K.W. CALLAHAN
THE LAST BASTION
BOOK 5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, or events is entirely coincidental.
Text and image copyright © 2018 K.W. Callahan
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Callahan, K.W.
The Last Bastion - Book 5 / K.W. Callahan
ISBN: 1-72039-651-5
BOOKS BY K.W. CALLAHAN
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: DOWNFALL
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: QUEST
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: DESCENT
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: FORSAKEN
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: ASCENSION
AFTERMATH: PARTS 1-3
THE M.O.D. FILES: THE CASE OF THE GUEST WHO STAYED OVER
THE M.O.D. FILES: THE CASE OF THE LINEN PRESSED GUEST
PALOS HEIGHTS
PANDEMIC DIARY: SHELTER IN PLACE
PANDEMIC DIARY: FLEE ON FOOT
PANDEMIC DIARY: PANDEMIC PIONEERS
THE FIFTH PHASE: BOOKS 1 – 5
CASABLANCA’S PASSAGE: PARTS 1 & 2
THE LAST BASTION: BOOKS 1 – 5
THE LAST BASTION
BOOK 5
CHAPTER 1
“Get that stuff double-bagged and make sure it’s tied down inside the fishing boat!” Michael called to Charla and Wendell as they worked hurriedly in the dark to load supplies from inside the tent.
The constant rain was in its fourth day without any sort of real break. The storm’s only benefit was that a warm front appeared to have traveled with it, bringing temperatures that for the first time since fall, actually felt summer-like. But nights, the rain, and the river’s raging waters, were still chilly.
The river’s rising floodwaters were now just a few feet from the camp’s tent. The group sheltering there had drawn the fishing boat up closer to the camp to make for ease of loading as they scurried around packing up what remained of their supplies.
It had been a long, sleepless night as the group attempted to stay warm and dry, both of which were lessons in futility. After yesterday’s kayak debacle when Josh and Patrick failed in their attempt to draw a tether from their island home across the currently flood-ravaged river to the opposing bank, the camp settled down to wait. They had no backup plan. The attempt at creating a tether to ferry the rest of their group safely across the river had been their only idea to get off the island. Their safe-haven home had now become a water-logged prison.
Of course, they’d never contemplated a flood of epic proportions hitting like this. And when they woke up on day two of the storm, they’d found the river’s water level already at a point that made abandoning their camp by boat too dangerous. Therefore, they’d decided to wait it out, hoping that the rain would subside and the river water level would drop.
But the rain hadn’t stopped. And the water level hadn’t dropped. Instead, the rain had continued, and the river had kept rising. And after their failed tether attempt, the group had once again been forced to wait.
But they could wait no longer. The rain kept falling. The river kept rising. And now their camp, set at a slight incline at the island’s center, was almost completely inundated by the floodwaters.
Michael checked his watch and then looked up at the sky. He prayed that dawn would break soon. They needed natural light with which to guide their boats. In his mind, they stood little chance of navigating the churning torrent the river had become in the daylight. In the dark, well, he didn’t even want to consider such an option.
It had been months since the group – self-labeled the “Blenders” – had left their homes in the Chicago suburb of Brookfield. Their name came from a combination of the words “block” and “enders” due to the group’s clustering of homes at the end of their suburban block. The neighbors had formed a sort of social club, gathering for regular group events, holidays, and cocktail hours. They had become almost like a family over the years and had settled into a happy routine of safe suburban existence – at least until the Carchar Syndrome had struck.
The syndrome had first made its appearance in the Chicago area around Halloween, and it seemed a fitting, almost movie-themed affliction for the time of year. People with the affliction gradually found themselves gravitating toward a purely carnivorous diet. At the same time, memories of their former selves faded, and they eventually became more animal-like in nature than human. At this point in the transformation, they developed a ravenous appetite for fresh flesh – human if they could get it, animal if they couldn’t. To help them feed, as well as to continue to spread the syndrome to other hosts through bites, these carriers sprouted a set of razor-sharp front teeth. The jutting fangs made it difficult for them to close their mouths, the most obvious indication of being a carrier of the Carchar Syndrome. And these teeth tended to chatter uncontrollably when the ‘biters’, as those affected by the syndrome soon came to be called, became hungry or overly excited.
The syndrome spread rapidly from person to person nationwide and then across the globe in the weeks following its initial appearance. The exact cause of the syndrome had never been determined, and a cure or even a vaccine had never been developed. The rapid spread of the syndrome meant that there just hadn’t been time. And the carriers of the syndrome seemed to balance consuming some victims with allowing others to remain alive – after being infected of course – to continue spreading the pandemic.
By Christmas, Carchar carriers outnumbered the uninfected. By January, those who could escape the cities and more populated areas had done so. Those who couldn’t were either dead, turned to biters, or sheltering in place, waiting and praying for help from the outside. But that help never came.
The Blenders had attempted to escape Chicago and flee to a secluded portion of Illinois before things broke down completely in the city. But just several miles into their journey, they were stopped by a herd of biters in an encounter that resulted in the death of several Blender families.
Finding it too dangerous to continue their planned escape, the group had taken refuge inside an aged tower, a former tourist attraction turned historic landmark beside the river in Lyons, Illinois. There, they had sheltered through the harsh winter months until sanitary conditions had forced them to look for an alternative living location.
After a harrowing, several-hundred-mile river trip down the Des Plaines and Illinois Rivers, a journey they had hoped would land them at the safe haven of St. Louis, the Blenders had instead settled on the island they were now working to evacuate. The plan had been to give their new living location a week or two to settle in and experience island life. Instead, their trial run had been rudely interrupted by April showers turned April deluge.
The Blenders had hoped to hunker down and outlast the rain, but they now had no other option but to abandon what had been their planned homestead.
“The canoe is as loaded as I dare fill it!” Ms. Mary called over the sound of the pouring rain.
“Fine! Everything else goes in the fishing boat!” Michael instructed. “Make sure it’s secured. I don’t’ want stuff shifting around. It’s going to be rough out there, and we can’t afford to be scrambling around holding supplies in place.”
Around the Blender camp, it was a miserable menagerie. Hair was sopping. Clothing was soaked. Water kept running into eyes. Nothing was dry. Everyone was rushing to get supplies into packs or trash bags. The rain of the past few days had managed to find its way into just about everything. Even much of the food was wet. Canned goods went wherever there was room inside packs. Thi
ngs like oatmeal, creamed wheat, any open containers of rice or pasta, and similar foodstuffs that wouldn’t react well to water, along with the guns and ammunition, were double-bagged in the last of the trash bags. These bags were then knotted shut and placed inside the camp coolers, the edges of which were duct taped before being tied shut.
The tent was the last thing to be broken down. Several of the rifles that were too long to fit inside the coolers or trash bags were bound together with rope and stowed inside the tent bag. Then the bag was cinched down inside the metal fishing boat that was to bear the brunt of the heaviest or bulkiest Blender supplies.
With everything ready, Michael was faced with yet another tough decision – how to break up the 12-person group into the four available boats. They had a two-person kayak, but after yesterday’s attempted river-crossing debacle, they were down to only one paddle with which to navigate the boat.
Three people could fit inside each of the canoes, but one canoe was already patched where it had taken several bullets to its gunnels earlier in the trip. Michael had no desire to overload it, so he decided it was best to put just two people inside the canoe with lighter-weight supplies in its center. That left eight people to be split among the other canoe and the metal fishing boat. He figured that two adults and a child could fit in the canoe with the remaining five people in the fishing boat. Then he had to consider where to place his strongest paddlers, the best two of whom were still exhausted from their failed river crossing yesterday, paired with a long, sleepless night.
Michael’s mind was awhirl, trying to weigh options and break up the boats based on size and weight of occupant, strength of paddler, ability of paddler, age of paddler, experience on the water, size of boat, durability of boat, and similar characteristics. Some of the youngest in the group had the most skill and experience with being on the water. But he couldn’t very well put kids out in their own boat in this type of situation. Or could he? He didn’t know. And he didn’t have time to debate the questions swirling through his head like the river water swirling around them.
Therefore, he made the best decision he could based upon his assessment of the situation and what he’d seen from the group thus far in their travels.
He assigned the Justak family – Josh, Julia, and nine-year-old son Justin – to the canoe that hadn’t been shot. Patrick would paddle the kayak with his mother, Caroline, at its head. Without a paddle, she would serve mainly as passenger and lookout. She found a broken piece of flattened wood that she could use as a sort of ore, but it wouldn’t be nearly as good as an actual paddle. Meanwhile, Charla and Christine Franko would handle the wounded canoe, the center of which was loaded with supplies – mostly the group’s clothing and bedding paired with some of their food.
Michael didn’t want all the food in just one boat. He was hedging his bets. That way, if the boat went down, it wouldn’t take all their foodstuffs with it. Christine’s sons, 12-year-old Jack and 14-year-old Andrew would travel with Michael, Wendell, and Ms. Mary in the fishing boat, along with the rest of the supplies. The lighter combined weight of Ms. Mary and the two boys allowed more of the heavier supplies to be placed inside the boat without overloading it.
With the supplies loaded, the majority of the camp climbed inside their boats. The kayak could paddle through and around the trees and other island foliage toward the river’s main flow, but the canoes and fishing boat had to be manually guided out toward what had been the island’s edge before the flood. Josh led the first canoe, Charla led the second, while Michael pushed the fishing boat until they were in knee-high water before climbing inside.
The four boats sat at the edge of where the island met with the swiftly flowing river current, the water’s shallow depth and the island’s trees acting as a breakwater.
“Stick together as best you can!” Michael called to the group. “And be ready to make a quick cut over toward the western bank. Anybody see a good spot to stop that’s easy to get to, make it known! The sooner we can get off the river and back onto dry land, the safer we’ll be!”
With that, he stopped his instructions. They’d already discussed their predicament and the journey that lay ahead in depth. There was no need to rehash it. It was time to go. The longer they waited, the more the water rose. And the more the water rose, the more dangerous their evacuation became.
“All right everyone…let’s go!” Michael shoved out into open water.
CHAPTER 2
The water level outside the riverside roadhouse was making Marta nervous. It had risen at least two feet in the last day, and the rushing river was in her best estimate only about three or four feet below the roadhouse’ dock that overlooked the river.
While their roadhouse home of the past few weeks certainly wasn’t a dream spot, Marta had no desire to relocate. Nor did she have any idea of where they might relocate to. But there was nothing she could do about the rising river. For now, she had to be content to take a wait and see approach.
The constant rain meant that Marta and Louise had been stuck inside the roadhouse for days. They only made brief runs outside to visit the nearby portable toilet that had been put in place by a road construction crew prior to the Carchar outbreak. Thankfully, Marta had found an umbrella inside one of the roadhouse’ closets that kept her and Louise from getting completely soaked on their bathroom breaks.
But other than those brief excursions, there had been no opportunity for Louise to get outside and play or for Marta to take a bit of fresh air. About the only positive of the storm was that it had brought with it a warm front that had made their situation slightly more comfortable. And considering that food and warmth had been at a premium lately, Marta would take what she could get when it came to any sort of amenity.
Marta felt like she was going a little stir crazy, but Louise seemed to be handling the cabin fever well for a five-year-old.
“Rain, rain, go away, come again today, today,” the little blonde girl sang.
“No,” Marta corrected, shaking her head and smiling. “Come again some other day.”
“Rain, rain, some other day, come again today, today,” Louise re-attempted.
Marta just laughed softly to herself and left it alone.
“Marty, I’m bored,” Louise stopped her singing to say after several more versus.
They were sitting on the roadhouse kitchen floor beside their makeshift woodstove playing go fish with a deck of cards Marta had made by cutting up old menus.
“I know, sweetie,” Marta nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry so boring here,” she said in her thick Polish accent.
The two had been living at the roadhouse for several weeks since having been ousted from the nearby town of Riverport, Illinois by an armed band of marauding renegades. It had been a rough go for both of them. But Marta had to admit, for as bad as things were, she’d had it easy compared to little Louise.
The five-year-old had lost her parents to biters soon after arriving at the roadhouse. But the little tike had been handling the situation well. The two had bonded quickly, Louise seeing Marta as a surrogate for her recently deceased mother, and Marta having stepped into the parenting role surprisingly fast. It wasn’t a position in which she had been expecting to find herself; at least not for another five years or so, if ever. But she was amazed to discover that she was actually enjoying it. Marta wasn’t sure if it was their personalities, their strenuous environment, or some combination of the two, but she and Louise just seemed to mesh well together.
“Maybe rain will stop tomorrow,” Marta offered hopefully.
“Maybe,” Louise nodded without much enthusiasm. “Maybe today is tomorrow,” she added after a momentary lull.
“But how could today be tomorrow if tomorrow is tomorrow?” Marta decided to go with Louise’s strange observation. There was little else to do, she inwardly admitted. So why not play the game?
“Because we had the other day.” Louise said.
“But the other day was yesterday…right?”
“I don’t get that,” Louise shook her head, matter-of-factly. “Yesterday was yesterday.”
“Today was today,” Marta shot right back.
But that was what I was trying to tell you,” Louise said with a hint of exasperation. “Tomorrow is tomorrow.
“No,” Marta couldn’t help but smile. “You were telling me that today is tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Louise nodded. “That’s because we had the other day. Today is tomorrow…tomorrow.”
“So if today is tomorrow, and tomorrow is tomorrow, what was yesterday?”
“Camilla’s birthday,” Louise gave a sharp nod, as if it was all so logical.
“And who is Camilla?”
“She was my best friend…before all this,” Louise gestured around her.
Marta nodded. It was all so simple in a child’s mind.
“Today is tomorrow. Tomorrow is today,” Louise sang happily. “But it would be crazy if tomorrow was today,” she added.
“You just said that tomorrow is today. You said, ‘Today is tomorrow and tomorrow is today’,” Marta countered.
“People just don’t get me,” Louise sighed to herself in a very grown up way. “Today is today, and today is tomorrow.”
“I suppose you’re right, in a way. It just depends on when you reference ‘today’,” Marta finally conceded.
Marta never thought she’d be having such a conversation with a five-year-old. It seemed such a mature topic for one so small to be contemplating – the theory of and relativity of time and the perception of it. Marta was fascinated, and not just by the topic but by the child who had brought up the subject.
The Last Bastion [Book 5] Page 1
