Dry

by Neal Shusterman

  If I’ve learned anything in my studies, it’s that the greatest investors capitalize in times of crisis. And though at first it may sound cold, it’s the giants’ duty to continue to stand tall and generate profit, which will lead to spending, and ultimately stimulate the economy for the greater good.

  • • •

  I’m eating red licorice and leftover cookies from my father’s most recent company party when the doorbell rings. Another customer! I answer the door, and to my surprise it’s Spencer, a kid who lives a few houses up. I never particularly cared for Spencer; his house is at the very top of the hill—higher and bigger than ours, but technically ours is taller. Back in elementary school we’d open lemonade stands across the street from each other. When we were a little older, we would silently compete for magazine subscription sales for school fund-raisers, and if it looked like he wasn’t going to win, his parents would buy Readers Digest magazines for every friend on their contact list—something that my parents refused to do, and as a result, I would always come in second. It used to bother me; now I just see it as an early lesson in the inherent value of healthy competition. But I still don’t like him.

  “Hi, Henry.”

  “Hey, what’s up, Spencer? C’mon in.”

  I welcome him into my home and lead him to the living room. I notice his slow, irresolute movements as he walks.

  “Can I get you anything?” I say, as a formality, and as a way of opening negotiations.

  He takes a seat on the leather couch. He’s looking weak. Feverish. A lot of people have been that way. I think it’s a little bit more than mere dehydration.

  “You okay?” I ask, knowing that he’s not, but wondering if he’ll admit it.

  “The water from the old tank on the hill,” he says. “I don’t know, I think it was bad or something.”

  While everyone else in SoCal was scrambling for water, Dove Canyon thought they had it made. Although our primary water tank was down to the dregs before the Tap-Out, there was an older one on top of the hill that had been taken out of service. Someone had the bright idea of reconnecting it, to get to the last of its water, and bingo! We had water two days longer than anywhere else. The problem is, now everyone’s getting sick from it. Everyone but me, that is, because I never trusted tap water—even when it was supposed to be good. And besides, in sales you not only have to believe in your product, but live by it.

  Spencer heaves a heavy, achy breath, rolls his neck, and says, “So I heard you have water.”

  “I do,” I tell him, as I sink deeply into the adjacent couch, letting the moment become intentionally awkward.

  “I’ll give you the autographed Peyton Manning ball,” he says, making the first offer, which already puts him at a disadvantage. Even if he thought it was his best offer, it’s now just the floor of the negotiation.

  “Barely worth half a bottle,” I explain to him. “And you know I’m not really into football. Besides, I’ve already checked—that ball is only valued at two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  He thinks quickly. “The ball and a bottle of Johnny Walker—King George Edition,” and he adds, “for your father.”

  A nice gesture, but I have to turn him down. The problem with most people in a barter economy is that they’re just trading one consumable for another. But if you truly want to build wealth, you need to be trading up for appreciating assets. My father has always stressed the importance of diversification, and I like to think that I’ve acquired a diversified portfolio from my hydration business—a portfolio I plan to turn for a profit on eBay. So far I’ve acquired a surround-sound system, a vintage vinyl record collection, a Thomas Kinkaid painting, an autographed first edition of The Maltese Falcon, and a yellow-scaled ball python.

  So what does Spencer have that’s worthy of adding to my collection?

  “How about my Xbox?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Everyone’s offering me Xboxes.”

  He knows what I want, and this dance is just winding us closer to it. Because in his bonus room hangs a framed autographed Michael Jordan jersey—the baby blue one, from when he was in college; very rare, valued at nearly two thousand dollars.

  He won’t say it. He won’t offer it. He’s going to make me ask for it. Fair enough.

  “The Jordan jersey,” I say. “A case of water—that’s twelve one-liter bottles—for the Jordan jersey.”

  “I can’t! My father’ll kill me!”

  “That’s the offer,” I tell him with a shrug.

  He grits his teeth and squints like he’s taking a painful crap, then says, “Two cases,” and I know that I’ve won.

  I stand up, feigning ending the negotiation. “If you’re not serious about this, I’m gonna to have to ask you to leave.”

  “A case and a half?” he says.

  I sigh. “Fine,” I say. “But only because we go way back.” I would have actually made the deal for two cases, but like I said, I don’t like Spencer.

  I reach under the couch and pull out a bottle of water that I typically have reserved for samples. There’s only a third left, so I toss it to him. “First drink’s free,” I tell him. “Consider it a bonus.”

  And he’s instantly guzzling.

  “ÁguaViva is pumped from an artesian aquifer in Portugal, nearly a mile beneath the Earth’s surface,” I inform him as he drinks. “It’s then ionized, for perfect pH balance to increase oxygen in your blood and maintain energy throughout your day. And just before bottling, it’s infused with antioxidant-rich goji berries that not only detoxify your liver, but improve immune function.”

  Spencer finishes the bottle and looks at me like he’s in love. Maybe he is. I’ve heard that about him, but right now I think it’s the kind of agape you feel for your personal savior.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll give you a case and a half for the jersey, the ball, and the bottle of Scotch.”

  He nods, caving like a sinkhole. “Yeah. Yeah okay. Thanks, Henry!”

  I smile cordially. “You’re welcome, Spencer.” And I mean it. If you ask me, there’s nothing better than a win-win.

  19) Alyssa

  Just outside the Dove Canyon gate is a fountain. When the drought was just a normal drought, before the intense water restrictions, the fountain attracted mountain lions. They came out of the hills like house cats to a water bowl. That really should have been a red flag to anyone who was paying attention.

  Then people began abandoning farming communities in California’s Central Valley, when it became the Pacific Dust Bowl, overcrowding the already overcrowded cities, like the big cats abandoning the dry hills. As much of a warning as that was, it still didn’t sink in as deeply as it should have—because the official responses were, well, literally, a drop in the bucket. Fines for people who watered their lawns. The Frivolous Use Initiative. Public service announcements reminding people to conserve water. None of that mattered. The water still ran out. Now the Dove Canyon fountain was empty. The mountain lions had either died or migrated, and the humans were now facing the same two alternatives.

  There’s only one way in or out of Dove Canyon: a single gate guarded by rent-a-cops. Some are friendly, others act as if they were members of the Secret Service guarding the White House. Today none of them are there, and the gate itself has been knocked off its hinges.

  “Talk about your false sense of security,” says Jacqui. “That gate probably got rammed on the first day.”

  “Alyssa, look,” says Garrett, pointing.

  There’s a bizarre makeshift barricade just beyond the broken gate.

  We pull over to the side of the road, leaving the car, and walk through the abandoned entrance, puzzling at the barrier that must have been put in place after the gate came down.

  “It looks like it was done in a hurry,” Kelton notes.

  The barricade is made up of all the junk pulled from every neighborhood garage. Ladders and old furniture, Ikea bookcases that have seen better days. Lawn chairs and rusty bicycles
. Basically all the clutter that would have been sold off in garage sales if the homeowners association here actually allowed garage sales.

  “Our uncle said that Dove Canyon still had water after the Tap-Out,” I tell the others.

  “Yeah,” says Garrett. “The people here probably had to repel invaders.”

  The thought of the soccer moms and country clubbers of Dove Canyon repelling invaders almost makes me laugh . . . until I remember how our own neighbors attacked the McCracken house.

  Since the barricade was designed to stop vehicles, not pedestrians, we’re able to walk around it. And all this time, we haven’t seen another soul. It’s unnerving.

  “You would think,” says Jacqui, “if they built a barricade, they’d at least have someone manning it.”

  “You’d think,” echoes Kelton. Neither of them wants to follow the thought to a logical conclusion.

  Suddenly my brother begins to freak. “Alyssa, I don’t like this. Let’s just go.”

  “We can’t,” I remind him. “We need Uncle Basil’s truck.

  “No we don’t!” insists Garrett. “We passed plenty of four-wheel-drive trucks on the way here. We can hotwire one of those. I’ll bet Jacqui knows how to do that, right?”

  Jacqui glares at him. “I’m insulted that you assume I know how to do criminal things.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she responds, “but I’m still insulted.”

  I look ahead at the tree-lined street. The grass on the community greenbelts is still mostly green. Uncle Basil told us that the canyon used its own recycled water to irrigate. Like the McCrackens’ house that glowed bright when everyone else’s electricity was off, the greenbelts of Dove Canyon made the place a target.

  “Our uncle’s place isn’t far from the gate,” I tell the others. “Just a right at the first stop sign, and maybe a quarter mile from there.”  Then I add, “Hotwiring a car will be plan B.”

  Jacqui lifts the edge of her blouse to show she still has Kelton’s pistol concealed there. “In case we run into trouble,” she says.

  It just ticks me off. “If we run into trouble, we’ll behave like civilized people.”

  “She doesn’t mean she’ll use it,” says Kelton. “Just showing it will get most people to back off.”

  I take a deep breath and decide not to argue. I’m surprised to hear him not take my side—especially against Jacqui, and especially on the subject of violence. But then again, he’s the one who brought a gun into our equation in the first place. Maybe it’s less surprise than it is concern. After seeing that look in his eye when he picked up the shotgun, I don’t know who’s the looser cannon now, him or Jacqui.

  Daphne—our uncle’s sometime girlfriend—has a big house here that was left to her by her mother. Before coming down here, she was a realtor up in Modesto, the same town where Uncle Basil had his almond farm. But almond trees use more water than almost everything—and with rationing set so low, the almond farms failed first. He declared bankruptcy, let the bank take the farm, and moved in with Daphne—who for a whole five minutes thought she was on top of the world, because she had a ridiculous amount of real estate listings. But since no one in their right mind was buying homes there anymore, she couldn’t make a single sale. Property values plunged. Then they started calling the Central Valley the Pacific Dust Bowl, and that put the last nail in the region’s coffin. I imagine Modesto is mostly a ghost town now, along with Bakersfield, Fresno, and Merced. Anyway, they had the sense to leave before the Big Bail, and beat the rush. They packed up their belongings in a U-Haul and moved in with Daphne’s mother, who was conveniently dying and left Daphne the house in Dove Canyon.

  Then she kicked Uncle Basil out, and he moved in with us. Twice.

  I get it, though. I mean, I don’t blame her, that is. See, it wasn’t just that Uncle Basil couldn’t find work—it’s that he really wasn’t looking. I think he was kind of broken from losing the farm. She cared about him enough to give him a second chance, but I guess it was just more of the same, because he was back in our house again—and the second time, we were pretty sure it was for good.

  “Until I get on my feet,” he always told us. But how can you get back on your feet when your life’s been cut off at the knees?

  We get to Daphne’s street. All the while we haven’t seen a single person.

  Although the community greenbelts are still alive, people’s lawns look like the lawns in our neighborhood. Some are just plain dead. Brown grass and leafless trees. Others have been replaced by desertscape—cactus, succulents, and river stones. About a third of the homes have ridiculously green artificial turf. A suburban pretense that nothing is wrong. Daphne’s house is the latter kind. It’s easy to spot because it also has a fake ficus tree, taking the fiction a step beyond absurd. It’s the only green leafy thing on the street, which makes it kind of embarrassing.

  Uncle Basil’s truck is not in the driveway. I figure it must be in the garage.

  “What if they’re gone?” says Garrett. “What if they bailed, like they bailed from his farm up north?”

  It’s something I should have considered but hadn’t. I don’t answer him. Instead I go up to the front door, ring the doorbell, which of course, doesn’t ring. Duh. Then I knock. Loudly.

  Nothing for a few moments. I begin to wonder if maybe Garrett was right, but then the door creaks open, and there’s Uncle Basil.

  “Alyssa? Garrett?” He’s both surprised and pleased to see us, but his response is muted. “What are you doing here? Where are your mom and dad?”

  It’s a question I don’t want to think about. I’ve compartmentalized it in a corner of my mind to keep me functional. I can’t even say we don’t know out loud without my eyes clouding with tears, so I don’t answer him.

  “Can we come in?”

  “Yes, yes of course.” He steps aside and we file in. The house is hot. Uncomfortably so. Daphne’s house has a southern exposure with lots of windows, and not enough blinds to cover them. Sheets have been tacked up to keep out the light and the heat, but they’re not doing a very good job. And there’s a smell about the place. Musty and gamey, like a sick room that hasn’t been aired out. That should be my first hint that something is wrong—but it’s just one more thing in a long list of not-my-reality that has become too numerous to count, much less process.

  Our uncle looks dehydrated. Worse than dehydrated. He’s pallid, and his face seems to sag, like his skin has grown tired of clinging to the bone. His eyes are dark and a little sunken. He looks like a drug addict, but I know that’s not it. Aside from the occasional weed, Uncle Basil’s not that way. No, this is something else.

  “You want water?” he asks us. “I’ve got plenty.”

  “You do?” says Garrett, just as surprised to hear that as I am.

  “Hell, yeah, I’ll have some,” says Jacqui, with no hesitation.

  He leads us to the kitchen, where there’s a box of bottled water. Six bottles are left. He gets some plastic cups and pours us all a small drink. But after he pours, he hesitates, gripping the counter and closing his eyes, wincing a bit. He seems weak on his feet.

  “Uncle Herb?” I say, using his real name instead of our nickname for him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he says. Which means that at this moment, he’s not okay.

  “You don’t look fine,” says Jacqui, annoyingly blunt. “You look like crap.”

  “It’s nothing,” he insists. “I’ve just got the runs, is all.”

  The runs. Maybe he ate something from the fridge that had spoiled once the power went out. Our uncle was always scavenging our refrigerator for leftovers that my mom would toss if she got to it first.

  “Where’s Daphne?” I ask.

  “Resting,” he tells me. “She’s not feeling well either.”

  Kelton gives me a worried look. I’m not sure what it’s about, but as I lift the water to my mouth, he stops me. Then he checks his own cup, sniffing it, then ta
king a sip.

  “It’s good,” he says.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” I look at the bottle our uncle poured from. It’s ÁguaViva, which, as I recall, is ridiculously expensive. You can buy wine for less.

  “You hungry?” our uncle asks. “Still got some canned stuff. Not much variety, but what are you gonna do?”

  I take a look in the pantry just to see how well stocked they are. It’s mostly condiment bottles—like a dozen different kinds of salsas. There are Sara Lee cake mixes, and the types of canned goods that sit for years until you need them. Things like pineapple chunks and sliced olives. Plenty of them, but no one’s choice for a meal.

  “No thanks,” I tell him. “We’re good.”

  And upon seeing what’s there, no one disagrees. We’re all hungry, but had eaten well at Kelton’s house the day before. And if this is all they have for themselves, I don’t want to take it.

  Then Kelton does something weird. He goes to the faucet and turns it on. Of course nothing comes out, but then he sniffs the spout. He turns to our uncle. “So I hear there was water here after the Tap-Out.”

  “Yeah, for a while,” Uncle Basil tells him. “They hooked up the old water tank. Kept the water flowing a couple of days. Just dribbling really. Not enough to bathe with, but enough to drink.”

  Kelton nods, then turns to me again. “Alyssa, could I talk to you for a minute?”

  Then he takes my arm and leads me into the dining room.

  I shake his hand off once we get there. I don’t like being pulled places. “What’s so important that we couldn’t talk in there?”

  “Alyssa, we have to get out of here,” he says in an intense whisper.

  “I’m working on it,” I tell him. “I can’t just show up, take his truck, and leave.”

  “You don’t get it!” he says, in that same whisper that’s almost maniacal. “Don’t you think it’s strange how quiet the streets are?”

  And come to think of it, I did find it strange. Everywhere else we’ve been, however quiet, it still pointed toward life, but this place doesn’t even show the slightest trace of it.