Dry

by Neal Shusterman

  * * *

  SNAPSHOT 1 OF 2: CH-47D CHINOOK

  Alyce Marasco isn’t new to the skies, but has never before flown her chopper as a first responder. However, now that martial law has been declared and the national guard has been activated, Alyce has been called on to airlift drinking water to evacuation centers.

  Like everyone else, she has come late to the realization that this crisis, from a human standpoint, is just as severe as any natural disaster, because of the sheer number of people affected and the desperate position every single one of them is in. Yes, there was warning—years of it, in fact—but public service announcements about conservation are a whole lot different from a total stoppage. There was no warning at all that the water would simply. Turn. Off.

  Alyce often visits an uncle with dementia who lives in a nursing home in Tustin—a community right in the heart of the affected area. And because Alyce hasn’t been able to confirm that he’s been safely evacuated, she finds herself pulled slightly off-route and flying in the direction of his nursing home. Even though she wouldn’t be able to make out much from this altitude, she needs to get a sense of things; an overview that can at least give her a little bit of comfort. She scans the streets below, not even sure what she’s looking for. She remembers reports of how, during disasters, nursing homes are among the hardest hit. They don’t command the resources or attention that hospitals do, and often they’re severely understaffed, leaving such places barely equipped to deal with a normal day, much less a crisis.

  There are Facebook pages for dozens of neighborhoods where people have started checking themselves in as safely evacuated and with access to water—because those two things don’t necessarily go together. Those pages have actually become the most accurate registry of evacuees. She’s been checking it for people she knows, but hasn’t come across any—least of all her uncle, to whom social media means sitting in a crowded room reading a newspaper.

  Her uncle’s neighborhood looks just like most others. Lifeless except for overcrowded, overflowing evacuation centers, looking like anthills spaced out at five-mile intervals. The lifeless places look fake from an aerial view, like a miniature with plastic trees or a felted architectural model. She can’t take the time to find the specific building, but even if she did, what could she do? When her copilot points out that they’re slightly off course, she adjusts their direction and lets it go.

  Up ahead is one of those swarming pockets of life. Thousands of people all congregating in a shopping center parking lot. From this altitude it appears the way Coachella or any major festival would look—which is disturbing to her, because entertainment is the last thing these people want right now.

  They’ve cleared a huge circle in the lot. Crowds have pushed themselves back to create a landing pad. A makeshift heliport for her supply of life-giving water.

  But there’s nothing Alyce can do for these people.

  This isn’t her destination.

  This isn’t even an official evacuation center.

  And then she’s hit with a gust of emotion, an inner turbulence that shakes her to her core. She starts doing the math: At this point, there are about two hundred evacuation shelters. Even if only half the population went to a shelter, that means that nearly 12 million people would be there, waiting for water. That’s sixty thousand people for each shelter. And yet the choppers in service can only provide enough water for about six thousand people per shelter per day.

  Which means that nine in ten people won’t get water today.

  And that’s just in the official centers.

  Tears begin to cloud her vision, but she wipes them away. Maybe the water in her chopper is just a drop in the bucket, but it’s going to help someone somewhere. And for the others, there’s nothing she can do.

  And so she passes over the crowded parking lot, but not before saying a silent prayer for the souls below.

  SNAPSHOT 2 OF 2: TARGET

  Six.

  That’s how many helicopters have soared right over Hali’s head since she got to the Target parking lot yesterday. Everyone says that the military helicopters are transporting water. That they’re going to land here and save everyone. That’s why the people “in charge” keep clearing places for the choppers to land. That’s why every family has someone waiting in a long, winding line—just in case there’s something to line up for.

  The sound of another chopper rises in the north. Everyone looks up in anticipation. The sound peaks. Its shadow crosses the lot. That’s the closest it comes. The sound of its engine fades as it disappears to the south. That makes seven.

  “We won’t get the military deliveries,” a woman beside her says to anyone who’ll listen, or maybe just to herself. “But the other helicopters—they’re coming to unofficial drop points.” She lights a cigarette to console herself. “There’s more nonmilitary choppers out there, anyway.”

  Where? Hali wants to ask her. What helicopters are you talking about? Certainly none that are big enough to ship water. Most small choppers can barely hold a handful of passengers, and water is heavy. Does this woman really think some sightseeing company is sending them water?

  She returns to her mother, who has staked out a position in line, only about thirty from the front—folding chair and all. She doesn’t have the spot because they got there early, but because she saw a friend in line when they arrived, and offered to hold her place when she went to the bathroom. The friend had since abandoned the parking lot for the hope of greener pastures, leaving Hali’s mom to inherit the spot. That’s the way her mom has always been. She finds ways to get what she wants.

  “Bastards,” Hali’s mom mutters under her breath, as Hali sits on the ground next to her. No explanation of which bastards she’s referring to. It’s obvious. The bastards in the helicopters that fly by, and everyone else ignoring this lot; the water gods rolling dice to decide which way that water will go.

  “Next one will be for us,” Hali tells her.

  She offers Hali a slim smile. They both know it’s wishful thinking that borders on delusion, but right now it’s all they have. They have no choice in the matter. Water MUST come to them, because they’re not going anywhere. Her mom is NOT abandoning her place in line.

  They had water on the first couple of days of the Tap-Out. Her mom had ripped a case out of the hands of one of Hali’s soccer teammates back at Costco. “Ya snooze, ya lose,” her mom said, once they got to the checkout line. “Let that be a life lesson.”

  But there were clearly life lessons that her mom had missed. Like, “Don’t wash your hair when all you have is bottled water.” And, “Skip your morning jog when sweat is the enemy.” And maybe the most obvious one of all, “Let the houseplants die.”

  That case of water lasted only two days.

  Out on the street, just beyond the parking lot, a little red Volkswagen bus pulls up. The kind of thing you might have seen at Woodstock. A minivan, built before there was such a thing as a minivan. It was here yesterday, too. Twice. Today three girls around her age, maybe a little bit older, get out. She can’t see the driver, but she knows it’s a man. She knows this instinctively.

  “Hali, honey,” her mother says, trying to shield her eyes from the sun, “why don’t you go into the shade where it’s cooler, against the side of the building. Maybe listen to what people are saying, maybe get some information.”

  “What people say is useless,” Hali points out.

  “Mostly, yes, but every once in a while there might be something worth listening to.”

  She hates leaving her mother sweltering here, but she’s been given a mission, and so she goes, all the while thinking of the things the two of them have had to do over the last couple of days to get this far.

  When they were still at home, Hali’s mom flirted with Mr. Weidner—a neighbor who had gotten divorced last year. Truth was, Hali’s mom always flirted with him—but when she realized he had water, she flirted with him just a little bit more. He was polite about it, and a
lthough he didn’t really flirt back, he did offer them a bottle of water.

  “Mission accomplished,” her mother had said when they got home, although she had trouble looking Hali in the eye when she said it.

  The next morning, Hali took a page from her mom’s survival book, and taught some soccer moves to the obnoxious little kid across the street who she couldn’t stand, but whose family was rumored to have some water. In the end, the kid’s mother gave Hali a Dixie cup of water. Hali sweat more out playing with the little brat, but it was better than nothing. She brought half of the cup to her mom, who refused it and insisted that Hali drink it all.

  Now, as they wait helplessly for relief, a lame inspirational quote keeps looping in her mind:

  You’ve got to do something you’ve never done, to have something you’ve never had.

  It was something that a soccer coach told her at some point in her life. However cheesy, it stuck. She assumes it applies not just to things you’ve never had, but things you’ve had and lost. Things you still desperately need.

  On the shady side of the Target, Hali runs into her friend, Sydney, who is famous for talking an awful lot but saying absolutely nothing.

  “Is this crazy or what?” Sydney says. “It’s, like, what the hell, right? Give me a break or something! But it is what it is, I guess.”

  “I hear you,” which is generally the best way to respond to her.

  Then Sydney leans close, and says, “You wanna see something?”

  She surreptitiously opens a pouch in her backpack to reveal a small water bottle. The sight of it takes Hali’s breath away. Suddenly Sydney is her BFF.

  “C’mon, I’ll give you a sip,” she whispers.

  They go off toward some bushes, and Sydney pulls out the bottle, shielding it from anyone who might see, like it’s something illegal, and lets Hali take a sip. The sip turns into a gulp before Sydney pulls the bottle away. She’s not mad or anything. She must know how hard it is to stop drinking once you’ve started.

  “Where did you get it?” Hali asks. “You didn’t have any when I saw you yesterday.”

  Sydney nods off to the side, and Hali turns to see that she’s indicating the red Volkswagen bus. The driver is leaning up against it now, having a smoke. Late twenties or early thirties. Ponytail. Bushy sideburns. Torn jeans that don’t read as a fashion statement.

  “He’s giving out free water,” Sydney says. “But he’s kind of picky about who he gives it to. I mean, he can’t give it to everyone, you know?” Then Sydney lets off a nervous little chuckle that gives away the cold, hard reality that there’s no such thing as free water—and Hali realizes why she hasn’t seen Sydney until now. She was one of the three girls who just got out of the little red bus.

  “He’s not mean or anything,” Sydney says. “He even gave me a bottle to take to my family. . . .”

  Hali watches as a pretty girl she doesn’t know gets into the van. The ponytail guy holds the door open for her, pretending to be a gentleman instead of slime.

  Hali turns to Sydney. “Thanks, but no thanks,” she says, and tries to stride away with sufficient indignation—but Sydney grabs her arm.

  “Don’t be stupid, Hali. Haven’t you figured it out yet? No one’s coming to help the people here! They’re probably all going to die of thirst. You don’t want to be one of them!”

  But Hali still can’t let herself believe that. These things just don’t happen here. But Sydney still won’t let her go. She looks desperate now.

  “Why do you even care what I do?” Hali blurts out. “You got your water, why don’t you just leave me alone?”

  And Sydney finally spills her true motive. “He said he’ll give me another bottle if I bring him someone. Someone like you. . . .”

  Hali wrenches her arm away and runs, not looking back.

  But before she gets to her mother, there’s a sound up above. A chopper! And this one is louder—closer than any of the others! Everyone stands up, looking to the sky like a starry-eyed mob waiting for the rapture.

  The helicopter appears over the treetops. It isn’t big. It’s one of the nonmilitary ones that the woman was speaking of. It circles above the mob. It circles again. It circles a third time, and by the third time, Hali realizes that it’s just a news helicopter. It’s come to show the world the drama of crisis and the true meaning of desperation. She wonders if the news crew up above even realizes the hope they’re shattering by their mere presence here.

  Once more around, and the chopper leaves. People keep on standing, refusing to believe it’s gone. As long as they stay standing, it might come back. It might. It might.

  “Bastards!” says her mother.

  Hali looks at her. She looks to the curb. She looks at her mother again.

  You’ve got to do something you’ve never done, to have something you’ve never had, Hali thinks. Or something you may never have again.

  “I’ll be back,” she tells her mother. “I promise.”

  Then she heads toward the little red Volkswagen bus, where the man with the ponytail opens the door for her. Like a gentleman.

  * * *

  22) Henry

  The secret to a successful group collaboration is a dynamic, responsive leader, and the key to being a good leader is acute observation and subtle manipulation—so subtle that no one knows they’re being manipulated. Come to think of it, that’s also the key to a successful government.

  As we drive, I stay quiet, which is against my nature but necessary at the moment. I watch. I listen. I take mental notes.

  “So we have our four-by-four,” Jacqui says, and turns to Psycho Ginger beside her. Where do you want me to drive it?”

  “I told you,” Kelton says, “Angeles National Forest.”

  “So, how. Do. We. Get. There?” Jacqui asks with a vague but persistent threat in her condescension.

  “I’m not sure—I’ve only been to the bug-out twice—but I know exactly where it is on a map.”

  Alyssa instinctively takes out her phone, but gets an error message as she tries to open the app.

  “Damn,” she says. “Maps isn’t working.”

  “So use Waze,” suggests Garrett.

  Although I want to laugh at that, the way Jacqui does, I say very graciously, “I think what your sister means is that there’s no service. But maybe there’s an actual map in here. Some people still use those, believe it or not.”

  “Right,” says Alyssa, “and our uncle might be one of those people.”

  I smile. Point for me.

  There’s nothing in the glove compartment but the registration, gum wrappers, and a lint roller. The door pockets yield only an empty can of Red Bull, a leaky pen, and more gum wrappers. And then Kelton checks in the center compartment between the front seats. There’s no map, but he does pull out a questionable sandwich-size Ziploc bag.

  “What the . . . ?” He tosses it to Alyssa like it’s a hot potato.

  Alyssa examines it. No question: It’s a bag of weed. She turns to her brother and they say, simultaneously:

  “Uncle Cannabis.”

  “Well,” says Jacqui, “we might be dying of thirst, but now we won’t even care.”

  The mention of thirst makes Garrett open his canteen, only to find it’s dry as a bone.

  “The forest is north of Pasadena, right?” I say. “We can take the 241 to the 91 to the 57 to the 210. That will get us close.”

  “Not gonna happen,” says Jacqui. “The freeways are dead. Both directions. All of them.”

  “There are other ways to get there,” says Kelton. “Nontraditional ways . . . but we’ll need a map to get us started.”

  Suddenly, up above, a military helicopter roars past at a low altitude. We pass a military truck heading in the opposite direction from us, but other than that there are very few cars on the road. Then, up ahead, we come to a roadblock—also military. Soldiers in camouflage are gesturing to the left, and yell to us.

  “This road is for official business onl
y! Take a left! Signs will lead you to the evac center!”

  “Don’t listen to him,” says Kelton. “The last place we want to be is an evac center right now.”

  “What do you suggest I do?” asks Jacqui. “Crash through the roadblock? Do you even see the size of the guns they’re all holding?”

  “Turn left,” I say before Alyssa can say it. “Do what he says for now, until we find a way around the roadblocks.” And although Jacqui clearly doesn’t want to take any orders from me, she has to. There is no other viable choice except to follow, and reinforce my benevolent leadership.

  “I agree,” says Alyssa. Point for me.

  We turn left, heading down El Toro Road. There are a few more cars on the road with us now, and more roadblocks. It seems that any and all civilian traffic is being directed onto this road.

  “We should be going in the opposite direction,” says Kelton.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him, forcing a big-brotherly tone. “Two steps forward sometimes requires one step back.”

  “What, did you get that off of a motivational poster in your counselor’s office, Roycroft?” says Jacqui. “How about this one? Sometimes in life you’re just plain screwed.”

  “All right, can we just kill the attitude?” says Alyssa. “It’s not helping anything.”

  It’s the perfect set-up for what I’m about to say next.

  “It’s all right, Alyssa,” I say, with an infinitude of understanding. “Jacqui’s just stressed and scared. It’s how she deals with it.”

  “Don’t you dare analyze me!” she snaps, which just proves my point.

  Alyssa glances at me, and I offer her a small grin and a shrug. In return, she offers me a commiseration of raised eyebrows—which is one step before a friendly smile. A fine turn of events! I’ll admit that she’s still in charge here, but she’s beginning to see the two of us as a team. This is excellent progress toward a sustainable dynamic. Once she starts deferring to me, I’ll know that I’ve slipped into the virtual driver’s seat, regardless of who’s actually driving.