The gunfire was becoming more sporadic as the small fleet put distance between them and the building on the riverbank. Soon, it stopped altogether.
At this point, the fishing boat was overloaded and riding dangerously low in the water. With the gunfire stopped, Michael called the undamaged canoe back and the group did a careful transfer of Jack to the center of that boat. He would ride inside the canoe until their next stop at which point they could re-evaluate the weight distribution inside their remaining boats.
The lone remaining kayak took up the lead again, acting as scouting vessel. The group passed safely beneath several more large bridges. Thankfully, there was no more shooting. But soon, the kayak was paddling back toward the others.
“We got a problem!” Ms. Mary called. “A big problem!”
“What’s up?” Michael, who had yet to calm down from the last ‘big problem’ ask worriedly.
“Some sort of huge spillway up ahead. Goes across the entire river. And it’s coming up fast!”
“Great,” Michael huffed. “Is there a good place to land before we get to it?”
“Looks like if we get over to the right, we should be okay.”
“Will do,” Michael changed the angle of his paddle to begin taking the boat toward the right. “You heard the woman,” he told his crew. “Start paddling. We don’t want to be sucked over the spillway. Could be the end of all of us.”
The look on Wendell’s face was priceless, and his paddling did more than words ever could to describe the fear he felt.
“Wendell,” Michael called after a minute. “Take it easy man. You’re going to hurt yourself…or someone else. I want you to paddle, but don’t be so frantic with your strokes. You misjudge and your paddle could whack someone pretty good.”
Wendell slowed, but only slightly, willing to do whatever it took to avoid a plunge into the Des Plaines River’s icy grips.
The current was picking up and Michael could tell it wouldn’t be long before it overtook their ability to paddle against it. The sole remaining kayak had gotten over to the right side of the river well ahead of them and was idling patiently outside the main current, waiting for them to catch up.
The canoes were making good progress, but they were also finding paddling against the river’s current increasingly difficult.
“Paddle hard!” Michael instructed, not wanting to scare his crew but trying to convey the urgency with which they needed to proceed.
A number of concerns were flooding through his mind at the thought of the spillway ahead. Going over would result in a lost boat, lost supplies, and a crew of five in the water and quickly hypothermic. He’d have to pray that everyone survived going over the spillway and weren’t caught in the dangerous undertow such areas often created. He’d heard numerous horror stories about people getting dragged down and held under, or getting hit by or tangled beneath large trees and limbs that became lodged at spillway bases.
Then, freezing and frightened, he’d have to get those who survived the fall safely accounted for after having been tumbled over a spillway into the frigid water. But that was only the beginning. As they bobbed downriver in the still swiftly moving current, he’d have to get everyone rounded up, which included several of the group who weren’t the strongest of swimmers. Next, they’d have to get back on shore – all in the same general spot – and then manage to round up enough dry firewood to quickly get a fire started and get them dry and warm. But that was only if they went over the spillway.
What if their boat became lodged on the spillway itself?
With all the weight the fishing boat was carrying, and for as low as the boat was riding in the water, it was a distinct possibility. Then they’d be stranded on a spillway in the middle of the river. That would almost be worse than going over it. How would they get off? Would they have to try to walk the spillway like a tightrope with water gushing over it? Would they be swept over and drown or injured in the process? How long would it take if they could walk it? Would Justin be able to do it? Would Wendell? Would he?
The questions flew through his mind fast and furious, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting the fishing boat out of the main current.
“Paddle hard!” Michael urged again. He could see a line in the water several hundred yards downriver that they were heading toward with increasing speed. Their progress toward the right side of the river seemed painstakingly slow in relation.
“Like trying to turn the damn Titanic!” Michael gritted his teeth as he strained to get the heavy boat to respond to his steering input.
The canoes ahead of them had made it over to join the kayak. And everyone inside the fishing boat was doing their damnedest to join them.
“We’re not going to make it!” Wendell cried. “The current’s too strong!”
“Just keep paddling!” Michael insisted.
Ahead, Michael could see the spillway, which he estimated to be at least 500 feet across. Closer, and set to their right, was a low, triangular structure, set flat in the water. The tip of the triangle jutted out toward them. It diverted the river’s main flow toward the dam. Its right side formed a sort of guide that led toward a gated structure Michael guessed was a set of locks, the gates to which appeared closed.
About 50 feet across the water from the triangle’s right side edge was a round object that protruded from the water about 15 feet into the air. Michael took this to be an intake tower for filling the locks when it had been operational. To the right of that, and about 100 feet farther on, was a levied shoreline that stretched another 500 feet or so until it linked with the river’s western bank.
“That’s no spillway! That’s a full on dam! The thing is HUGE!” Wendell’s panicked voice came from the front of the boat.
And it was huge. Michael had recognized that before Wendell. But he hadn’t wanted to say anything least he panic his already terrified passengers more than they already were. And he remained silent now. He was too focused on trying to steer their fishing boat for further comment. The river’s current seemed to have locked onto their tiny vessel and refused to let go.
Michael could just see their boat being sucked into the dam’s massive grip. It’d be flipped over, it’s occupants dropped only god knew how far down to be dashed upon the rocks, or concrete, or logs, or whatever lay below the gigantic structure.
Their fishing boat now seemed so miniscule in comparison to the things around them. The river had widened at this point to nearly a quarter mile across, and their efforts at paddling seemed almost ridiculous. But they had to try.
Everyone, even little Justin, was putting their all into their work. But nothing seemed to help. The fishing boat kept drifting left, straight toward the line across the river that meant death, or at least a severe dashing that would likely lead to death, for all on board.
Suddenly, a voice to their right side caught Michael’s attention.
It was Ms. Mary, along with Andrew in the sole remaining kayak.
“What are you doing out here?!” Michael cried, exasperated and frankly disappointed that Ms. Mary had allowed herself and young Andrew to put themselves back in harm’s way.
“Shut up and listen!” Ms. Mary called back sternly yet surprisingly calmly. “Toss us your tie line and we’ll give you a tow,” she instructed.
“You’ll just be tying yourself to a sinking ship,” Michael called back. “Send Josh back in the canoe. We’ll ferry people back that way.”
“There isn’t time for that,” Ms. Mary said forcefully. Amazingly, she seemed somehow cool and collected. “Trust me, this will work.”
The kayak banged up against the side of the metal fishing boat with a thud.
“Fine,” Michael sighed, not knowing what else to do. “Wendell, see that rope up there?”
“Yeah,” Wendell gasped, exhausted and out of breath from his frantic paddling. “Give the end to Andrew.”
Michael waited as Wendell obeyed.
“Now, Andrew, tie that to the
kayak,” Michael continued.
He waited as Andrew looked for a spot to secure the line.
“There’s nowhere good to tie it!” Andrew called back.
Michael glanced to his left where they were angling farther and farther into the river’s main channel that headed straight for the dam.
“Here, just give it to me!” Ms. Mary instructed.
In less than a minute, Ms. Mary had the line secured. Then the kayakers began paddling with all their might to assist their fellow Blenders in the fishing boat who were doing the same.
Five minutes later, the two craft had paddled out of the main current and were headed for the levied bank beside the locks. Several minutes after that, the Blender craft were pulled up alongside the bank and their occupants had begun to disembark.
And a minute later, the first shot was fired.
CHAPTER 12
“I’m hungry Marty,” Louise whined softly.
“I know, little one,” Marta tried to soothe Louise.
Marta was finding the situation intriguing as she moved from single woman into the parenting role. It was very different, yet surprisingly, Marta was discovering that she liked the responsibility – or at least most of it. She guessed that it would have been a lot easier had the world not completely collapsed before she took on the role.
Marta found it sweet that Louise called her ‘Marty’. It was just something the little girl started doing one day.
Louise was an interesting child. She was quite imaginative and very creative. She was kind and caring, even going so far as to rescue bugs from inside the roadhouse to put back outside that Marta would otherwise have squashed. She was quiet, yet she had an intriguing sense of humor. And she would sing silly little rhymes to herself like: “Marty is a smarty, who went to the party, where she let out a farty.” Then she’d laugh to herself and go back to whatever she was doing.
Marta wished she had more energy to devote to her new parenting role, but she was exhausted. Her body was still sore from the afternoon she’d spent digging the graves for Cara and Brandon.
With Louise not having seen her dead parents lying on the roadhouse kitchen floor, Marta had been tempted to lie about their demise. She considered telling Louise that her parents had left to find food or to search for a safer place to stay, or come up with some other story to explain their absence. But after some careful consideration, she decided to be truthful with the child.
While the truth might be harder in the short term, Marta figured that it would be better in the long run. She decided that getting the mourning process started now, while Louise was young, might make it easier for the girl later in life. And Marta didn’t know how lying about Cara and Brandon now might affect her relationship with Louise – should there be one – down the road. And finally, she figured that she owed Louise a proper burial where she could say goodbye to her parents.
Marta’s main consolation in all this was that Louise still didn’t seem to fully comprehend the ramifications of what Marta was telling her regarding her parents. She was obviously sad that Mommy and Daddy weren’t around, and that they apparently wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. But Marta didn’t think that the youngster completely understood what being “dead” really meant. And in Marta’s mind, that was just as well.
While Marta was compassionate, she wasn’t the best at expressing her feelings. But Louise seemed to bring out a maternal instinct in Marta that she’d never had a reason to exhibit before. It was something new to her, and she was finding it interesting to explore this new development in her life. At the same time, these feelings frightened her. Before, it had just been Marta against the world. If something bad happened, it happened to Marta. She alone bore the consequences of her actions. But now there was someone else to consider, someone else who would be affected, someone else who shared the consequences.
Marta sorted through the meager meal options available to them among the paltry remnants of their supplies. She let out a tired sigh. It seemed like there just weren’t enough hours in the day. Even without things like a regular job, grocery shopping, paying bills, getting an oil change, checking voicemail and email, sending text messages, and all the rest, life seemed almost busier than it had been pre-Carchar Syndrome.
Even with rising temperatures, a large portion of Marta and Louise’s day was spent collecting firewood to cook with and heat the roadhouse when temperatures dropped at night. Then there was time spent cooking, which even though they were eating mostly canned goods, still ate into their day. There was the meal preparation, which on their makeshift stove took longer. It wasn’t just popping something into the microwave. And they often had to get water, which took time to collect and boil now that they’d gone through the fresh water they’d brought with them. Louise was a slow eater, even when she was hungry. And then they had to do dishes, which again, took time. There was no running water or dishwasher, so pots, pans, plates, and silverware all had to be washed by hand in clean water.
Then there was the time involved in just keeping one another in somewhat sanitary condition. Without fresh running water, this was another challenging and time consuming element of their daily lives. Both had to use the restroom regularly. And Marta quickly found that while Louise was pretty good at wiping, she still needed assistance from time to time.
Thankfully, the road running alongside the roadhouse had been undergoing some construction at the time of the outbreak. A portable potty had been set near the roadhouse parking lot. This provided at least a place for them to use the bathroom. But even then, Marta couldn’t let Louise go on her own in the event that roaming biters or scavengers stumbled across the girl.
Therefore, Marta would have to stand watch while the little one did her thing. And these outings occasionally took longer than Marta would have preferred, forcing her to stand, nervously exposed out in the open. But at least they had an ample supply of toilet paper that Marta had discovered in the roadhouse stock room.
Bathing was no joy either. A bucket full of hot water and a washrag had to suffice for Marta. A good dunking of her head into the bucket, a splash of hand soap worked into her rapidly fading blonde locks, and another dunking to rinse was her normal hair wash routine.
Louise, on the other hand, was still small enough for a full bath. In an outdoor shed beside the roadhouse, Marta had found a large metal washtub. It was big enough for Louise’s frail body to fit inside. Every two or three days, depending on how much her “little piggy” had “rooted in the mud” as Marta often termed it to Louise, Marta would fill the tub with water, boil it atop the barrel stove, let it cool, and then Louise would have her own toasty bath. After she was done, Marta would do laundry in the same soapy water in which Louise had just bathed. It was more economical this way, saving time heating more water and using additional soap.
One of the things there never seemed to be much time for was searching for extra food. But there was no good way to do it anyway. Marta feared leaving Louise alone to go out scavenging. But taking Louise along with her on such trips was dangerous for both of them. It put Louise in direct danger of biters. And with Louise’s propensity for blurting things out uncontrollably, Marta feared that her babbling might endanger them both.
But hunting was pretty much out of the question anyway. First off, Marta had never hunted, and she had definitely never skinned or cleaned an animal. She wouldn’t know where to begin. Secondly, Louise’s constant chatter would likely scare off anything worth shooting. And Marta sensed the girl would have gone into a catatonic state at seeing a furry woodland creature blasted in front of her. Watching Bambi, or even Thumper, meet its demise would probably do more to devastate the little girl than the loss of her parents. But what concerned Marta even more was how such an event might change how Louise viewed Marta. She didn’t want Louise thinking that she was a brutal killer of sweet animals similar to the cuddly stuffed creatures the girl once snuggled with in her bed at home.
So at night, once Louise was asleep, Mar
ta had been working on a project that she hoped would land the two the food they needed while at the same time not change Louise’s perception of her. While Marta might not have been an adept hunter, she could certainly weave. And she was nearing the completion of a large net created out of rope, twine, and some fishing line she’d uncovered in a small shed outside the roadhouse. To the edges of this net, she’d attached some small fishing weights. And she’d tied a long rope to the net’s center.
With such a design, she hoped that she’d be able to stand along the riverbank and cast out her net, the weighted ends of which would sink down faster than its center, capturing fish within. Then she could haul her line, and the attached net, in to shore.
She had no idea if the net would work. But she had to try something. She estimated they had a week or two worth of food at most. With the demise of the rest of their group, their supply had been extended without those extra mouths to feed. But if they could stretch their canned goods with fresh fish – something Marta knew how to clean and prepare – they might be able to last a month or more on what they had in their small stockpile.
But for this particular day’s menu, lunch – and most likely dinner – was going to be baked beans with a cup of white rice with some diced canned ham tossed in for flavor.
Marta hoped eventually to make fish stew, but for the next few days at least, this sort of lackluster meal would have to suffice.
CHAPTER 13
The biters seemed to appear from nowhere. They filtered through the trees lining the riverbank, drawn by the shouts from those aboard the struggling Blender fishing boat on the river.
The freshly arrived crews of the tiny Blender armada had just begun climbing from their boats onto the mostly stone and gravel levee on which they’d landed. That was when Josh spotted the first biter. It was several hundred feet away, coming down a paved access road from the west.
“We got biters!” he called, loud enough to be heard by the others but not so loudly that other biters in the area might hear him.
The Last Bastion_Book 4 Page 13
