Tethers

by Sara Reinke

  Jerica didn’t know what to say. It didn’t seem fair to her, to hear Frank tell of it. “But Eric needed his leg fixed,” she said. “He would have died.”

  “Yes.” Frank nodded and now his shadow had drawn alongside of hers until the two ran together like warm maple syrup, pooling into one dark puddle. “He would have.”

  They reached the top of a flight of metal industrial steps that led into the sub-basement of the compound. Jerica looked between her feet, down the stairwell, holding the railing in case she lost her balance. “Here.” She pointed.

  Frank stood opposite her and followed her gaze. He made a harsh, harking sound in his throat, like he was going to cough up a loogie, and winked. She frowned, but she really thought it was pretty funny.

  “Shh!” she told him. “Cut it out. Listen!”

  They both listened. She could hear it, plain as day, and hoped he could, too.

  “Sounds like water running,” Frank said.

  She nodded, and then started down the staircase, eying her footing carefully.

  The sub-cellar floor near the foot of the stairs had been dry when Jerica had gone to find Eric and Frank. There was now at least an inch of standing water there, shimmering, quivering. The golden lights on the ceiling bounced crazily off of its moving surface and danced across the walls.

  Jerica and Frank stopped on the bottom steps.

  “What the…?” Frank said.

  The sound of rushing water was louder now, a dim roar.

  “Jerica, where is this coming from?” Frank stepped into the pool. The water splashed up over his boot toes.

  “This way.” Jerica led him through the water, over to a huge, hulking, rumbling piece of machinery. Pipes and conduits twisted and wound in and out of it. It was an enormous black metal octopus. Water gushed out of its belly in torrents.

  “Holy shit!” Frank yelled over the din of the water. He stood in front of the machine, both hands on his head. The water by the machine was several inches deep, cresting almost above his ankles. It splashed him, drenching the front of his pants.

  “Well, this is just great!” He waded over to Jerica and started to laugh hysterically. “Jesus Christ! Do you know what that is? It’s our water supply! This is the compound’s water purification and storage system. And it’s spilling all of our water all over the basement floor!”

  Jerica stared at the machine in aghast.

  “That pipe in the front, where all the water’s coming from, is busted,” Frank said. “It needs to be welded or sealed. You don’t know if there’s a water main or something around here, do you? Someplace we can turn the water off? Otherwise it’s all going to be gone and there won’t be any left for us.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe there are schematics up in the—”

  “There isn’t time for that!” Frank cried, and he began to laugh again. She knew he didn’t really think it was funny, and that he was laughing because he couldn’t figure out what else to do.

  “Ah, goddammit!” Frank shouted, frustrated.

  He splashed back over to the machine and began to wander around it, poking here and there, pulling on this and that. He slammed his fist into it as hard as he could, angry and frustrated. “Goddammit! Jerica, help me, will you?”

  She went over to him, flinching as the water peppered her face and hair.

  “Look for something, anything—a gauge or a button or a knob,” Frank said. “Something to make it stop!”

  Jerica began to circle the machine. The water level was rising fast, and was nearly halfway up her calves. She heard the pipes above her creaking and groaning from the force of the water racing through them.

  “I can’t see anything!” she hollered at Frank.

  She heard a light snap, like a green tree limb cracked over someone’s knee. The pipe directly over her head burst, and water gushed down on her.

  Jerica screamed and sucked in a mouthful of water. She gagged. The force knocked her off her feet, face-down into the pool. The water falling on top of her was too great, and she couldn’t get up and scramble away.

  “Frank!” she screamed, terrified, and then she swallowed water again. She began to struggle, unable to breathe. “Fuh…Fruh…!”

  Suddenly the water stopped, slowing across her head and shoulders to a thinning stream. Its rushing roar fell silent, and was replaced by melodic trickling, spattering sounds.

  “Jerica!” Frank splashed clumsily over to her. He got his arm underneath her and jerked her up out of the water.

  “Ellie,” he said, frightened. “El, honey, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  She nodded, choking. She spit up water and began to cry.

  “Oh, God!” Frank pulled her close, hugging her. “Oh, thank God!”

  “Wuh…what happened to the water?” Jerica whispered.

  “I found a cut-off switch over on the other side.” Frank knelt in front of her, cradling her face between his hands. His eyes were round, enormous with fright. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, shuddering with chill. “I want my mommy,” she whimpered, her eyes swimming with sudden tears.

  He hugged her again, gathering her in his arms and lifting her off the ground. “Of course you do,” he said softly, as she wrapped her arms fiercely about his neck.

  ***

  They met Eric in the corridor on the way to the infirmary. His gait was shuffling, clumsy and he leaned his shoulder against the wall.

  “Jerica…Frank, what happened?” He reached out to touch her, but she was suddenly angry at him, furious for not telling her about his leg.

  She ducked around his hand. “Leave me alone,” she snapped at him hotly, watching with satisfaction as he recoiled, hurt. “Just go away!”

  She took off running down the hall, feeling the water squish up out of the soles of her shoes every time her feet smacked against the floor. She was freezing, and her wet clothes clung to her skin, feeling nasty.

  She ran until she reached her mother’s room and ducked inside. The door slid shut behind her. She kicked one shoe and it bounced off the wall over the bed, leaving a wet spot. She hopped on one foot and yanked the other shoe off.

  She wriggled out of her wet clothes. She pulled on a clean, dry shirt and began to fight with the buttons. Her fingers felt like ice, numb and uncooperative. She shook her head and her damp ringlets whipped around. She grabbed a towel off of the chair by the bed and tried to wrap her hair up in it the way her mom would.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Go away!” Jerica climbed into bed and curled up, fetal-style. She drew the covers up to her chin and shivered.

  “Jerica, it’s me, Eric.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  The door opened and Eric walked in. Jerica could tell he was limping, and she could hear the noises the hinges and lifts were making in his leg; soft, sliding sounds, metal against metal.

  “Get out,” she said. But she was worried about him, even if he had lied to her. He looked like he was hurting.

  “Jerica, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Get out.”

  “What did I do?” he asked, bewildered. “Why are you mad at me?”

  Jerica sat up. The towel dropped off her head. “I thought you were my friend.” She scowled and threw the towel at him.

  “I am your friend.” He caught the towel, came to her bedside and knelt before her. “What are you talking about?”

  Jerica looked at him solemnly. “Your leg is really fucked up.”

  Eric blinked and then laughed. “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “Fucked up. Don’t say that.”

  “Why? You can say it. Mom says it. Frank says it—a lot.”

  “So?” Eric raised his brow. “Doesn’t mean you can—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your leg?” She touched his face, tracing down the slope of his nose with her fingertip.

  “I just…I…how come you know
, anyway?”

  “Frank told me. I kept trying to wake you up, and he finally just told me you were sick because of something being wrong with your leg.”

  Eric looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  “I mean, I can see why you wouldn’t want Mom to know. She’d just freak out. But you know I won’t say a word. Frank said he had an idea of how to fix it. Maybe I can help.”

  He smiled at her. He touched her cheek and his hand was warm. “Thanks.”

  “I knew anyhow, though. You look terrible. And you’re limping. And it’s making some kind of weird noise.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  She was afraid, terribly, desperately afraid for a second that he was going to open his mouth and talk to her like she was a little girl, like she was dumb or something. She really wouldn’t blame him if he did. She was a little girl, and no matter how smart she was, it was a difficult thing to forget sometimes.

  “Jerica, there’s something wrong with the fluid system,” he said instead, looking at her straight in the eyes. “I think when it got crushed in the shuttle, it ruptured some of the conduits. So now I think there’s lubricants leaking, making me sick, hurting my leg.”

  “What’re you going to do?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. Frank wants to try surgery, to cut my leg open and see if he can stop the leak somehow.”

  “What if that doesn’t work?”

  “I don’t know,” Eric admitted.

  “Are you…are you going to die, Eric?”

  “No, Jerica,” he said, pressing his hand against her face. “I’m not going to die.”

  He tried to smile but his eyes were round and bright and afraid. “I don’t want your mom to know about this, okay? Promise me you won’t tell her. She can’t handle it right now, so I need this to be our little secret.”

  It wasn’t a little secret by Jerica’s estimation, but she didn’t say anything. He was trying to make her feel better, and she wanted him to believe that it had worked. “I promise, Eric.” She grabbed hold of him, hugging him. “You’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  She knew he wouldn’t take any real comfort in her saying that. She wished she was bigger, a grown-up, like her mom. He would believe her, be comforted by her if she was a woman, if her arms were strong, a woman’s arms.

  But she was just a little girl.

  “Thanks,” he whispered. “I need that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The morphine was wearing off fast.

  Eric stumbled in the corridor outside of Jerica’s room. He caught himself against the wall. He rested his forehead against the back of his hand and stood there, leaning heavily, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps.

  His face was hot, burning up. His leg hurt so bad he wanted to curl up and cry.

  He tried to walk a few more paces, and staggered into an open doorway. He saw Frank standing with his back to the door. He was naked from the waist up, pulling on a clean, dry jump suit.

  There was a strange, raised mark on Frank’s left shoulder, maybe four inches long and two inches wide. It looked like a figure eight rolled over onto its side. It was familiar to Eric, but he couldn’t figure out where he’d seen it before.

  Frank seemed to sense him standing there, and he glanced over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be on that leg.”

  “I know, but I…” Eric began, still troubled by the mark on Frank’s back.

  Frank straightened and pulled the suit up over his shoulders. “See something green?” There was a strange, cutting edge to his voice. Eric glanced down at his feet, admonished.

  “The morphine wear off already?” Frank said.

  Eric nodded. “I don’t…I don’t feel so good.”

  “Come here.” Frank went to his side and led him across the room, helping him sit against his bunk. He knelt beside Eric and prodded carefully at his knee. “The swelling’s getting worse. You’re going to have to keep off your feet as much as you can. Did Jerica tell you about the water tank?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re going to have to postpone that surgery now, at least for today.” Frank glanced at him, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Eric. Kat’s going to need at least one of us to help survey the damage. We can try tomorrow.”

  Eric nodded, even though the idea of waiting even another day, enduring the swelling pain in his leg made him press his lips together, stifling a dismayed whimper.

  “Lie down,” Frank said, easing him back. “Let me go down to the infirmary, get you some morphine. You’re due for another shot.”

  Eric closed his eyes against a miserable wave of vertigo. He heard Frank’s footsteps as he walked out of the room. He lay against Frank’s bed, trembling in pain.

  “Eric?”

  His eyes snapped open as he heard Kat’s voice, tinny through the intercom. “Frank? Where are you guys?”

  He sat up, and this time there was nothing he could do to stop himself from groaning aloud. He doubled at the waist, crumpling against Frank’s tangled bedclothes. He knocked Frank’s nightstand with his elbow, sending a dog-eared paperback and Frank’s watch spilling to the floor.

  “I’m in the infirmary, Kat,” Frank said over the intercom. He sounded light, nearly chipper, as if all was well in the world. “Good morning. There’s coffee in the commissary, if you want any.”

  Eric grimaced as he reached down, picking up Frank’s fallen watch and returning it to the nightstand. God, please don’t let Kat see me like this, he thought.

  “Why is there water all over the floor in the hallway?” Kat asked.

  Eric leaned over, his fingertips fumbling against Frank’s book. He picked it up and caught sight of the title before he set it back on the bedside table: Foundations for A New World Economy, by David McDonald. The book was cheaply made, the cover stock thin, the binding flimsy, as if someone had them made at a small-town print shop.

  “Why don’t I meet you in the commissary?” Frank said to Kat over the intercom. “I’ll explain it to you then.”

  Like the peculiar mark Eric had seen on Frank’s back, something about the book seemed familiar to him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He turned the book over in his hand, trying to focus his bleary gaze on the back cover blurb:

  In this practical handbook for a changing global market, David McDonald identifies key elements for continuing domestic diversification and international profit-sharing while exploring…

  “David McDonald,” Eric murmured. I’ve heard that name before.

  He glanced down at the floor and saw a business card lying face-down against the tiles. Frank had been using it as a place marker in the book, and it had fallen out. He reached for it, lifting it in hand. He had less than a second to read the name Reba Crowe and to see the words New England Militia inscribed beneath that same strange, sideways eight he had seen on Frank’s back before he heard footsteps in the hall—Frank returning from the infirmary.

  He tucked the business card at random inside the book and shoved it back onto the nightstand just as Frank ducked through the doorway.

  “You shouldn’t be sitting up.” Frank held a readied hypodermic needle in his hand as he hurried to the bedside. “You’re only making things worse for yourself, Eric. You need to listen to me.”

  David McDonald, Eric thought. New England Militia. Why the hell does that seem so familiar to me?

  “I need to go talk to Kat.” Frank slipped his arm around Eric’s waist. “Come on. I’ll help you to your room.”

  They limped together down the hall, with Eric leaning heavily against Frank. He all but collapsed onto his mattress once they staggered across his threshold. Frank pulled a rubber strap out of his pocket and knelt in front of the bed.

  He pushed Eric’s shirt sleeve back and tied the rubber band taut about his arm. Eric thought of his dream when they’d returned from retrieving the black box, of how Doc had come to him and forced morphine on
him.

  Take it, boy. Take your medicine.

  “See something green?” Frank asked him again, glancing up and smiling slightly as he pulled the needle back from Eric’s arm.

  “No.” Eric shook his head, feeling the morphine sweep over him in a heavy, soothing cloak. “No, I…I didn’t see anything…”

  His voice faded, his eyelids fluttered and his mind succumbed to shadows.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You better this morning?” Frank asked Kat.

  She sat across from him in the kitchen and shook her head, sipping her coffee. She hadn’t seen Eric yet that morning, but had made no effort to do so. She had deliberately taken a different route through the maze of hallways in the compound to avoid his room. She didn’t know why, but the idea of seeing him, of acknowledging even wordlessly what had happened the night before left her filled with clammy anxiety. “No. I don’t think I’ll be better for awhile.”

  “I wish I had something good to tell you…” Frank said.

  “But you don’t.” Kat half-laughed. “Hit me with it, Frank. Nothing else could make it worse.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows as if to say “Okay, you asked for it.” He told her about the water purification and storage machine.

  Kat stared at him blankly. “How…” she said, and then she licked her lips. “How much water do we have left?”

  “Near as I’ve been able to tell with the shitty equipment in the command center…ten, maybe twelve days. And that’s if we all cut down to a shower every other day and don’t flush the toilets.”

  “Ten to twelve days?” Kat exclaimed. “Jesus, what else! Well, that’s no big deal. The platform will respond to our emergency beacon sooner or later and send help our way. And we know it rains here. We must have driven past a dozen streams and ponds on our way out to the crash site to retrieve the black box.”