Most of the island’s interior was heavily wooded. And while there was room to walk between the trees, their coverage kept bushes and other foliage to a minimum. At a spot near the center of the island, the sandy soil rose up to form a sort of hump that reached six or seven feet at its peak. After some exploring, it turned out that the hill was actually an ancient tree that had been toppled, its root system upturned to form the now dirt-covered “hump”. It led Andrew Franko to christen the place, “Whale Hump Island”.
And the name stuck.
As the Blenders settled in to familiarize themselves with their temporary new home, they realized that beyond the sizeable nature of the island, there were other benefits to their locale. The group noticed few signs of life along the riverbanks surrounding them. They took the absence of manmade structures as a sign that they were in a more remote portion of Illinois. And the island was strategically positioned almost directly in the center of the river. Wide channels of several hundred feet flowed around either side. This provided plenty of privacy and security from anyone who might be passing the island or were curious as to whom or what might be on it.
The river’s western bank was lined with a thick forest. The eastern bank was bordered by a small field that was surrounded by more forest. Ms. Mary found this an appealing characteristic of the location. She explained that the field could provide a good spot for potential planting of crops should the group decide to stay longer term.
* * *
The Blenders estimated that it was sometime in early to mid-April from their best consensus, although they had no idea for sure exactly what the day or date. Using that timeframe, they guessed that it had been about four months since they had abandoned their homes back in Brookfield. They estimated that it had been more than two weeks since they’d left Hofmann Tower to start their river trek. But days and weeks were beginning to flow together so that their determinations on such matters were only educated guesses based more on the weather and length of days than anything else.
The river travelers were gradually beginning to warm to the idea of island life. After getting accustomed to their new home, the Blenders had started to enjoy the peaceful tranquility of their setting. It was so quiet, only the birds chirping or the wind rustling the recently appeared tree leaves broke the silence. Even Wendell, who had been terrified of drowning all his life, had begun to relax regarding his constant proximity to water after having been on the river for so long. During the early days of their travel, even when they’d stop at an island, Wendell would continue to wear his life vest, often concealed beneath a bulky coat, due to this overarching fear. But after several days of living on the island, he finally felt confident enough to venture about freed from this bulky burden.
The weather since they’d landed at their current home had been just about as good as the group could have hoped for. The sun, free to beat down upon the Blenders from a cloudless sky, paired with temperatures in the mid-60s, almost made it feel hot during the day. And this near-perfect weather had provided them with the opportunity to begin construction on a new shelter.
They took the two canoes and laid them upside down and side by side, angled lengthwise so that one set of ends was hefted atop the ‘hump’ near the center of the island, the other set placed on the ground below. They dug stabilizing notches in the earth at top and bottom for the canoe ends to sit in to keep them from rolling. They also dug holes in the ground into which they fit upright logs on either side of the canoes for additional support.
The result was the roof to a lean-to type shelter. They then used a large tarp to seal the center gap between the two canoes. Using an assortment of driftwood, dead limbs, and plywood they’d scavenged from around the island, they then created the side walls for their enclosure.
Finally, they packed the space’s interior with dry leaves for insulation and cushioning. One end of the shelter, the end closest to the campfire, was left open. They constructed a door for this space out of shorter sticks woven together with some fishing line that Charla had donated to the cause.
When they were done, the group could comfortably fit four people inside to sleep. This freed up space inside the tent that had been erected adjacent the lean-to.
It was far from Shangri-La, and the group all agreed that sleeping on the ground was far from their first option. But under the circumstances, and considering the security benefits the island provided, they felt they were making the best of a bad situation.
* * *
Day five on the island started just like the others – bright, sunny, and with just a hint of chill in the rapidly warming morning air.
After a breakfast of oatmeal sprinkled lightly with sugar, the group broke for morning personal hygiene activities. This was followed by chores that consisted of breakfast cleanup, laundry, firewood collection, tent and lean-to blanket shakeout, and similar housekeeping duties.
One of the items on Michael’s to-do list was to dig a latrine and construct a makeshift outhouse. How exactly he was going to build the outhouse had yet to be determined. But he at least wanted to get the latrine pit dug and a rudimentary toilet constructed to make their island life slightly more comfortable. But that was tomorrow’s project. Today, he had other things vying for his attention.
As he took a minute to ready himself for the day at the river’s edge, he marveled at how well the Blenders were adapting to their new world. Were there problems? Sure. Did tempers flare occasionally? Of course. But overall, he couldn’t ask for a better group of people to have to weather the apocalypse with.
He guessed that their ability to live and work together to weather the massive storm the Carchar Syndrome had brought with it had probably placed them ahead of 98 percent of the world. The other two percent were probably a combination of hardcore preppers, who had likely been planning for the world’s imminent demise for years, and those who had stumbled into plain dumb luck. They’d simply been in the right location or situation at the right time to survive such an event. What those right locations or situations might be, Michael wasn’t exactly sure. But they had to be out there. In fact, he figured that whoever had been sending the messages from St. Louis would in all likelihood be included in one of those two groups.
Down the shore from him, he saw Charla with her fishing pole. The water quality in this portion of the river had improved substantially compared to what it had been closer to Chicago. Wendell stood beside her, watching as she taught him how to cast. Michael was glad to see them working together. The strain in their relationship had been apparent to just about everyone in the group since the day they arrived. But the river seemed to have brought the couple back together, and Michael was thankful for that, not only for Charla and Wendell, but for the group as a whole. It made things easier to manage and bolstered overall communal morale when there were no weak links in the group chain and everyone felt confident that they could rely on one another.
Up the shore in the other direction, Patrick and Justin were skipping rocks. Patrick had taught Justin the art of rock skipping early in their river adventure. They’d been honing their craft over the past few weeks. Now, the youngster was almost as good at skipping stones as his mentor.
Michael slowly made his way back to camp. He was learning to pace himself. The days were long, and rushing to get things done quickly early in the day not only burned extra calories but left him feeling lethargic later in the day.
Along his short trip back to camp, he passed Christine and her two sons. They were hard at work collecting firewood, something the camp used plenty of throughout the day, both to keep warm as well as to cook. Using more firewood helped conserve what little fuel remained in their camp-size propane tanks.
Back at camp, he found Josh and Julia working to make some refinements to the canoe lean-to. Several portions of one wall had come loose and needed to be repaired.
Across from Josh and Julia, Caroline and Ms. Mary had all their camp’s remaining supplies spread out and were taking inventory.
“How are you two coming?” Michael walked over to the supply-inspecting duo.
“We’re just about finished,” Caroline said as Ms. Mary used a pen to scribble figures on a small pad of paper and then handed it to Michael.
Michael looked over their inventory list. It read:
20 packs Ramen noodles
2 jars peanut butter
4 cans corn
4 cans green beans
3 cans kidney bean
2 cans butter beans
4 cans carrots
6 cans diced tomatoes
9 lbs. white rice
6 lbs. dried beans
3 jars jam
4 boxes crackers
2 boxes of cereal
1 lb salt
4 oz. pepper
5 lbs. sugar
4 lbs. pasta
3 cans pasta sauce
3 jars nuts
1 bag dried cherries
1 pack beef jerky
5 cans corned beef hash
4 cans black olives
3 jars green olives
3 containers beef bullion cubes
4 containers chicken bullion cubes
2 boxes granola bars
1 lb. cheese melt
3 cans corned beef
6 cans of soup
2 containers grits
5 containers creamed wheat
3 canned hams
12 cans tuna fish
2 containers old fashioned oat meal
Half a pound of brown sugar
1 container apple sauce
1 sealed container of whipped salad dressing
The list as it stood now was a far cry from what they’d arrived at the tower with. But feeding over a dozen people for multiple months, even with the fish that Charla caught, took a lot of food.
“Looks like a lot on paper, but I’m running out of ideas for stretching our meals,” Ms. Mary worried, looking at the inventory list as Michael handed it back to her. “I mean, I’m good at coming up with creative meal options, but I’m no miracle worker.”
“These days, I’m so damn hungry all the time that I don’t care what you make,” Michael snorted. “As long as it looks somewhat like food, and smells somewhat like food, I’ll eat it. I mean, it’s getting bad. The other day, I found a waterlogged bag of chips that had washed up on shore, and it had me thinking. I mean, I was actually debating whether I should try one. That’s how damn hungry I constantly am.”
Ms. Mary sadly nodded her agreement.
“And don’t even get me started on contemplating a proper piece of meat,” Michael went on. “I think it was about a week before we left the tower that we finished the last pork roast. God, I’m freaking ravenous for real meat. And I mean real meat. Not a little corned beef hash or some canned ham or beef jerky or something. I’m talking a strip steak or a big juicy quarter-pound hamburger or some bacon or hell, even just some damn chicken nuggets. I know beans and nuts and stuff are supposed to provide good protein. At least that’s what you keep telling me, Ms. Mary,” he shot her a look. “But they just aren’t cutting it. I need some good ol’ fashioned red meat. Some stick to your ribs type stuff…steak, meatloaf, something, anything. The fish that Charla catch help, but I need more.”
“That’s why I think this makes a good spot for us, and might even provide what we need for a longer term living location,” Ms. Mary said. “It’s secluded, it offers woods for hunting on one bank and farmland for growing on the other, and there is fishing and good security here on the island. If we stay here, we might be able to fend for ourselves pretty well and either grow or hunt for all the food we need to provide for our full nutritional requirements. Heck, we might even feel full for the first time in a long time. But I’m worried that if we go to St. Louis, and no one is there or it’s not what we think, we’ll be stuck in a situation where we don’t have those advantages. Then we’ll have gone through even more of our existing food supply. Or what if we get there and there is a community but they can’t or won’t help us?”
“I totally agree, and I share your concerns,” Michael said. “But I don’t want to write off St. Louis completely. I get what you’re saying, but they might have things already set up there. They might have a farming community or some other sort of situation that would be far better than staying here on the island. It’s impossible to say without actually going there.”
“Not necessarily,” Caroline interjected. “Why don’t you try the radio again?”
“Ah,” Michael waved her away with a hand. “I’ve tried it multiple times since we’ve been on the river and I haven’t picked up anything.”
“Couldn’t hurt, though,” Ms. Mary said. “Not like we don’t have the time. And we’re closer now, so we might pick up a stronger signal.”
“True,” Michael considered. “Let me go find it,” he headed for the tent.
A few minutes later, he had rejoined the two matriarchs of the Blender family, radio in hand. The women paused in their re-packing of the foodstuffs and turned to watch Michael tune the radio.
It was a lengthy minute of silence as he slowly worked the dial up through the channels. They listened to the static with little enthusiasm as the dial crawled from left to right until a blip of chatter stopped Michael’s advance. He adjusted the dial slightly; a voice crackling through the static until Michael found the channel’s sweet spot and a man’s voice came through clearly.
“…is free to depart the community at any time they like. This message will be repeated in ten seconds.”
The message ended and there was silence on the radio.
True to the message’s parting words, ten seconds of radio silence later, the voice began anew.
“This is a pre-recorded message from the Free Residents of St. Louis. We have established a safe zone, free from biters, in downtown St. Louis. We are currently accepting new residents. We have housing, food, water, and electricity. There is no fee to join our community. Our only requirement is that arrivals be willing to work eight hours a day, five days a week in a work role of our choosing. These roles will assist with facility maintenance, farming, security, food preparation, and similar jobs. Should arrivals refuse to work, they will be asked to leave. Any person is free to depart the community at any time they like. This message will be repeated in ten seconds.”
The three stood in silence for a moment as Michael clicked off the radio.
“Well, I’m glad they’re still sending out the message. But it begs the question, what do we do?” Michael looked at the two women. “Do we stay here or do we go?”
“It’s a good question,” Ms. Mary nodded. “A simple one but a difficult one at the same time. If we stay, we could set up our own little community here and be just fine. But we’ll never know what we might be missing in St. Louis. Life there might be ten times easier. But if we leave what we have here and chance making it to St. Louis, we might not like what we find when we get there. It might not be the Shangri-La it sounds like in their message.”
“It might not be anything at all,” Caroline eyed the other two.
“What do you mean?” Michael frowned.
“Well, have either of you ever considered that this community in St. Louis might not even exist?”
“How’s that?” Michael shook his head. “You heard the message. Why would they be advertising if they don’t exist?”
“Well, they might exist, just not in the way we think they do…or hope they do. It might just be a way to lure people there for their own devices, whatever those devices might be – to take their supplies, to enslave them and use them as forced labor, or something even worse.”
“Worse than forced labor?” Ms. Mary cringed as she eyed Caroline.
“What if it’s the government?” Caroline asked.
Michael laughed. “I’m no fan of the government, but I’m not sure they’re worse than slave drivers.”
“No, I’m mean, what if they’re luring people to St. Louis to serve as test s
ubjects. It’s apparent that they don’t have this Carchar thing under control…at least not here in Illinois. What if they need lab rats, or in this instance, lab humans, to test out their potential cures? They might be using this message to unwittingly draw in the test subjects they need.”
“Well that’s a wonderful thought,” Ms. Mary said sarcastically, shaking her head. “Really makes me want to uproot and go rushing down to St. Louis.”
“I’m not trying to be a Debbie Downer here or anything,” Caroline explained. “I just think we need to examine all the possibilities.”
“No, you’re right,” Michael nodded. “While I don’t think that’s the case, at least I hope not, it is a possibility. That’d really stink to show up to what’s supposed to be our salvation only to realize it’s our personal hell. Especially if we give up all this to get there,” he gestured around him to the serene island setting in which they stood.
“At the same time, while this seems great right now, we have to think about what it will be like when it’s the middle of January, we’re buried under a foot of snow, huddled inside our tent and that crumby little shelter over there,” Caroline said softly, nodding to where Josh and Julia continued to work on the lean-to. “That sort of shelter is nice for spring and summer temperatures, but I’m not sure how great it will seem when it’s below freezing.”
“Another good point,” Michael nodded, taking a deep breath and releasing it. “It’s just like everything else these days…just so damn hard to say one way or the other. You can’t just search the answer on the internet or read the reviews of others. Hell, we don’t even have a phone to contact someone in St. Louis to ask how things look there. I feel like I’m so in the dark all the time now. You don’t even know what the weather will be tomorrow or what is happening in the nearest town, let alone the nearest state. Now I know how people felt in the eighteen hundreds.”
The Last Bastion (Book 4): The Last Bastion Page 17
