The Last Bastion (Book 4): The Last Bastion

by K. W. Callahan

  “Aye-aye, captain,” Christine saluted. “Sounds good to me,” she and Jack turned their kayak around and headed back downriver to inform the others of the decision.

  A few minutes later, the fishing boat slowly paddled its way into the mouth of the second split. The channel narrowed slightly after entering it, but it remained wide enough to provide ample birth for all the Blender boats. The narrower course, however, slightly increased the current in this section of river. This allowed occupants in all the boats a break from paddling.

  The channel split also offered another island refuge.

  “Maybe we should consider this island for stopping,” Caroline spoke up. “We don’t know how many more such opportunities we’ll find farther on.”

  Michael looked at his watch. “It’s only just past two o’clock now. A little early for stopping.”

  “Are we in some sort of rush?” Caroline looked over her shoulder to where her husband steered at the rear of the boat. It reminded her of vacation road trips with Michael. He always wanted to make good time. “We’re on vacation time,” she’d remind him during such occasions. “There’s no hurry.” But with Michael, there was always a rush. It was something in his being, an instinctual need to make the best time and be the most efficient. She had never understood it, but she had learned to accept and deal with it.

  “No rush, but I’m sure we’ll come to other islands. Plus, there’s no good place to stop right now. These banks are pretty steep, and the current is moving us along. Trying to get this boat over to the bank and slowed could prove difficult.”

  It was a good point, one that Caroline hadn’t considered.

  “Looks like another bridge up ahead,” Wendell lifted his paddle and pointed ahead of them with its end.

  “Must be clear,” Michael said. “The others haven’t come back to make a report.”

  “Sure hope so,” Wendell muttered softly.

  A few minutes later, they passed beneath the bridge without incident. They glided around several small islands and finally rejoined with a large channel. Several minutes after this, another small channel on the right re-joined the one they were traveling, and the river appeared to be one again.

  The Blenders kept on, a large factory or power plant of some sort rising to their left.

  “Looks like a lovely place,” Wendell nodded sarcastically toward the towering smokestacks and a massively looming coal pile.

  The group traveled onward for what Michael estimated to be at least another mile or two.

  “We should probably start looking for a place to camp,” he said, nodding at the slowly sinking sun in the western sky. “Looks like we’ve made our turn south. That means we should be getting outside of Chicago. I’d estimate that we still have a ways to go until we get past Joliet, though. I think at least another day or so. I’ll feel better once we’re past that point. It’s the last major city on our route for a while I think.”

  Michael whistled to the canoes ahead of them and waved. They stopped in their paddling and waited for the fishing boat to catch up a little. As soon as they were close enough, Michael called, “Tell the kayaks to start looking for a place to camp!”

  Patrick waved back from his canoe and gave the thumbs up, showing that he understood. Then he and Charla began paddling again.

  It was late-afternoon, and Michael wanted to give them enough time to find a spot to camp, set up the tent, and make dinner before it got too dark. The air was already beginning to get chilly, and he didn’t want to be caught out in the cold or the dark. He wanted to try to keep lights to a minimum. Even though he hoped to get them to an island that would provide safety from biters, he didn’t want their lights to attract the attention of potentially dangerous outsiders.

  * * *

  “Looks like as good a spot as any, to me,” Caroline Trove nodded toward the sizeable island their scouts had selected. “Actually looks kind of cute,” she added after a moment. “And not too heavily wooded, which will make it easier for us to set up camp.”

  “It’ll also make it easier for people to see us, though,” Michael added. “So we’ll have to be careful.”

  The Blenders beached their craft at the northern tip of the island. After spending a few minutes exploring their stopping point for the evening, it turned out that the island was actually two islands. The islands were divided by a small channel about eight feet across through which water barely trickled. The channel cut through a chunk of the island’s eastern side. Combined, the two islands measured about 600 feet long by 400 feet wide. And they were separated from the shore by a 30-foot gap of river on their eastern side, and a 60-foot gap on their western side.

  “That looks like a good spot for the tent after we clear away a little of that driftwood,” Julia Justak pointed to a sandy clearing. “Nice and soft since we’ll be sleeping on the ground.”

  Ms. Mary was already puttering around, getting the camp stove set up and rummaging for supplies in the canoes and fishing boat to start preparing dinner.

  “I suppose we should take Ms. Mary’s lead and start getting the tent set up,” Michael announced. “Don’t want to get caught out by nightfall.”

  The group spent the next half hour setting up camp while Ms. Mary, Caroline, and Wendell worked to prepare dinner.

  Charla offered to try her hand at some fishing, but after having seen the debris-laden condition of the river, and having some qualms about the water quality after just having passed the power plant upriver, the group politely declined.

  Instead, Charla joined the others in setting up camp as the sun began to settle low in the western sky. The first order of business was getting the tent erected. While at first, according to Michael, there were “too many cooks in the kitchen” when figuring out where tent poles fit and how the tent was going to be positioned and staked down, they eventually got it right.

  With everything set, Michael and the others conducted a test run to see just how many people they could comfortably squeeze inside the eight-person tent. They managed to get two more than maximum occupancy allowed for inside without it being ridiculously cramped.

  “Where are the other two people going to sleep?” Charla asked.

  “More importantly, who are the other two going to be?” Julia chimed in.

  “We could draw straws,” Michael suggested.

  “No, no, no,” Josh shook his head disgustedly. “I’ll volunteer not to sleep in the tent.

  “So will I,” Patrick volunteered bravely.

  “Guess that’s settled then,” Michael said. “But where will you sleep?”

  “I have an idea,” Patrick offered. “It’s something we practiced at summer camp one year in case of a storm while out on the water.

  What Patrick came up with was mildly ingenious. After selecting another spot on the sandy patch beside the tent, he and Josh emptied both the canoes of their supplies. They then laid down two tarps to cover the ground. Once the tarps were spread out and weighted with stones at their corners to keep them from being ruffled in a slight westerly wind, the two men carried the canoes ashore and set one atop each tarp. They flipped both canoes upside down, set on the middle of the tarps so that the side of the tarps protruded from beneath either side of the boats. With this accomplished, the two men worked together to fold the end of the tarps up and over the tops of the canoes, tying them in place. They called them their ‘canoe burritos’.

  After shoving their bedding material inside these ‘burritos’, they spent some time packing the open gaps left around the canoes with leaves, twigs, driftwood, and whatever else they could find to use as insulation. They then wedged coolers and the trash bags of other supplies they’d unloaded from the canoes around these spots to hold the material in place. Just a small gap was left open for the men to crawl inside each of their makeshift shelters, which they could then pull a pack of supplies in place to cover, sealing them snugly inside.

  Josh and Patrick finished their shelters, just as dinner was served.


  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Mary apologized in advance as she sat on the ground before the cook stove, stirring the contents of a sizeable pot. “It’s not going to be a gourmet meal, but it will be hearty and filling. It’s my version of a spur of the moment, vegetarian chili mac pasta with red sauce and kidney beans.

  “I’m so hungry, I could eat just plain old kidney beans right now and be fine with it,” Josh said.

  “I’m sure that whatever you’ve concocted will be delicious, Ms. Mary,” Patrick said with a grin.

  “Thank you,” Ms. Mary smiled back coyly.

  A minute later, Ms. Mary was carefully dishing out portions of the meal onto paper plates.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she apologized. “I know this isn’t the sort of meal to be serving on paper plates, but our real dishware is packed away, and I don’t think any of us want to spend time doing dishes tonight. Plus, we’d have to wash them in this river, and well, from what I’ve seen, I think that might only soil them further.”

  “It’s okay,” Christine Franko assured her. “Just make sure you all keep your hands underneath your plate,” she told the group. “The longer this food sits on the plate, the floppier the plate becomes. We don’t have extra, so if you dump your food on the ground, you’ll have to scrape up what you can to salvage the remnants of your meal.”

  It didn’t take most of the Blenders much time to scarf down their dinners.

  “Chew slowly,” Ms. Mary reminded them. But it did little good.

  After dinner, and once darkness fell, the group decided to forgo a campfire, not wanting to draw attention to their presence on the island. Instead, they hauled their bed rolls inside the tent, ensured the kayaks and fishing boat were hauled safely onto shore, and prepared to retire early, knowing that they had another long day of river travel ahead of them.

  To help calm the nerves of the weary travelers, and return some semblance of normality, the group played card games and talked before bed. They selected their favorite movies, explained why they were favorites, and discussed. They played a game of ‘word at a time story’, in which the group sat in a circle and went one by one around the group, each person interjecting a single word so that it went something along the lines of: “I…went…to…the…airport…where…I…met…a…dog…whose…name…was…Fred…and…he…peed…on…my…luggage…

  since…he…couldn’t…find…a…washroom…because…he…was…late…for…his…flight…to…Cancun…to…see…the…Pope…because…” and so on.

  The story continued in this way, becoming increasingly crazy and convoluted in its plot until the group fell into a state of hysterics. It proved a wonderful way to pass the time and take the group’s mind off their troubles.

  CHAPTER 9

  Marta hadn’t exactly lived an easy life since leaving Poland, but it hadn’t been this bad, even back home when she was a child. Still, she was handling the situation better than Cara, Brandon and Louise.

  The family of three had lived well before the outbreak, especially by Riverport standards. They had a nice single-story ranch home. Brandon had worked as a manager at the local bank. Cara was an insurance representative. The two had pulled down a modest income by big-city standards, but in Riverport, they were upper echelon. This meant that when the world of big televisions, hundreds of channels, instant internet information, texting, and cell phones faded and then disappeared completely with the appearance of the Carchar Syndrome, the two were left in a sort of life limbo. But they had held out hope that somehow the world would get back to where it was pre-Carchar Syndrome. At least they had until now. Now the three weren’t doing well at all. Brandon and Cara seemed to argue about anything and everything. And Marta often found poor little Louise sitting alone in the roadhouse crying.

  But Marta didn’t feel it her place to interject herself too heavily into their family situation. Every family was different, and Marta had no love lost for her own. It was one of the main reasons she had left Poland. She hated her mother, a depressed drunk who found her only pleasure in life was trying to control Marta. Looking back on it now, she couldn’t blame her mother in a way. Marta was the only thing in her mother’s life that she could control. Her father saw to that.

  Marta despised her father, a domineering, womanizing ass who was rarely home. And when he was home, he spent most of his time demeaning Marta’s mother and doing all he could to emotionally destroy the woman.

  Marta’s older brother had left the house when he was just 16. Marta had made it one year longer, arriving in the US just after her 17th birthday under the pretext of visiting a distant aunt. She had never left.

  After about a month, she had found work at a hotel in Chicago and managed to obtain a dingy one-bedroom apartment. It was a hard life, but Marta had enjoyed the freedom if nothing else. She was able to live as she pleased. She could be friends with whomever she pleased. She could date whomever she pleased. She could come and go when she pleased. She could work where she pleased. And life was invigorating.

  Now she felt like she was back in Poland with two parents fighting constantly and a small girl just trying to survive. Except now, it was Louise who was playing the role of young Marta and Cara and Brandon playing the parts of Marta’s parents. It made Marta’s heart ache for the little one, so she did her best to console Louise and provide her with some semblance of the stability that she herself was never offered in a similar situation.

  Cara and Brandon’s fights often revolved around whether they should try to get to St. Louis or stay put. Sometimes they were about the amenities they no longer had or some other facet of a life they no longer lived. At such times, Marta would often come take little Louise by the hand or motion for her to join her. Sometimes they would go out onto the roadhouse’s deck overlooking the river and watch the water when the weather permitted. Otherwise, if it was cold or raining outside, they would settle in behind the bar. Louise called it her “fort”. There they would sit on the floor together and play quietly.

  Louise had learned early on that it was best to be quiet when her parents were arguing; otherwise, she often incurred the wrath of their ire. Today, it was a particularly bad fight between her parents. Brandon’s duty for the day had been to collect firewood, but he had yet to venture outside to fulfill his role. This had left the fire dying and Cara without the ability to heat food for lunch. Rather than working together to resolve the situation, Cara was laying into Brandon for his ‘irresponsibility’, and he was dishing it right back to her for ‘nagging’ him ‘constantly’ about it.

  It was sunny out and mild, the temperature hovering in the mid-50s. Therefore, Marta decided to take Louise down to the river below the roadhouse deck to play while her parents hashed things out. There was a sandy patch there beneath the deck that they had visited once before.

  Marta got Louise set up playing before setting off to scavenge the area for driftwood in the event Brandon didn’t fulfill his job. Louise set about building a pretend ocean scene in the sand. She’d never been to the ocean, but she had said she dreamed about how it would be. Marta had never been either. And after she had gathered a sizeable stack of firewood, she came and sat herself in the cool sand beside Louise. There, the two fantasized about what the ocean would be like and what they would do there – wiggle their toes in the sand, splash in the waves, search for seashells, watch for dolphins, swim, and bask in the sun. The two dreamed like this together, enjoying the opportunity to escape their current world and explore an exotic wonderland together if only in their minds.

  Louise used sticks for people, pinecones for rafts that she floated at the river’s edge, and leaves for beach towels. She dug holes in the sand, built sandcastles, and used her stick people to mimic families having picnics and frolicking in the waves together. It made Marta sad; but at the same time, it made her feel good. She understood the loneliness that Louise must be feeling. But she felt good to see how well the girl coped. And it gave Marta a sense of pride and purpose that she could be
there to help the little one through these tough times. If only she had someone to help her through these times.

  Dan was as close as she’d come to someone like that during her time in the United States. There had definitely been an attraction. But she hadn’t felt that spark, that certain something that told her it was right. And while she had enjoyed Dan’s company, and as much as her libido wanted to, she didn’t feel right giving him something more, something that would lead him to the wrong conclusions regarding their relationship. She had sensed that Dan thought the apocalypse was his chance to prove to Marta what he was made of. And he had. But it still hadn’t been enough fuel to stoke the smoldering fire their relationship had remained.

  “Think your parents are ready for us?” Marta asked as Louise dug a little channel in the sand leading from a hole she had dug to the river’s edge.

  “Probably not,” she shrugged. “But we should check on them.”

  Marta smiled. Louise was such a little grown up. She was years ahead of where she should be emotionally. But considering the circumstances of the past few months, how could she not be?

  Marta found it interesting. She felt closer to the five-year-old than she had to any other person since arriving to America. The tiny tike was tough – both physically and emotionally – sweet, had an amazing imagination and array of interests, was blessed with an intriguing sense of humor, and she was smart. And she wasn’t just book smart. She had the same style of street smarts that Marta had found so valuable in herself. They were the clear and quick-thinking wits that had helped Marta not just succeed in her new nation but survive a situation in which the entire population of Riverport had not. Marta thought Louise even looked like her at that age. She had a fair complexion and long blonde hair that had a sort of wavy curl to it that Marta’s own locks had gradually lost with age.