. She had proficiency in reading his thoughts.
She would not allow this to happen, for him to partner with Rodney. She had a feeling.
She tugged at his arm. “Davy. Please. He is lying.”
Rodney looked around to find the liar. Once he saw Namiane’s glare directed at him, he pointed at himself in shock. “Who? Me?”
“Liar!”
“Nam. Stop it.”
“He’s lying, Davy. Believe me. I beg you. He’s up to something no good.”
Davy thought about it. How could Rodney be lying? After all, his father ordered Davy to work with the man. All of Rodney's claims could not have been mere coincidence.
She was calling his father a liar.
“No,” Davy said, “he’s not. I know what you’re doing, and I don’t like it.”
“Please—”
“We’re not going to Hawaii. Forget it. Never.”
“I already knew that.” She burst into another hysterical, tear-free cry.
Rodney glared at Namiane. “What have I said that is a lie, dearie? Do tell.”
“I . . .” She bit her lip. “I can’t say.”
Rodney chuckled. “You’re damn right you can’t.”
Namiane broke down: “Everyone’s dead! Everyone. It’s all my fault.”
“Nam!”
Rodney looked, confused, and twirled his finger around his ear and whistled. “Cuckoo.”
And as Namiane appeared to faint, Davy took her and brought her inside.
Soon he returned to a slam of the sliding door. He sat back down with Rodney. “Definitely cuckoo.”
Davy ignored him. “You really defected from Vendicatore. My father told me you would have. So, I have to trust you based on that.”
Rodney smiled and patted Davy on the back. “I’m glad, Davy-boy.”
“So how can we get a hold of those plans?”
Rodney dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He shook them in Davy’s face.
“I imagine they might change the locks,” Davy said. “Now that you’ve run away.”
“You underestimate their level of arrogance.”
“Okay. Keys, then. We get inside with the keys. Then we’re swamped by guards, and we’re murdered instantly. Then what?”
“We are gonna go when he gives his big speech tomorrow evening. He’s gonna unveil Tidewater. Every single guard will be there to protect him from the crazies. We’ll have a good amount of time to get in-and-out of the palace before they get back.”
Davy was incredulous. “Every single guard will be there. None will stay back at the palace . . .”
“Arrogance, Davy.”
“I need a better explanation than arrogance.”
“Well, to be fair, there’ll be a couple of watchmen on the roof. But to tell you the truth—they’re drunks. A couple of fools. I knew ‘em. I screwed with ‘em every day. Almost got them to trip over the railing once. Just trust me on this.”
“No, Rodney.” Davy’s voice turned cold. “Don’t get it confused: I don't trust you. And I never will.”
“Why? Because of crazy girl?” Rodney laughed as he turned and looked at the window of the cottage. Namiane stared back from inside. She held a candle, which highlighted her face, light spilling out from the window. Her look was that of death, of a soulless girl. Rodney, unaffected, looked away with a snicker. “Looks like that girl’s got some demons, let me tell ya.”
“She’s not the reason. I don’t trust anyone. I will never trust you. Especially you, because of what you’ve done before.”
“Your father trusts me.”
Davy felt a sinking feeling in his heart. Jealousy. “For now. For now.”
They sat by the fire for a moment. And as the moment passed, Davy took an opportunity to go inside and check on Namiane, who had disappeared from the window for a good while.
And as Rodney watched him go, he walked to the edge of the crater by the dock. He pulled down his pants down to his ankles to pee; he finished at the fire, as it fizzled out.
And when Davy returned, he saw the fire was out. He heard the crunching, dead grass—into the shadows Rodney Bight ran as a trail of smoke chased him.
CHAPTER 9
In these days of perpetual flames, a haze of smoke permeated over the California Sea and created a wall of smog. It separated the bright side and the dark side. If one were to sail through this smoky border and emerge into the bright side, they would enter another world, a coastline of rocks in front of a vibrant village. They’d have seen people on the beach, who would have gasped upon the sight of their approaching ship. For this haze, which blocked the entire horizon—and any sight of that from which it originated—was of great mystery to all. What disasters existed behind it? Only the school textbooks began to allude to them.
The people often waited for a ship to come. They watched the horizon of smoke, waiting for a black figure of a ship to appear deep within it. When this happened, the people cheered. These ships would enter the bright side, carrying tanks of water the size capacity adequate for whales to swim freely inside.
With euphoria upon the sight of a ship, they would scream: They’ve brought more to us! More water!
Indeed, the world of the bright side oozed of the gold of the times. There, the sky was not red; it was blue. There were no wildfires that engulfed mountains, or any sort of flames, for that matter. The trees weren't naked; they sprang and bore fruits and rustling leaves. There were nests of singing birds on the trees. Vines draped over the stony homes; red and purple flowers festered. All patches of grass were green and squishy, not brown and crunchy. Not a single patch of grass missed a fresh watering. And the grass glazed with the sun, which, despite its great efforts, failed to fry and thirst and burn. The sun failed here, in the bright side, and retreated to the dark side behind the smoke to grow the flames.
There was a sparkling lake—the Great Lake—located in the heart of this kingdom. It was the dominant attraction. All swam in it, and sailed; others fished. Children played catch and made sand castles on the beaches and laughed, while their parents watched. But no one dared drink from the Great Lake, for this was a punishable offense of the worst kind. It was a sacred lake; a beacon, a symbol of prosperity. It was glassy. It was a literal mirror when calm, reflecting all the newborn foliage surrounding it. All believed that this mirror had enchanting properties, that all nature within its reflection seemed to breed and grow like wildfire. So not one sane soul dared stick their straw into it and suck away. And, yet, the no-drink rule held no relevance. Not one needed to drink from it because, in this world, water was aplenty besides it.
Here, the entertainment consisted of the following: the hearing of splashing, the feeling of splashing, and the witnessing of splashing. In Old America, the lustful sounds were those of ringing gold. But in these days, splashing was the sound of riches, for a single drop of water was worth a million ounces of gold in the shine-driven glitz of Old America.
This world had, even if only, all the requirements for life. And so, it was a paradise to those who lived there. (But, in comparison, a basic society to those who lived, numbly, in Old America.) The people of these times needed nothing fancy. No strange devices to feed their vices. They knew they had it well, those who lived through the destruction of the past. And they taught their children of these past struggles, and the children knew they had it good, too, even if it didn’t seem as such to their spoiled minds.
The struggles. In the past, the Great Lake did not exist.
It was once a great crater, very much like Davy’s—a graveyard of roasting fish. A murderous drought once prevailed here, in the bright side. It was once prosperous, but the dark side had invaded, and stole all their riches, and set ablaze all that lived.
Everything burned until someone took a stand. When someone did, he was forever known as the Big Dipper. Alone, the Big Dipper turned the tide of the drought and flooded the land again with the gift of life. Statues of the Big Dipper stood across the country.
One stood in each park, with the largest and tallest at a memorial before the Great Lake, reflecting in the water. On this statue read: The Mighty Big Dipper, the Vengeful One, Who Cured the Drought and Saved North California from the Savages of South California. To the tall statue the people dropped to their knees and prayed, and children aspired as they stood inside its shadow.
But the Big Dipper, despite the influx of artists rushing to erect his figure into statues, had not yet taken his pages in the history books. His story was incomplete; he had yet to finish the job, even if he was a hero yet.
And on one morning, there was a celebration, a little parade. The streets closed and became blockaded. A limousine drove through, exiting the village, in a motorcade. Crowds of people cheered it on from the sidelines. They fought one another for every inch of real estate along the main street. While cheering, they held printed signs of the face of an old man with shiny black hair, and black eyes; with pride, they raised the signs in the air.
And there were other signs, besides. These had only words. “Welcome Home, Governor Vendicatore!” was hand-written on these signs—and the people who raised them even screamed the phrase, rendering all nearby deaf.
Indeed, their hero was Governor Vendicatore, the legend of the Big Dipper, who sat in the limousine. He wore an oversized suit for his tall, thin frame—he swam in it—with a daisy-colored necktie. Without an ounce of expression, he looked through the tinted windows at the people as he passed them. A middle-aged man, Dalton, sat across from him, studying Vendicatore’s reaction. “Governor? What do you think?”
Vendicatore acted as though he heard nothing—only the muffled cheers from outside. He still looked through the window.
“Governor?”
Vendicatore yet watched the world blur by through the window like a depressed, dead-eyed man in mourning.
“Excuse me, Governor!”
Vendicatore sighed. He flicked his eyes to Dalton. “What do you want, Mr. Dalton?”
“Are we impressed with the recovery? All the reserves have refilled, from what South California stole from us. All the fires they set have been put out, and the foliage is nearly fully green again. You act as though you can't see with that frown of yours!”
Vendicatore looked through the window again. As the limousine drove farther along—it was far from the village, by now—the crowd thinned, and he saw the land without obstruction. Of course, the great meadow he drove by was pure green, save for the yellow flowers sprinkled about. He saw a bunch of sycamore trees sway with the wind. He saw a lake. He saw a pond, at which a man and his son stood, reeling in a fish.
The sight of the happy father and son made him cringe in pain.
“Oh. Well.”
Dalton awaited with eagerness. Vendicatore turned from the window with a flicker of a smile. A forced smile.
“Mightily impressed, Mr. Dalton. Mightily impressed, indeed.”
Dalton appeared skeptical. “You are still bothered. Governor, you are a national hero! What is it with you?”
“To become a national hero . . . imagine the things you must do in this sick world. I challenge you to take on the weight of my conscience. All the thousands I have murdered with the power of thirst. This is the cost of becoming a hero.”
“What you’re doing is only proportionate to what they did to us.”
“Those people I’ve massacred didn’t do it, Mr. Dalton. Their fathers did.”
“Believe me. They would have done it again if your opponent won their election. He campaigned on invading us again. Again! Imagine the bloodshed that we would have incurred for a second time.”
“I should let you in on a secret: my opposition was controlled. He was, too, North Californian—one Mr. Juarez, our chief scientist, acting as a greed-filled, South Californian Hoarder. So, this does not cure my grief, Mr. Dalton. Not only am I a murderer, I am a deceiver.”
Dalton sat silent. “Governor, please,” he soon said. “After all, the Water Thief shares more of the burden, does he not?”
“I created the Water Thief, Mr. Dalton. Thus, his burden his mine, in truth, no matter how much I try to shift the blame onto him. That is why I created him. To transfer guilt. But it has not worked.” Vendicatore shook his head and returned to the window. “Never-mind all this. Despite what everyone seems to think, I’m not here to survey progress. I’m here to see my family one more time before my final plan. And that’s where we are heading.”
“Final plan, Governor?”
Vendicatore had nothing more to say. And Dalton did not prod the governor again.
The limousine soon reached a graveyard. By now, all the supporters had fallen behind.
The limousine entered through the gates of the graveyard. The car moved through the winding path and parked at the end before a set of gravestones.
The driver opened Vendicatore’s door and saluted as the governor stepped out. Vendicatore had a bottle of water in his hand. Still emotionless, he walked onto the spongy grass to stand in front of three gravestones.
These gravestones, much grander than all the rest, each bore his surname. The furthest left, Matthew Vendicatore, 2067-2071. The furthest right, Luca Vendicatore, also 2067-2071.
From his pockets, Vendicatore took out a couple of small toy race cars and placed one on each of these stones.
He focused his eyes on the middle stone which bore the name: Stella Vendicatore, 2041-2071. Engraved on the stone:
Mother and Husband. Bless her, and her two children, who passed in the Water War of North and South California.
Vendicatore shed a tear. He touched the stone and closed his eyes for a long, peaceful silence. Then he took the bottle of water and poured the contents over the three stones, until empty.
Soon he re-entered the limousine. It turned around, drove through the winding path again, and out the gates of the graveyard. The onlookers flocked and cheered, pushed aside by security, as the car made its way back onto the road. It drove back toward the seafront village. The closer it got, the crowd along the street grew thicker and louder with cheers.
Inside the vehicle, Vendicatore wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. The cheers of the people muffled.
“Soon this will all be over.”
Dalton overwhelmed with excitement. “There is more? What can possibly be next? Earlier, you spoke of a final plan—”
Vendicatore's demeanor had flipped. He was recharged. He spoke with excitement as he interrupted Dalton: “You haven’t seen anything yet, Mr. Dalton. You’ll have your hands full in a matter of weeks. Expect a flood like that in the Bible. Build an ark. Make your preparations.”
“Then what is next?”
“Tidewater.”
Dalton’s eyes widened. “It’ll happen after all?”
Vendicatore chuckled as he tucked his handkerchief into his front pocket. “Yes. Water confiscation. But there's hardly anything left among the greater populace. Thus, Mr. Frank Solas is the target of Tidewater. He owns most of all that remains in that damned country, along with his elitist friends.”
“That son-of-a-bitch Solas. Pure Hoarder blood. Purely South Californian.”
“My preferred plan against Mr. Solas seems to have failed. Now I have no choice but to use my most drastic strategy. His reservoir will soon belong to North California. One way or another. Not to worry.”
“But what about the Water Thief? He has run rampant. Even if he is your creation, is he under control? He has grown powerful. He has more than that fat Solas can ever
dream of. And when he taps all that’s left of South California, it’s only a matter of time that he’ll come here looking for more. I don't want him terrorizing our people.”
Vendicatore smiled. He gave Dalton a look. “Tidewater, Mr. Dalton. Aren’t you paying attention?”
“You’ve left me in the dark on your tactics,” Dalton said. “You’re more than secretive.”
“Everything is running according to the script.”
“But you said your most recent plan failed—”
Vendicatore, impatient, slapped the side of the door. He burned Dalton with a glare of his eyes. He snapped under his teeth, “Not to worry, Mr. Dalton.”
And Dalton kept quiet for the rest of the ride as the governor schemed behind that evil smile.
The limousine returned to the seafront village, where more supporters met it. It headed toward the port.
Within the hour, the beach of the California Sea filled with thousands of people. There wasn't a single speck of sand visible. There, they cheered, still holding their signs. They watched a ship emerge from the port along the rocky stretch. It sliced through the sea, flinging great waves to them, and disappeared inside the smoky haze.
The ship, cutting through the smokescreen, reached the other side, toward another shoreline. Another tale. This beach had dead people, some protruding from the sand. They rotted in one bunch. Bugs swarmed, and seagulls, to the smell of it. Some, by this point, were skeletons—the sun had turned their skin into dust, which mixed with the sand.
There were some survivors. But half of them slapped salt water at their faces to drink. But did these people not know out of ignorance what they did, or did they choose to not know? Or they wanted to die, but not by the sun’s rays, like the rest? They were as brainless as fish, falling for the alluring lure, making the same mistake as their dead friends who had melded into the sand of the beach.
The survivors spotted the vessel with their dry eyes.
“It’s him,” they said, with raspy voices. “He returns,” said one. They separated their cracked lips with awe. “He’s returned from the other side, to bring us wa . . . wa-wa . . . ter . . .”
The Water Thief Page 10
