Dry

by Neal Shusterman

My gut reaction is to volunteer just so I can look after Garrett. To make sure that he doesn’t wander off again, or get into any trouble. But I stop myself. Lately Garrett hasn’t gotten us into trouble at all. Maybe I owe him a little more space. A little more trust. And if he’s trying to contribute to something larger than himself, shouldn’t I allow him that dignity? So I let my sisterly guard down, tell Garrett to mind Charity, and I join Jacqui, Kelton, and the jolly gargantuan biker to fill up the truck.

  • • •

  We follow Max to a small, white landscaping truck, where he pulls out an empty red plastic gas can and a gardening hose—the kind we couldn’t find when we were looking before.

  “It’s really hard to siphon directly from one gas tank into another. You need a gas can like this so you can position the hose lower at this end. You know, gravity.”

  “Gravity . . . ,” Kelton mutters, clearly annoyed that he couldn’t figure that out himself. Garrett had figured that out instinctively, because he had gone looking for a bucket. We’ve all had an opportunity to feel stupid today.

  We zigzag back toward the truck. My body has grown heavy, which makes each step weightier than the previous one. And it seems our exhaustion is a little more obvious than I’d like to believe, because Max takes notice. “Here.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little plastic-wrapped pastry.

  “It’s a MoonPie. Currently our staple food.”

  “Thanks,” Jacqui says, opening the wrapper and biting into the chocolate marshmallow spongy thing. She chews on it dryly, realizes there’s only one, and reluctantly breaks the rest of it in half for me and Kelton to share.

  “Bon appetit. We found a whole truck of ’em two days ago,” he says. Then adds, “A few years back, I remember hearing about a stranded cruise ship. They airdropped them Spam and Pop-Tarts. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have MoonPies.”

  “Is that how long you’ve been here?” I ask. “Two days?

  “Three,” he says. “I wandered onto the freeway two days after the Tap-Out. I had it worse than most people on account of my blood pressure meds make me sweat like a racehorse. Dehydrated real quick, and I couldn’t get a drop of water for the life of me. I wandered onto the freeway, determined to either find water, or drop. I dropped. But the Water Angel found me. Charity gave me water, and when I was strong enough, put me to work. Before long there were dozens of us, all working and taking care of each other.”

  “Kind of like a commune,” Kelton says.

  “Yeah, I guess it just kind of evolved into that. We all have our own skill sets. Turns out I’m pretty handy,” he says with pride.

  “Well, you’re a lifesaver,” I tell him.

  “Thank you, but we have a medic for that.” He chuckles. “Others gather supplies. Just yesterday they found a semi full of new linens and pillows.”

  Just the thought of it makes me long for my comfortable bed.

  “We have folks who keep a watch at the perimeter around the clock,” Max continues. “Those are the ones who found your brother.”

  We reach the truck, and luckily the ÁguaViva box is still in the back. Max settles by a nearby Hyundai to siphon gas, and while I keep him occupied, Kelton and Jacqui move the ÁguaViva to the back seat of the truck, locking it in. Since it’s not my water to give, I get around the crisis of conscience that would come from withholding the ÁguaViva from the Water Angel. Still, I feel guilty about it, but I’ll live with the guilt. If that makes me a bad person, I’ll care on a different day.

  Jacqui and Kelton probably feel that urge to rip the box open—I know I do—but as Charity said, we’re thirsty but not desperate. And Kelton has drilled into our heads that an emergency supply is for emergencies. Although I can’t help but sense that desperation is right around the bend.

  28) Henry

  I have found that the elderly can be either deranged or sagacious. It’s a complex equation made up of their life experiences, the advanced nature of their years, plain old genetics, and how pissed off life has left them. The Water Angel is of the sagacious variety—wise beyond her years, which says a lot, considering how old she is. She has figured out a simple, brilliant way to collect water—water that’s been right under everyone’s noses all along, but is so far out of most people’s boxes that they could die of thirst inches from the source and never consider it.

  Washer fluid.

  Not the actual fluid, but the containers that hold it, which are in every car. Most of the time people fill them with that blue Windex-y stuff, which is positively toxic—but every once in a while people can’t be bothered with the good stuff, and use water instead. Who would have thought it would be that lazy substrata of society that would save us? Even if the Water Angel isn’t willing to share with us, having the knowledge is enough. Teach-a-man-to-fish kind of thing. Of course, our truck doesn’t have either water or washer fluid. It’s completely empty, as I discovered when I tried to clean bugs off the windshield earlier.

  We’re sent in teams of two to search cars on the northbound side of the freeway, maybe a quarter mile up, because all the closer cars have already been inspected. We’re accompanied by a paunchy pair of twenty-something identical twins. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber. There’s a nagging mother and her seemingly mute child, and an older couple who have been married for so long they’ve morphed into near identical androgynous versions of each other. Each team is given a backpack, a flashlight, a coat hanger, and a crowbar. Many of the cars are locked, which means the hoods are unable to be popped, so we use the coat hangers to try to pop the locks, and if all else fails, use the crowbar to smash a window.

  “It’s not like we’re destroying property that matters anymore,” Charity told us before we left. “Chances are these cars will be bulldozed to clear the freeway when this is all over.”

  Although we’ve been instructed to be on the lookout for items that may benefit the greater good of the collective, I’ve been more interested in a wider variety of things.

  See, in the heat of the moment, when people were escaping these freeways—something truly interesting happened. There was a cataclysmic shift in values. Kind of like a market crash. External events combined with mob psychology and generated a positive feedback loop. Well, not positive for them. Their only goal was to survive—which meant people were quick to forget items of high value that didn’t improve their immediate chances of said survival. Watches, jewelry, cash—you’d be amazed by the things that turn up in cup holders and glove compartments. Not that these things were left on purpose, but stuff simply got forgotten because they were no longer on the radar of critical possessions. Sure, most cars contain nothing but junk, but I manage to acquire a few unexpected assets that would otherwise go to waste.

  “Look what I found,” says Garrett, looking in the rear window of a hatchback. Garrett indicates a bag of diapers in the back seat. “I remember there was a woman with a baby sitting back by the fire.”

  “Good thinking,” I tell him, because value comes in many forms. “She’ll appreciate that.” And, I realize, so will the rest of us.

  The door is, of course, locked, and multiple attempts to unlock it with the coat hanger are less effective here than elsewhere.

  “I guess we’re just going to have to break the window,” I say.

  To that, Garrett almost involuntarily gives a mischievous smile. That smile speaks volumes. It says he wants to break things, but never had permission. He wants to be wild, but has never been off the leash. I know that feeling—and I realize that I can save him years of future therapy by one simple action.

  I hand him the crowbar. “You do it,” I say.

  He looks a little scared. “Are you sure?”

  I shrug. “Charity said we could if it was the only way in, right? Go on, give it a shot.”

  Garrett hefts the crowbar, gives that involuntary smile again, and swings it at the window. It shatters with the first blow—not an explosive sound, more like the popping of a light bulb, followed by t
he patter of safety glass pellets. I’m actually surprised by how much force he put behind it. I thought the first swing might be timid.

  “Well done!” I tell him. “Try another.”

  Without hesitation, he turns to the car behind us and swings again, smashing the closest window.

  “My turn,” I tell him. I see a Mercedes with a hood ornament. The car looks like my asshole neighbor’s, who sued us for building a retaining wall two inches onto his property. I take a swing at the ornament, fully prepared to see it fly off like a golf ball, but instead it gets knocked over and pops back up into place. Darn. I forgot that Mercedes ornaments do that—so they don’t get ripped off in car washes. I take a second swing, and it pops up again. It makes Garrett laugh.

  “It punked you!” he says.

  “Oh yeah? Take that,” and I smash off a side mirror.

  Suddenly there’s one of the Tweedles lumbering up to us. “Hey!” he yells. “You’re supposed to be looking for water!”

  “We couldn’t get in,” I inform him. “Had to smash the window.”

  He glances at the dangling side mirror. “That’s not a window.”

  “Guess I missed.”

  Garrett snickers, and the Tweedle glares at me. “Stay on task!” Then he lumbers back to his brother, who has been gingerly trying to get into a Buick for five minutes.

  I turn to see Garrett grinning at me—and I realize he’s looking at me in a way that he doesn’t his sister. He’s clearly never had an older brother figure in his life. It puts me in a unique position.

  I lean against the car and speak casually. “Your sister would kill me right now if she saw what we were doing.”

  “Who cares?” He reaches for the crowbar, but, as a surrogate big brother, I hold it out of reach, indicating that’s enough. For now.

  “Funny how she treats you like you’re just a kid,” I tell him, “even though you’re the one with most of the good ideas.”

  He looks to me, just a little bit wide-eyed. “You think that?”

  “Are you kidding me? If it weren’t for you we wouldn’t have found the aqueduct. And aren’t you the one who found these good people? Thanks to you we have a safe place to spend the night.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “We all have our skills. Yours is seeing things that the rest of us don’t.”

  It’s true, and I can tell he appreciates that I’ve noticed what others overlook—just like him. It’s a nice bonding moment. One that serves a purpose. . . .

  “So tell me,” I put to him, “what other things do you see that the others don’t?”

  He considers it, then says,“Well, I don’t think Jacqui is as horrible as Alyssa makes her out to be.”

  “Really, what makes you think that?”

  “Well, it’s like the girls on her soccer team. Alyssa always trash talks about the ones she kind of sees as a threat. I’ll bet Jacqui and my sister could be friends if they weren’t both so set on hating each other.”

  A sharp observation. Useful, too. If I can keep them turned against each other, they’re not turned against me. Or at least, Alyssa isn’t. After nearly stranding Jacqui at the evac center, I doubt I’ll ever win her over, but I may not have to. “How about Kelton?” I ask him.

  He laughs. “He’s just glad to be in the same car with my sister. Kelton’s had a serious crush on Alyssa since, like, forever!”

  I feign shock. “Get out of here!”

  “No, seriously. When they were in elementary school, he’d hit balls into our yard on purpose, and when they were in eighth grade, I caught him spying on her with one of his helicopter drone cameras. He paid me ten bucks not to tell her!”

  Not quite the information I was fishing for, but when you catch a boot, you never know what else might be lurking inside.

  “Spying how?” I ask.

  And he sits on the big pack of diapers to spin me a nice little story.

  • • •

  We return to camp to join the others about an hour later—and though Garrett and I didn’t find any washer reservoirs that contained water, some of the others did. But we pulled our weight in other ways. We found some painkillers, a Bluetooth speaker fully charged, binoculars, and of course, the diapers.

  Charity travels around, picking and choosing who is most in need of the water she has, while our little group is brought to five cars near the guarded perimeter, the back seats of which have been spread with linens. Someone has left a MoonPie on each pillow. Real concierge service.

  “There you go, Garrett,” Alyssa says, “didn’t you always want a car bed?”

  Garrett is not amused.

  Jacqui looks at her MoonPie. Banana flavored. “How can we even digest these without water?” she says. “And how do I know I won’t die of thirst in my sleep?”

  “You won’t,” Kelton says. “You’d have to be a lot worse off. You’ll feel more and more tired—but then, right before the end, you’ll get a sudden burst of energy. It’s the body’s last stand. After that, it’s all over.”

  “TMI, Kelton,” she says, not wanting to think about it. “TMI.”

  We should all call it a night, but we’re at that state where we’re too exhausted to sleep, and none of us is looking forward to sleeping in this heat—which seems only a few degrees cooler than the day. I take my acquired letterman jacket off and set it on my lap, wishing that its manufacturers could have had the good sense to use a fabric that breathes.

  The five of us now hang out in a small clearing in between the cars to wind down. The trash can fires are out, and the moon paints everyone in blue shadows.

  “I really don’t get it,” says Jacqui. “How are these people not tearing each other apart, like in every other place we’ve been?”

  “They created a system,” Alyssa says. “Not everyone can do that.”

  I feel a need to enlighten them. “Communism only works in theory, and goes against human nature. This place won’t last.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Alyssa points out. “Only until the crisis is over.”

  “They’ll turn on each other,” Jacqui says. “Everyone does eventually.”

  Alyssa throws her a glare. “Everyone like you, maybe.”

  “Oh, are you gonna tell me your neighbors weren’t like these people? Fine, upstanding citizens, until they started eating their young?”

  I glance to Garrett, who just shakes his head knowingly at me. Jacqui and Alyssa will never agree on anything.

  “People suck,” Kelton says, adding his own two cents. “Always have, always will.”

  “I don’t see it like that,” Alyssa says. “People might do whatever they can to survive, but once they don’t have to worry about that, they’re different.”

  “Sometimes,” Kelton argues. “Sometimes not. Some people are always like that and just pretend to be civil.”

  He says that looking at me. I’m not sure if that’s intentional, but it still pisses me off.

  Jacqui bounces her knees, amused. “Ooh, looks like we’ve got ourselves a classic Hobbes versus Rousseau philosophical quandary.”

  It catches me off guard to hear Jacqui make such a reference. Especially because I don’t precisely know who Hobbes and Rousseau are—but not knowing and admitting you don’t know are two completely different things.

  “Yes, that’s one way to see it,” I tell them. “But I think you’re both wrong. People are nouns, actions are verbs. Apples and oranges.”

  “Ding! Ding! Ding! And we’ve found our Machiavelli!” Jacqui announces, like a showman. And then suddenly, as absurdly and unexpectedly as she pulled philosophers out of her ass, she pulls a gun out from God knows where. A gun. A real. Freaking. Gun.

  We all jump out of our skin, but maybe me more than the others. Did she have that all along? And now I’m thinking back to the dozens of times she could’ve shot me today—like when I pulled that airsoft gun on her. Not my best move.

  “Dammit, put my gun away!” Kelton says, adding one more l
ayer to this crazy cake. Did he say his gun?

  She just ignores him, marveling at the weapon, turned on. Invigorated. “Tell me, Henry, if I put one of these bullets right into your head and got your brains all over Kelton and his MoonPie, would I be a noun or a verb?”

  “Jacqui, put that away before anyone else sees it!” Alyssa growls.

  But it only energizes Jacqui. She will not be controlled, and now I get why Alyssa sees her as a threat. Because she is.

  “C’mon, Henry,” Jacqui taunts. “I thought you were the captain of the debate team—or at least pretended to be.”  Then she points the gun at me. “Convince me that I am not my actions. That doing something bad doesn’t make me bad.”

  I talk fast, trying to pretend I’m not a thumb-pull away from oblivion. I don’t know if that gun has a safety on it. Hell, I don’t even really know what a safety is. “You wouldn’t be good or bad, right or wrong, because concepts are fluid, and subjective, and it would flip depending on whether or not killing me was the right thing to do, but it’s not—it most definitely is not!”

  Jacqui holds there. Everyone else is frozen. No one wants to jump in and maybe accidentally set the gun off. Finally, she withdraws her arm and tucks the gun away, suddenly disinterested. “You’re no fun,” she says.

  Jacqui goes back to eating her pastry, speaking with a full mouth. “You’re a bunch of scaredy-cats anyway—there was no bullet in the chamber,” she says. “Or was there . . . ?”

  Mental note: There are now two confirmed psychopaths in our party of five. Kelton and Jacqui will have to be taken down if I am to assume my rightful place in charge, and protect Alyssa and her brother.

  29) Alyssa

  I lie in my makeshift bed, eyes peeled open. At least I think they are. I don’t have the energy to sleep, or to be awake. So I toss and turn, in and out of consciousness in a delirium of anxieties that haunt both states. Thoughts of Jacqui. The gun. My parents. Mixed with nightmares of marauders raiding the freeway like they raided Kelton’s home—led by Hali on my soccer team and her mother, who’s now fifteen feet tall and steals everyone’s water. Then it starts to rain blood, and Kingston is there, lapping it all up. The rain resolves into a tapping noise. . . . My eyes snap open. It’s Henry, and he’s standing just outside my car, tapping on the half-open window. It’s still dark. I’m not sure whether it’s somewhere around midnight, or closer to dawn.