Survive

by Tom Bale

  ‘Forget that, then.’

  She sounds desperately disappointed. Sam knows he must lift her spirits somehow, so he says, cheerily, ‘Try again later. I’ll give you a hand.’

  Except that this earns him a glare, as though he’s suggesting it won’t succeed unless he’s there to help. He shakes his head, then frowns, pointing behind her. ‘See that?’

  The clouds are massing like an army preparing to invade, their shadows darkening the sea at the horizon to a leaden strip. Off to the left – the west, it must be, just as Jody guessed – the sky has taken on an eerie orange glow. There’s still a searing heat to the air, especially as the breeze has faded away, but this feels like something different. Something powerful is coming.

  ‘Better get that shelter sorted quickly,’ he mutters.

  Jody goes on staring, distractedly, at the sky. ‘You think it’s going to rain?’

  ‘Looks like it to me.’

  ‘Honestly?’ Still with that disbelieving tone, which has Sam wondering what he’s missed.

  ‘Yeah. A sky like that at home, you’d expect it to piss down.’

  Now there’s a big childish grin on her face. ‘Oh God, can we be that lucky?’

  ‘Jode, we’re gonna get soaked.’

  ‘Yes, we are.’ She’s laughing, delighted. ‘With water.’

  34

  It’s not all good news, of course; Sam has some valid points about the temperature dropping, the fact they have no warm clothes, no blankets or bedding. At the very least they’ll have to find a way to escape the rain – but oh, to be able to drink as much as they want…

  Jody takes the kids on an expedition to gather firewood. None of them are keen to venture far into the trees, especially with the shadows deepening. It’s late in the afternoon, she guesses, and about fifty-fifty whether the rain or darkness will reach them first. Jody fights the urge to jump at every little sound, but she can’t shake off a feeling that someone’s watching them.

  Grace has barely spoken since the abortive attempt at fishing, but when Dylan runs back to his father with an armful of kindling, she says, ‘How do you know we won’t be stuck here for ever?’

  ‘Because…’ I don’t, Jody thinks, and for a moment the horror of that admission can probably be read in her face. ‘We’re not going to be, okay? If no one comes for us, we’ll find a way out ourselves.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But we will.’

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ Grace says in a forlorn voice. ‘You keep pretending it’s going to be all right, but it isn’t. You don’t even know who’s done this, do you?’

  Jody, devastated by her inability to offer any solace, can only shake her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Or why they’re doing it.’

  ‘No.’ She swallows. ‘But we are going to find out. And the most important thing is that your dad and I will do everything we can to protect you and Dylan. You do know that?’

  Grace nods, her eyes shining with tears, but Jody can read her mind. It won’t be enough.

  They return with more kindling and about a dozen large branches. With the inside of the boat having dried out, Sam comes up with an ingenious design for their accommodation. By driving the two longer stakes into the ground, he’s able to prop the side of the boat against them at a forty-five-degree angle. It’s a kind of clam shell arrangement, creating just enough room for the four of them to crawl beneath it.

  She joins him while he’s studying his handiwork and slips an arm around his waist. After a second, he hugs her tight and they gaze out to sea. The peachy glow of sunset is like make-up applied to the dark bruise of the sky.

  ‘Wind’s changing,’ Sam says, with what might be a tiny shudder. A sudden chill in the air raises goosebumps on her arms. The storm is on its way.

  Staring at their makeshift camp, Sam comes up with another idea. He wants to craft a ridge of sand around the boat to act as a windbreak. It might also help to divert some of the rain.

  Here at last is a job for which the children are perfectly suited, building what is essentially a sandcastle – or a sand city wall, at least. They launch into the task with such energy, compared to their lacklustre support for her fishing idea, that Jody can’t help feeling hurt. Out here, she realises, every disappointment is magnified tenfold, every emotion as tender as blistered skin.

  By the time it’s done, the cloud is stealing overhead and the sun has gone from the sky. It’s cooler, if not exactly cold, and the air has a taste to it Jody can’t quite identify. She keeps smacking her lips together, only to be reminded how dry they are.

  Next up is the fire, a simple task thanks to the lighter – but even this makes her fret. Why did they give us a lighter? Using it feels strangely like cheating, perhaps because everything else has been such an ordeal.

  ‘Might not last, if it does rain,’ Sam says, blowing with expert care to help the flames take hold. Starting fires is one skill he did acquire during his turbulent youth.

  ‘Don’t you think it will?’

  ‘Probably.’ He sniffs the air. ‘Thought it would’ve started by now.’

  It’s Jody’s idea to use the fire not just for warmth, but as a way of making their only source of food more appealing. She skewers lumps of coconut on the hooks at the end of the bungee cords and dangles them above the flames. Hey presto: hot roasted coconut.

  The kids eat with slightly more enthusiasm, probably thanks to the caramelised aroma. Cooking it has altered the taste, but not enough for Jody’s liking. She has consumed enough to silence the hunger pangs. What she craves now isn’t food so much as flavour: different tastes and textures. But more than that, of course – more than anything – she wants water.

  It’s a big decision to use up what remains. Jody argues that they are all dangerously dehydrated, and with rain on the way they should be able to replenish it. Sam agrees, despite some obvious reservations, but Jody takes the bottle and passes it round before he can change his mind.

  ‘It had better bloody chuck it down,’ he says. ‘And we need to find a way to trap it.’

  Another problem. Jody, in all honesty, hadn’t looked much beyond cupping her hands and throwing water into her mouth.

  They puzzle over the best way to refill the bottle. The darkness closes in, swallowing the distant bays and blurring the line between sea and sky. In amongst the trees it’s pitch black; with every shiver of wind the branches stir, setting off a chorus of rustles and crackles and creaks. Anything could be prowling around in there, she thinks: predators both animal and human.

  Jody has never regarded herself as being scared of the dark. At home she’d barely register this transition from day to night. Why would she, when she can simply switch on lights and draw the curtains? Doors and windows are effortlessly shut to keep the world at bay; within seconds they are cosy, warm and safe – whereas out here they are mercilessly exposed.

  She turns away from Grace and Dylan, knowing her emotions will be all too easy to detect. The self-interrogation is up and rolling again, a form of torture made worse by her pitiful response to her daughter’s questions.

  How long will we be here? Why is this happening? What will become of us? How long will we be here? Why…?

  It’s little wonder that they’ve all been edging closer to the fire, enticed by the hypnotic motion of the flames, the lively pop and hiss of burning wood. When there’s no true sanctuary to be found, no hope other than what may be conjured from your own resilience and courage, the warmth and light of a fire must be the most ancient form of comfort on Earth.

  A tiny noise makes Jody flinch: the tap of a fingertip on the hull. None of them are anywhere near the boat. Could someone be creeping up on them…?

  Then it happens again, followed by a scattering of soft explosions in the sand.

  The rain.

  Sam can’t think of a system for funnelling the water into the bottle. He feels sick and weary with frustration at his own failings. Why isn’t he better than this?<
br />
  Even the idea of a funnel was prompted by a throwaway comment from Grace. It makes him impossibly proud: eight years old and she’s way cleverer than him.

  He watches her, staring at the fire with an expression he knows well from his own childhood: sad and angry, hopeless and determined, all jumbled up in a hot turmoil that can barely keep the tears at bay. He remembers pulling his scabby duvet over his head, stuffing the material into his ears to block out the sound of his mum and dad going at it: screaming, fighting, sometimes fucking; the interfering cow next door yelling that she was dialling 999, even though she never did.

  Sam’s insides shrivel to see his daughter like this. All he’s ever wanted is for her and Dylan to grow up without feeling the way he did: scared, lost, alone.

  ‘All right?’ he asks.

  Grace jumps, blinks away the pain and nods, but it means little. Then her eyes light up. She holds her hand out, palm up, as if asking for something. Sam has nothing to give her but she goes on smiling.

  ‘Did you feel that?’

  Jody, too, is looking around. There’s a plunk as a fat raindrop hits the boat. Sam’s still far from sure that this is anything to celebrate, but their mood infects him and he grins, turning to look upwards and catching a drop right in his eye.

  ‘Ow!’

  The kids are giggling when Jody claps her hands. ‘The plastic bag!’

  ‘What?’ Sam asks, but she’s thinking hard and won’t explain. She wants them to strip to their underwear.

  ‘Ugh! Why?’ Grace wants to know.

  ‘To have dry clothes to put on.’

  Sam nods. ‘It’s worth it. No one’ll look, I promise.’

  ‘You can keep your top on,’ Jody tells her, ‘and wear mine later.’

  They do as she suggests, then Sam stashes their clothes inside the upturned boat, using the central seat as a shelf. He finds Jody digging frantically in the sand, while Grace has fetched the plastic bag. Dylan is standing by, grasping the empty bottle in both hands. The rain falls as they work, soft in their hair, hard and stinging on their skin. It’s cold but somehow pleasant; for now they’re warmed by the effort, the excitement.

  When the hole is deep enough, Jody sinks the bottle into it and replaces the sand, forming a tightly-packed bowl shape around the top. She uses a nail to pierce a hole in the centre of the plastic bag, which she lays over the bottle, smoothing the rest of the bag against the sand. As the rain hits it, tiny rivulets run down to the centre and drip into the bottle.

  ‘It’s working!’ Grace cries, and Jody claps her hands and throws herself onto her back, thumping the sand with her fists as she shrieks with pleasure.

  ‘Yip-pee! YIP-PEE!’

  Sam copies her, lying back with his mouth wide open. The kids look on in disbelief, as though their parents have lost their minds, then they too join in. It’s a delicious, delirious moment, going crazy in the rain, the sand turning dark and damp around them, the sea pitted and fizzing under the onslaught, and even a single distant flash of light does little to break the spell.

  35

  Jody forgets to count, but she thinks it is several seconds before they hear a low-pitched rumbling. It goes on for so long that she starts to wonder if it could be something other than thunder. Gunfire?

  ‘Bears,’ says Dylan, with a frightened moan. He has a grim fascination with the beasts, inspired by a nature documentary where a grizzly bear was standing face to face with a man; Sam, not very helpfully, remarked that the bear could take the man’s head off with one swipe of its paw.

  More lightning out at sea: not just flashes this time but jagged purple bolts.

  Dylan clings to his dad, burying his face in Sam’s chest. ‘Don’t like it.’

  ‘I know, Dyl. But it’s nothing to worry about.’ Sam exchanges an uneasy look with Jody. ‘We ought to get under cover.’

  It’s true that the novelty of drinking the rain has quickly faded; for the first time Jody is aware of how cold she feels. The fire is dying before their eyes.

  ‘Should have stashed some wood in the boat,’ Sam says ruefully.

  They crawl under, Jody and Sam lying with the children between them. They use their clothes as both a groundsheet and a blanket, but the only real warmth comes from their bodies.

  The noise is extraordinary: a constant angry drumming on the wood, the torturous plop plop as water drips off the sides; the boom and suck of waves against the shore. Raising her voice to be heard, Jody works at keeping their spirits up, pointing out how exciting this is, and won’t it be great to tell their friends about it? Absurd to think there’s any chance of sleeping in these conditions, but that’s what she urges them to do. In the morning we’ll light another fire, and guess what’s for breakfast, kids? Well, it ain’t bacon and eggs, and it ain’t Coco Pops…

  Now they’re lying down, they realise they are all sore from sunburn. Grace keeps fidgeting, scratching her leg, and Jody can’t think of any way to distract her or lessen the discomfort. They discuss the early part of the holiday – the lovely hotel, the kids’ club and a chance to try archery – until Grace starts to cry.

  ‘We’ll miss the boat trip. I was really looking forward to that.’

  If not for the conversation earlier, Jody might have been tempted to pretend it was still a possibility. Instead, she says, ‘I know you were, darling. I’m sorry.’

  She’s lost for words when Grace, after wiping her eyes, says, ‘You don’t have to say sorry. I know you’re doing your best for us.’

  It’s mostly dry under the boat, but for how long Sam isn’t sure. The crack in the hull is leaking slightly, and the sand wall is taking a pounding from the rain, lumps of it collapsing into sludge and dribbling towards them. He feels cold, drained, clinging to his son just as much as Dylan is clinging to him.

  Sam keeps thinking about the fire. So bloody dumb not to have stored some dry wood ahead of the rain. Christ knows how long it’ll take to get another one going tomorrow.

  He starts idly fantasising about setting the whole forest alight. Surely people would come to investigate, and they’d be rescued?

  Lightning blasts the sky. The thunder is an instant behind, so loud and close that they all wince. It really does sound like something splintering, as though part of the world is being cut into two.

  Sam isn’t sure what makes him leave the shelter. There’s the reason he’ll give to Jody, but he’ll wonder later if it was sheer panic, more than anything.

  He eases free of Dylan’s embrace, wriggling past the stakes that hold the boat in place; then rolls and jumps to his feet, hearing Jody’s question turn into a cry of alarm.

  ‘The water,’ he yells back, as if that’s any sort of explanation. Right now, to him, it makes sense.

  This will only take a second. There’s no real danger.

  As he kneels to move the plastic aside, there’s an explosion overhead, stunningly loud. A bolt of lightning strikes the beach, a shower of blue sparks sizzling at its base. Sam rocks back from the energy of it, his skin prickling with static. There’s a weird electrical smell in his nostrils. The image stays burned into his vision for a few seconds, white hot in the darkness as the echoes of thunder roll away across the sea.

  It could have hit me, he thinks. It’s that close.

  He lifts the bottle: more than half full. He dashes back to the boat, skids on the wet sand and comes down hard on his arse. But he doesn’t drop the water. Result.

  Jody is gaping at him, her face bleached of colour in the last of the light. ‘What are you doing?’

  He holds out the bottle. ‘Gotta make the most of it. I’m still gasping. Aren’t you?’

  She nods, and offers it first to Grace. It’s not easy, trying to drink when the four of them are crushed together, and they can’t sit up without hitting their heads on the boat. But eventually they’ve shared it out. Sam takes the empty bottle from Jody’s hand.

  ‘I’ll put it back. Fill it up by morning.’

  For a moment sh
e’s ready to beg him not to go out there again; he can read it in her eyes. But she doesn’t. The water is keeping them alive. It’s worth the risk.

  This time it takes longer. He has to make sure the hole in the plastic bag is centred correctly, otherwise the water will run into the sand instead of the bottle.

  When it’s done, he stands up and hears a loud buzzing noise. He can feel the tingling on his skin, the hairs reacting to the electricity in the air a split second before–

  BAM!

  Then he’s lying flat on his back and has no idea how he got there. Sam opens his eyes and quickly shuts them again, one arm shielding his face from the needles of rain. His head is fuzzy, confused. The echoes of another massive thunderclap slowly die away. Only then does he hear Jody screaming his name.

  He twists on to his side and is able to rise a little. His frightened family are peering out at him, sheltering like mice in a shoe – is that some kind of fairy tale he once read to Grace? – and behind them, in the woods, there’s a tree blazing in flame. For a moment he wonders if he went through with his mad idea: the nuclear option.

  No. Must have been another lightning bolt. It looks like the rain will soon extinguish the fire.

  Climbing to his feet, unsteady at first, he realises he was thrown several metres by the strike. No wonder they look worried. He raises a hand to signal that he’s okay.

  In fact, against all the odds, he feels a hell of a lot better than okay. He might be standing in a storm, cold rain streaming down his body, but the pain and discomfort are lost in an overwhelming rush of energy. He feels more alive than he’s ever been, as if the lightning has rewired his brain. With a dream-like certainty he understands that he is as much a product of this earth as any tree or rock, as much as the sand or the sea. His existence as an individual human being is practically worthless, but that’s fine. What matters is that he is part of the universe, no more or less important than any other part.