Dry

by Neal Shusterman

  Henry takes us out of reverse and steers us down the proper path, but not long after we begin our new route, the channel forks again. And now I’m questioning if we’re even in the right aqueduct to begin with. Like they say, When it rains it pours. However, when the heavens have no water left to give, I’m starting to realize the Powers That Be just find the next best way to screw you over.

  Because the low-fuel light pings on.

  Of course. In all this time driving we never once thought about gas. I might have been to blame for misdirecting us, but for this, I blame Henry.

  “How could you have not checked the gas gauge?” I say.

  “Excuse me, but I’ve been a little busy!”

  “What’s the big deal?” says Jacqui. “Wasn’t there an access path leading back up to the streets a little ways back?”

  “What use is that?” Alyssa says. “The gas stations aren’t pumping, and we’ll be facing military detours again.”

  “Spoken like a true prisoner of lawful behavior,” she says.

  Alyssa doesn’t get it, but I do. “So we siphon gas from an abandoned car.”

  Jacqui nods. “And I’m sure there are plenty of them on the freeway we just passed under.”

  27) Alyssa

  Our entire dynamic has definitely changed since we brought Henry on. I can’t tell whether that’s good or bad. He’s not the best driver, but he’s competent, and keeps his eyes glued to the road. He did manage to get our keys back so we could get away from the evac center—and he seems to genuinely want to help us. On the other hand, he was taking advantage of the people in his neighborhood—including my uncle—and he kinda-sorta pretended to be someone he wasn’t. I’m not quite sure what to make of him, and it’s annoying that he’s not all that unpleasant to look at, because that could cloud my judgment.

  We have to backtrack a little farther than we would like to find the accessway to the street, and I’m just happy the truck hasn’t run out of gas yet. We barely make it up the concrete path, which is so narrow that looking out of the window, I can no longer see the ground beneath us, and the steep drop to the bottom just continues to grow. If our right tires slip off the ledge, we’ll flip multiple times before reaching the bottom.

  Finally we make it to street level. I have no idea where we are, and the fact that so much of Southern California looks alike is disconcerting. I know it’s not home, but it’s familiar in its unfamiliarity. The neighborhood is older than ours, with aging ranch style homes, but a strip mall on the corner looks no different here than in my neighborhood. The air tastes acrid and burnt, and it’s heavy to breathe in. It’s smoke from the fires. They call this part of California the Inland Empire, and it’s always smoggy, because whatever nastiness is in the air gets blown here and caught against the mountains. I feel like I played a soccer tournament in this town. Or maybe it was another town a hundred miles away that looked exactly the same.

  We roll up to a freeway on-ramp, and Jacqui suggests that we reverse in, to get our gas tank as close as possible to whichever car we choose. Funny how Kelton knows everything about this anarchic world, but it feels like Jacqui’s already lived it.

  Turns out, backing in isn’t necessary, because, surprisingly, the on-ramp isn’t congested with abandoned cars—but then, I guess that’s not surprising at all. Anyone who realized that traffic was at a permanent standstill would eventually be able to back out. You’d have to be deep into the massive automotive clot to feel that abandoning your car was your only course of action. So the freeway is pretty much empty for fifty yards or so, until we hit the first abandoned cars, and finally the full-on clog through which there is no passage, and from which there was no escape.

  Some cars are turned at bizarre angles. Some face in the wrong direction entirely. There are broken windows, doors wide open, an empty car seat on a roof. Up ahead I see an abandoned yellow school bus. The scene isn’t quite like it was back at the beach, where the evidence of panic and violence painted a chilling story—and yet the abject nature of this abandonment is just as disturbing. People walked away with nothing but the clothes on their backs and their kids in their arms. Any vandalism must have come after the fact—and that implies that there might still be marauders smashing windows, and water-zombies wandering the labyrinth.

  “First we’re going to need to find a hose,” says Jacqui, as we pull to a stop. We fan out, looking for a gardening truck or something that might have a hose, but no luck. Then, on a hunch, I check the back of Uncle Basil’s truck. There’s a lot of junk back there. Things that our uncle didn’t have the strength to care about when he made the deal with Henry, so they just went along with the truck. Tumbled among the stuff that had been tossed around in our rough ride, I find his hookah. Mom always made him keep it in the backyard because she didn’t want the thing in the house, and I remember him once mentioning that Daphne refused to allow it in her sight at all. So it stayed in the back of the truck, its four-foot hose hiding in plain sight. Hopefully, it will be long enough to do the job.

  Henry backs toward one of the cars at the edge of the clot, and only after getting out to look for its gas cap do we realize he’s not going to find one. It’s a Tesla. Jacqui notices it first. She taps me and points it out, but doesn’t tell Henry, who is still looking for a place to stick the hose. The rest of us get it now, but wait to see how long it takes for Henry to catch on.

  I find myself smiling at the irony of it. Not just the Tesla, but Henry, in his entirety. The world goes dry, yet we find Henry totally oblivious, living in his own little oasis. He let us think he was someone else, for no apparent reason. He’s clearly smart, but lacks basic common sense in the strangest of ways. He doesn’t seem entirely trustworthy, but when you look in his eyes, you really want to trust him. It’s like he wants to be trusted—as if the very act of trusting him will suddenly make him worthy of it. I want him to be worthy of our trust. So does that mean I have to trust him first? I can’t help but be a little intrigued by his unknown quotient.

  “Isn’t anyone going to help me?” Henry finally asks, exasperated.

  “No,” says Jacqui. “Keep looking.”

  Maybe it’s the smirk on her face that makes Henry reevaluate and glance to the Tesla logo on the car.

  “Right,” he says. “Duh.”

  Garrett laughs, and I can’t help but grin.

  “Glad I could be tonight’s entertainment,” Henry says. “It’s just one of the many services I provide.”

  I notice that although Henry left the keys in the ignition, trusting us, they’re now in Kelton’s hands. He gives them back to Henry so he can start the car and move us to a vehicle that actually runs on gasoline, but there’s an unspoken message there. I’m not sure whether it’s about distrust on Kelton’s part, or power, or both.

  We drive around the snarl of cars until we come across a gas-guzzling minivan. Jacqui gets out to guide us in. This time when Henry turns off the gas, he tries to take the keys, but Kelton hops out of the truck and blocks him from opening the driver’s door wide enough for him to get out.

  “Keys, please,” Kelton says.

  Henry forces the door open anyway, but Kelton stands in his way. I find myself irritated by Kelton forcing a confrontation now, when all we’re here to do is get gas.

  “What am I going to do?” Henry asks. “Drive off and head for the hills? a) We don’t have gas; and b) You’re the only one who knows which hills to head for.”

  But Kelton isn’t up for negotiating.

  Henry throws a quick glance in my direction, and says, “Fine,” then tosses the keys to me instead of handing them to Kelton.

  Kelton bristles at having been blatantly slighted. He looks to me like I’m going to give him the keys, but I’m not. Because he’s the one being an ass right now. Instead, I slip them into my pocket. If Henry sees me as the voice of reason among us, so be it. If he trusts me, maybe that makes me trustworthy.

  Mercifully, the little door over the gas cap is one that op
ens by hand, rather than having to be popped from inside the van.

  “Okay, what now?” I ask Jacqui.

  But she defers to Kelton. “I don’t know—can’t you MacGyver something?”

  He shrugs. “You’re the criminal mind,” Kelton says.

  “What’s a MacGyver?” asks Garrett.

  Jacqui sighs. “An ’80s TV guy with a mullet who could make cool crap out of nothing.”

  But none of us have either the mullet or the knowhow to do this. All we have is a hookah hose. I realize that we are, all of us, out of our element—even Jacqui. For all of her street smarts, siphoning gas is something she’s clearly never done, and for all of Kelton’s survival skills, he’s useless in this particular pinch.

  “All I know,” I say, “is that you stick the hose into a gas tank and you suck on it.” This is truly the blind leading the blind.

  After four failed attempts and a mouth full of gasoline, Jacqui throws the hose to the ground, uncrowning herself the queen of thievery. I idly wonder if she had an urge to swallow the gasoline she got in her mouth, and it reminds me of my own thirst, but I push it to a back burner.

  Meanwhile, everyone has an opinion on why the siphon isn’t working—but our knowledge of this lost art is limited to fifth-grade science labs and movies. With everyone giving their two cents, I realize I haven’t heard a peep from Garrett. In fact, I haven’t seen him since our first siphoning attempts.

  “Garrett?” I yell.

  Crickets. Wind. Silence.

  I check the pickup. Around the pickup. I run back to the Tesla. Nothing.

  “Garrett!”

  Kelton shushes me, and I know why—the distressed voice of a girl is a bleeding wound in a sea of sharks—but I don’t have time to formulate a better course of action here. I have to find my brother.

  Before I know it, my feet are churning, and I’m hurrying off—diving deep into the maze of cars. I’m weaving in and out, screaming his name, but in a whisper, which is as useless as it sounds. My head is spinning. The freeways are deathtraps, I know, Kelton’s pounded it into our heads. And even if I’m not alone, if someone has Garrett right now, his well-being takes priority, and I must be fearless.

  Then I see smoke swirling in the air up ahead. A fire. It’s somewhere farther down the highway. I know there’ve been brush fires everywhere, but on the freeway? I push forward, climbing, sliding over cars—I trip and fall, but I won’t let it slow me down. And now I have a better view.

  It’s a campfire in a trash can. And around it at least a dozen people.

  And they have Garrett.

  • • •

  When Garrett was five, he wandered off the safari jeep tour at the zoo. I had to rescue him from getting kicked in the head by a giraffe. When he was six, he almost went home with another family at the mall because their kids had cooler toys. When he was nine, he wandered off at the Ikea showroom and decided to nap in a race car bed, in an attempt to become a permanent resident of the store—and I had to track him down before Mom and Dad found out and called in the national guard. Disappearing is what Garrett does, he always does it at the worst possible moment, and for some reason I always feel responsible. But this time, I’m more frightened than furious, because I’ve seen the monsters out there—and I suspect I’m going to see worse ones before this whole thing is over.

  He stands in the middle of strangers who could be as hostile as the marauders that raided Kelton’s house. I scan their faces, trying to get a read on the situation. People of all ages. Then Garrett sees me, and he smiles.

  “There she is—that’s my sister.”

  My heart is still tolling out danger. My head throbs, and I feel woozy from exerting myself. It’s the lack of fluids. I approach cautiously—then a woman steps forward. Silver wavy hair, a soft complexion. Her eyes seem to glow, but it’s only the reflection of the fire.

  “Welcome,” she says.

  “Garrett, let’s go,” I order him.

  “It’s okay,” he says, walking over. “I went looking for a bucket—you know, to drain the gas into—but I got lost. They found me.”

  I let my guard down a little.

  “You must be Alyssa,” the older woman says warmly.

  “Who are you?” I ask, still on edge.

  A little girl holding folded linens stops in passing. “We call her the Water Angel.”

  The older woman smiles kindly. “Oh, stop it. The name’s Charity. Which is a much more charitable name than I deserve, but there it is.”

  Now having calmed down a bit, I get a better look at her. She’s as old as my grandma, maybe seventy, though there’s something youthful about her, too. The way she holds herself. Her sharp, radiant gaze.

  Jacqui, Kelton, and Henry catch up, but keep their distance, still reading the situation.

  “You could say we’ve taken up residence here,” Charity says, addressing us all. “At least for the time being.”

  I look around and notice that there isn’t just one campfire, but several, constellated across the span of the traffic-jammed freeway, in different clearings. This is nothing like the homeless encampment we saw before; these seem like people from many walks of life who have decided that staying here in the midst of the crisis is better than being anywhere else.

  Kelton shakes his head. “But you’re totally exposed out here. Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “At times,” says Charity, “but we’ve found a way to keep everyone safe and hydrated.”

  That last word pulls us all in.

  Jacqui takes a step forward. “You have water?”

  “There’s water everywhere,” Charity says with a faint grin. “You just have to look in the right places.” She examines our dirty clothing, and probably reads how exhausted we are, both emotionally and physically. “Why don’t you stay with us?” she asks, and when we hesitate, she says, “Your brother seems to like it.”

  “This place feels okay,” Garrett says. “Safe-ish.”

  And although safe-ish is probably the best we’re going to get, Kelton is skeptical. “We have somewhere we have to be,” he says.

  “Well, at least stay the night. It’s getting late. You can set out in the morning.”  Then she returns to the campfire, leaving us to talk.

  Henry opens the discussion. “I say we stay. Rest. Hydrate.”

  “We have your entire box of ÁguaViva in the truck,” I point out, and realize to my horror that we left it in the truck bed unattended. “Why don’t we lock the water in the truck, accept their hospitality, and maybe even have these people help us siphon gas. Then we can leave.”

  “And go where?” Henry argues. “Back to those nasty-ass aqueducts, just to get lost again?”

  “We weren’t lost anymore,” Kelton tells him. “And there’s not that much farther to go.”

  And then Jacqui tips the balance. “The aqueducts will be easier to navigate during the day. Right? So let’s accept the Water Angel’s invitation and spend the night. It’s not like we have to join their little cult.”

  Everyone agrees it’s the best solution. Even Kelton, as reluctant as he is to trust anyone or anything.

  I leave them to go find Charity. She’s tending to a boiling pot. She’s boiling water to purify it. “Okay, we’ll stay the night,” I tell her. “But do you think there’s anyone here who can help us siphon gas?”

  “Of course,” Charity says with a wink. “How do you think we get these fires started?”

  “And maybe some of that water, when it cools?” Jacqui says, coming up beside me.

  But instead of responding, Charity steps forward and closely examines Jacqui’s face. Then she takes Jacqui’s hand and pinches it with her thumb and forefinger.

  “OW! What the hell was that for?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you water now,” Charity says. “Your skin is still elastic, which means your dehydration isn’t critical yet.”

  “She’s right,” Kelton says, and Jacqui sneers at him, whispering “traitor
” beneath her breath.

  Charity looks to Garrett, who’s still sitting with another kid he found, then to the rest of us. “I know how difficult it is to be thirsty, but I can’t give you water in good conscience when there are others here who need it more. We can feed you though.”

  Food! I forgot about food. And now I can feel my stomach roiling, eating at itself. I’m hungry—but even if I’m given something to eat, it would be hard to chew, because my mouth is dry and raw. Even swallowing water right now would hurt like needles. And then there’s the growing pressure in my head. If I’m not worthy of water in this state, then I can hardly even imagine what it’s like to be worse off.

  “We’ll help you with your car trouble, give you shelter and something to eat,” the Water Angel says. “That will have to do for now.”  Then she turns to a few rugged-looking men playing cards around the campfire.

  “Max? Do you think you could help them out? They need gasoline.”

  “Sure.” One of them stands. He’s large and hulking, clad in leather like the leader of a biker gang. At first I’m apprehensive, but as I’ve come to learn, looks can be deceiving—because at the end of the day, no matter what the person’s exterior, there’s only one thing that defines behavior, and that’s water. In my other life, I might not have trusted this guy. But here and now, I do. Because I know he’s not a water-zombie. He hasn’t turned yet.

  I suddenly feel guilty for doubting their intentions.

  “In return, however, I will ask you to contribute to our little effort,” Charity says. “We’ll be collecting supplies from the northbound lanes pretty soon. While Max here is fixing your car issues, perhaps a few of you could join us.”

  “I’ll go,” Henry says, stepping forward.

  Garrett looks to him and follows his lead. “Me too,” he says quickly.