by James Hunt
Brooke hung up the phone and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. It skidded to the sink, where it teetered on the edge. She pressed her palms hard into the counter's edge.
“Mommy, I'm thirsty,” Emily said.
“I know, baby. You can have some water in a little bit, I promise.”
If she didn't do something soon, she wouldn't be able to make good on that promise. Brooke had mentally planned out the water rations from what she had in storage the moment she heard about the river.
All three of them needed at least a gallon of water a day in normal conditions. With the heat they lived in, it would be more.
Brooke had the twenty gallons in the shed. When she made it home she tried filling up the tubs, but the government had beaten her to the punch, cutting off the water flow to the house. She managed to squeeze a few extra gallons of what remained in the pipes, but as far as she was concerned there wouldn’t be any more water coming through the faucets in the house again.
She wanted them to drink a glass every three hours. There was still another hour until the next round.
John came out of his room and went to the fridge. He stood there sifting through what was inside, then shut the door.
“Where's the water?” he asked.
“I stored everything we had in our spare portable tanks,” Brooke answered.
The glasses on top of the fridge rattled when John shut the door.
“Mom, you're freaking out over nothing. The president just told us help is on the way. You need to relax.”
“Go to your room.”
“But I didn't do anything.”
“Now, Jonathan!”
“You're crazy.”
Brooke joined Emily at the table.
“I don't think you're crazy, Mom,” Emily said.
Brooke ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. She gathered it together and tied it in a ponytail.
“There, now your neck won't be as hot,” Brooke said.
Emily let out a relieved sigh and giggled. She pulled her father's dog tags off and handed them to her mother.
“Here, you need them more than I do right now,” Emily said.
“Thanks, baby.”
Emily scooted off her chair and walked to her room. Brooke could hear her daughter pull out some of her toys from the closet and start talking aloud, coming up with adventures for her dolls to go on.
Brooke rolled Jason's dog tags between her fingers. She listened to the rhythmic sound of the two pieces of metal rubbing against each other. They were hot, just like everything else in the house.
If her husband were still alive, there would be no doubt the marines would find a way to fly him wherever he needed to go for a mission. The military was never grounded during an emergency. They were the only ones still flying.
That's it.
Brooke remembered hearing a while back that one of Jason's old team members was stationed at the naval base in San Diego.
Brooke leaped the stairs two at a time, sprinting for her room. She tore open a box from the closet that stored some of Jason's personal items. She found his old phone and plugged it in.
The screen was cracked, but she prayed it still worked. When the home screen finally came up, she hit contacts. She scrolled through the numbers until she came across the name that said “Scratch.”
She hit “call,” praying he still had the same number.
***
Waves lapped against the sides of the ships in San Diego Bay. The sun beat down on the hard metal deck of the USS Ronald Reagan.
First Lieutenant Eric Stephenson was propped under what little shade an F-15 wing offered. His hat was tilted down, and his aviators shielded his eyes from the sun's glare.
He felt someone kick his shoe, but he didn't move. When the kick happened again, he remained motionless except for his lips.
“You kick me one more time, and I swear I will launch every missile from this jet straight up your ass,” Eric said.
“I don't think you'd want to fill out the paperwork, son.”
Eric tilted his cap up and saw Captain Howard with his hands on his hips, jaw jutting forward, and a scowl that would cause an Eagle Scout to crap his pants.
Eric shot up from the ground. He smacked his head against the belly of the plane, and his hat fell. He moved his hand hastily to salute, which knocked his sunglasses crooked.
“Captain, my apologies, sir. I meant the firing of my missiles in your ass with the utmost respect. Sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant. Walk with me.”
The two walked along the deck of the ship. Their boots stepped in unison, a habit from military marches that neither man had outgrown.
“Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink,” Howard said.
“Yeah, it's hot,” Eric replied.
“I heard you had a reputation of being a smart-ass.”
“It's one I'm proud to live up to, sir.”
“You're about to be pulled into a briefing for a mission in regard to the president's statement to the American people earlier today. It's not a meeting I will be a part of, as I was relieved of my command twenty minutes ago.”
“Sir, I'm sorry to hear that.”
“I know you don't give a shit about what happens to me, Lieutenant, but I do know that you give a shit about your country. Remember that.”
“I will, sir,” Eric said.
Howard looked out into the massive blue ocean rolling and tossing waves against the iron ship that kept them afloat.
“It's going to be a dog fight until the end,” Howard said.
Eric hadn't interacted with the captain much, but heard he had a reputation for being a hard-ass, and when those words left the captain's mouth, it sent chills up the back of his spine.
Eric's pocket buzzed.
“Excuse me, Captain,” Eric said.
The number popping up on his phone wasn't one he recognized.
“Hello?” Eric said.
“Scratch? I mean, Eric?”
“I haven't been called that in a long time.”
“This is Brooke Fontanne. You were stationed with my husband in Iraq back in '04.”
“Fontanne... Fontanne. Wait, Jason Fontanne?”
“Yes! That's him.”
“I haven't heard from him in a long time. What's that bastard been up to?”
When Eric heard the pause after his comment, he realized that whatever answer came next was about to make him feel like a huge asshole.
“He was killed in action last year,” Brooke said.
“Brooke, I'm... I'm sorry to hear that.”
It was all he could come up with—a heartfelt “sorry” that she was no doubt tired of hearing. That was one thing the military was really good at: beating a dead horse.
“Thank you,” Brooke said.
“What can I help you with?”
“The last time Jason spoke about you, he said you were training to become a Navy pilot.”
“That's right.”
“Did you make it?”
Eric looked to his left at the massive F-15 jet and adjusted his flight pin.
“You could say that,” Eric answered.
“I was hoping for a favor.”
“Lay it on me.”
“I'm trying to get myself and two children out of San Diego and over to North Carolina to stay with my sister.”
“I'm not really that kind of pilot, Brooke.”
“It's getting bad here, Eric. I'll take anything.”
“Look, I have a briefing I need to run to, but once I'm done, I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises, okay?”
“Thank you, Eric.”
“You're welcome.”
He stuffed the phone in his pocket and headed inside the ship. So far it'd made for an interesting day. Whatever this debriefing was about that had the captain forced out was sure to add to the excitement.
***
For a moment, Brooke let herself believe that things were going
to be all right. She didn't like having her future in the hands of someone else, let alone someone she barely knew, but if it got her family out of here, then so be it.
Shouts and screams from downstairs caused Brooke to shift gears. Her feet thudded against the wooden steps as she hurried down.
“Hey, knock it off, you two,” Brooke said.
The yelling didn't stop. Brooke let out an exasperated breath and trudged back down the steps.
“Take it back!” Emily said.
“You shouldn't have taken them!” John said.
“It's not true!”
“You know it's true! Don't pretend like it isn't!”
“What is going on, you two?” Brooke asked.
“John said that I never cared about Dad,” Emily said.
Emily’s eyes started tearing up, and the hardened resolve she had showed just moments earlier started to wash away.
“John, why would you say something like that?” Brooke asked.
“Because it's true! She said that she took Dad's dog tags to school today. She doesn't deserve to have them. She never cared when he was gone. She never worried what could happen to him. The only time she ever did anything was when he came home,” John said.
He was pointing at his sister, his own eyes becoming red. His voice cracked, and his lip quivered.
“I missed him every day! I still miss him!” John said.
Brooke pulled her son close, and John's shoulders shook as sobs left his body. She held him tight and rocked him back and forth.
“I know you miss him, honey. We all do,” Brooke said.
Emily wedged herself between the two of them and buried her face in Brooke's hip.
“We're okay. We're going to be okay,” Brooke said.
Chapter 5
Brooke kept Jason’s phone close. She paced the kitchen tile, staring at its home screen, waiting and hoping that Eric would call. The kids were in the living room watching television after making amends with each other.
She had forgotten how hard Jason's passing was on John. He’d never really gone through the grieving process to handle what had happened. He just closed himself off. She knew part of it was hormones, but regardless, it was a lot to handle for a fourteen-year-old.
The phone buzzed in her hand. “Scratch” appeared on the screen, and Brooke brought it to her ear hastily.
“Eric?” Brooke asked.
“Broo---, yo- --ed to ---t ou-,” Eric said.
“What? Eric, I can barely hear you.”
“The---- go--- t- -ut every--- -ff.”
“Hello? Eric?”
The phone beeped in her ear, and the call dropped. She hit recent calls and pressed his name, but it wouldn't ring.
Brooke checked the reception bars on her phone. Empty.
“Shit,” she said.
Brooke rushed outside, her feet sliding in the sand and gravel in the front yard, holding her phone up, searching for any signal she could find.
“Come on. Don't do this to me now,” Brooke said.
She roamed the yard for ten minutes but found no signal. She collapsed to her knees. Eric’s voice had sounded rushed, loud, nervous. Whatever news he was trying to tell her was bad, but she didn’t have any idea how severe it was.
***
Brooke sat on her front porch, lips chapped, phone in hand, making her hundredth attempt to get a hold of either Eric or her sister. And just like the previous ninety-nine tries, it failed.
She dusted the sand off the screen and shoved the phone in her pocket. She tilted her head back on the chair and rubbed her temples.
The sand lingering on her face and the backs of her hands sifted to the ground. She brushed her lips together, feeling the rough skin forming. She picked up the glass of water next to her and drank slowly, savoring the liquid washing over her tongue, bringing a brief moment of relief from the heat before it rushed down the back of her throat.
She wasn't going to hear from Eric or her sister. Even if they tried calling back, there wasn't any signal for them to reach her. There wasn't going to be any more information coming her way. She had to make a decision.
“Hey, Mom!” John said, yelling from inside the house.
“Yeah?” Brooke asked.
“Something's wrong with the television. It's blank on every channel.”
Brooke looked back down at her phone, her brow furrowed. The announcement of martial law, her cell phone not working, the cable down—all of it was leading to something.
“Hey, John, do me a favor and check the Internet for me,” Brooke said.
“It's not working either,” John said, shouting from the living room.
All communications were shut down, a militant state declared, and the government was covering up the information about the Colorado River being dry for weeks. She steadied herself on the arm of the chair, making sure she wouldn’t fall. She felt light-headed. She closed her eyes, realizing what was happening.
***
Brooke tossed her survival pack in the back of the Land Cruiser. Both John and Emily had similar bags prepared, already loaded inside.
“You guys ready?” Brooke asked.
Emily trotted out the front door and climbed into the back seat.
“I'm ready,” Emily said.
“Where's John?” Brooke asked.
“I don't know,” Emily said, flipping the pages of a book she had brought with her.
Brooke headed back inside. She wanted to get out of here before dark. With martial law now in effect, there would most likely be a curfew, along with roadblocks. She was hoping to miss both.
“John?” Brooke yelled.
“Coming,” John answered.
John came around the corner of the living room holding the American flag that had been given to them when his father died, along with a family picture.
“I didn't want to forget Dad,” John said.
Brooke's eyes started to water. She walked over to him and wrapped him in a hug. When she let him go, she wiped her eyes and grabbed the picture of her husband out of John's hand.
“Good job, honey,” Brooke said.
“How much water are we bringing?” John asked, trying to change the subject.
“All of it.”
Brooke and John emptied the storage space under the shed. The back of the cruiser sagged a little bit from the extra weight, but they managed to get everything packed. The drive to North Carolina would take four to five days, depending on how much she pushed it and any setbacks they ran into.
She knew the extra weight would use more fuel, but if they ran into trouble, the supplies could be the difference between life and death. And in addition to being able to survive, the potable water and supplies they had packed were now the most valuable currency in the Southwest, which could buy her way out of a sticky situation down the road.
“Everyone have their sunglasses?” Brooke asked.
“Yes,” Emily and John answered.
Brooke hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine to life. She clicked her seat belt on and backed out of the driveway.
Even though she didn’t think there would be any roadblocks set up until that evening, she decided to take the back roads to the interstate just to play it safe. No reason to call attention to herself with a car loaded down with supplies.
The fuel gauge hovered between three quarters and half a tank. Brooke kicked herself for not filling up earlier. Her NASCAR speed from that morning had drained more fuel than she would have liked.
There was a gas station just before the interstate that she could hit along the way—if it hadn't already been ransacked by looters like the water station.
Emily poked her head through the space between her and John's seats.
“Mom, when will we get to come back?” Emily asked.
The truth was, Brooke didn't think they'd ever come back. John must've felt it too, since he had grabbed his father's flag. But her daughter couldn't sense the finality of it. This was just
a trip to go and visit family, a trip that had always warranted a return home.
