by Julia Shupe
“You get used to the smell,” she repeated around a full mouth. “Besides, I don’t care if it stinks, because I like looking at it. I’ve never seen naturally flowing water before. I just like it, I guess. I wonder where it goes. I mean I know where it goes, but it’s kind of amazing. It runs across hundreds of miles of rock, cutting through hard-packed earth and mountains. It carves its path over time.” She shrugged. “It earns its path with hard work, I suppose.”
Earns its path with hard work? He couldn’t help but smile. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Found a Grand Canyon brochure, back at the last house.”
“So you like to imagine where it goes,” he prodded.
“That,” she said as she sipped her juice. “And I like the sound it makes. It sounds like mom’s old sound machine, the one she used to fall asleep to. Remember? She’d scramble to find a few batteries that worked then set it to white noise and finally calm down. And when she’d fall asleep, I’d always change it to babbling brook. Babbling brook or ocean…” she added.
Yeah. He remembered. How could he forget? His thoughts threatened to slither into a much darker place, where memories of home crouched and waited, but he pulled himself back and tried to paste a pleasant look across his face.
“You ever see the Grand Canyon?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft and dreamy.
He nodded. “Yup. Once. But it was a long time ago. I was only a boy at the time. And I saw it from a distance, in an airplane. I remember it being so big, so vast, though it may have seemed big because I was so small. It was breathtaking, though. That I remember.”
“And a river actually made it?”
“Yup. But it took that river millions of years. Something that beautiful can’t be created overnight.”
Though her voice had dropped to a whisper, he caught her words. “No,” she murmured. “I guess it couldn’t. Something that beautiful can’t be created overnight. But it sure as hell doesn’t take very long to destroy it.”
He didn’t answer that, choosing instead to rifle through his pack. From it, he removed the air pump they’d found in a UT supply closet, and made his rounds to test the volume of their tires. Given the weight and added pressure of their supplies, he was worried about the longevity of the rubber. Back at the college, when they’d discovered the bikes, he and Sam had crafted hand-made panniers out of any materials they could find, which they’d tied as securely as they could to the bikes. And from the cart, they transferred as many supplies as possible, as many as they could cram into the roughly sewn pouches.
But still, he reminisced. It was one of the most difficult decisions he’d had to make. Take the bikes, reach their destination faster, or continue to walk and push their heavily laden cart. The idea of abandoning their supplies was initially inconceivable. But so was deserting the bikes, he’d concluded. Who in his right mind would pass on such an amazing opportunity? The vehicles were just as important as the supplies. They’d just had to make the best of a difficult situation, bring as much of the cart as they could. Though now he worried they had brought too much, that the weight would be far too much for the slim tires to properly bear. There was nothing he could do about it now.
“Are you ever gonna tell me where we’re going?” she asked, and he could hear the exasperation in her tone.
“Can’t. I told you. It’s a surprise. Come on. Let’s move off the road. It’s getting dark outside. We need to make camp.”
He lifted his bike and turned from the road, slipping into the forest that hemmed the river’s bank, where the trees seemed thicker than they’d been back at home, though they still offered little camouflage and littler protection. Acid rain had choked them of vital nutrients, and as a result, they’d shed the majority of their leaves, like an aging man fighting a losing battle for his hair. Some of the pine trees were still lush and full. It was the taller, deciduous species that were the first to succumb. At the bases of these, decaying logs littered the ground, the bark wrapped in thick moss and fungi. At least it was still green, he thought despairingly. The forests at home had gone gray and brittle.
He pushed through the debris, hoping to negotiate the bikes as close to their camp as he could manage. He could hear Sam behind him, the snapping of hollow branches marking her passage.
“So why Carp?” she asked again. “Did it taste good or something?”
She sounded short of breath. He reflexively slowed his pace.
“Don’t know, actually. I never tasted carp, though once I was lucky enough to try a piece of smoked salmon.”
“Smoked salmon? That sounds disgusting.”
“It was. But it was all we had. Smoked or dried were all that were left. My father had saved a few packets for me to try.”
As were most days he’d spent with his father, Jeremy recalled that day fondly. They were sitting on the back deck of their cabin in the woods, far above the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, enjoying the spectacular view. He remembered—even then—that the air had been thin.
“We’ve got to eat it now,” his father had said, pulling a knife from his pocket and slipping the blade between the folds of plastic. “If we don’t, it’ll go bad.” The package had opened with a tiny popping sound, and a curious tangy smell had lifted from its contents.
“Smells funny,” Jeremy had said, pinching his small nose.
“Not funny,” his dad laughed. “Just fishy. Go get the encyclopedia from the house. The volume with the ‘S’ on the spine. Go on. Off you go.”
Jeremy remembered running to their family’s small library and pulling the heavy tome from the shelves. He loved to hear his father tell stories about the fish. To be fair, he loved hearing his father tell stories about anything, really, but tales of the once-glorious oceans were his favorite. Sliding from his chair, his father crossed his legs on the deck’s smooth planking, and with the tome in his lap, sifted through the pages, settling it open with a faint creak of binding.
“There,” he’d pointed out. “That’s what it looked like.”
Eyes narrowed, Jeremy peered at the strange creature on the page. “I thought fish were supposed to be small. That one’s big.”
“Salmon were big,” his father said. “Back in the 1900’s they were actually quite large.”
Jeremy traced the oblong silhouette. It was beautiful, majestic, covered with silver shining scales that gleamed with pearl-like opalescence. His father handed him a piece of pale orange meat, and he tasted it warily then spit it onto the deck.
“Ick. It tastes like smoke.”
His father’s laugh was a warm and hearty sound.
“It’s an acquired taste, I suppose. Though it’s one you’ll never develop, I’m afraid.”
Jeremy nearly tripped over a fallen log. Turning, he peered over his shoulder at Sam. “This is as far as we can get with the bikes. It’s getting too thick up here. Let’s ditch ‘em. Find a place to hide them for the night.”
She pointed toward a mound of branches, still thick with the remains of decaying leaves. It was as good a place as any, he supposed, and they worked in a companionable silence. Jeremy had always found the tending of repetitive tasks peaceful. And repetitive was an apt description of their life. It was important that they diligently follow their routine. They must remain maniacal about it. Their very survival depended on it. There were many dangerous gangs wandering the streets, and if he or Sam were found—or their supplies, for that matter—they’d be killed or robbed, left to suffer the elements, which was often the same as being killed. This was a dangerous scenario for anyone, but for Sam, it would be a death sentence.
Having shrouded the vehicles beneath an abundant supply of dead foliage, they moved through the thick underbrush to the edge of the river, and wordlessly stared, scrunching their noses. The sight sickened Jeremy, and again, he wondered why she’d wanted to come down here, though admittedly, it wasn’t as damaged as some of the others he’d seen. Here, the water ran relatively clear, but the smell was truly revolti
ng. Algae clustered and bloomed in thick fingerlike patterns: reds and greens like long twisting ribbons. He could detect an unnatural sheen on the water’s surface, a rainbow brilliance that bespoke of oil and chemicals, like a layer of poisonous skin.
Behind him, Sam was clearing the forest floor, settling their tarp on a blanket of dead leaves.
“What should we eat?” she asked as though this were a normal Sunday picnic.
He dropped to his knees, shrugged the pack from his shoulder, and from it, selected a box of whole grain crackers, dried meat, and a can of beans.
Smiling, she pulled a small lighter from her pocket, and ignited the collection of wood at the edge of their camp. “I like the beans,” she said. “They’re sweet. But you know I like them best when they’re hot.”
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, and returned to the bikes to retrieve their cooking pot. When he returned, she was flat on her belly, on the tarp, gnawing on dried crackers and pointing to their map. She was drawing a line with a purple marker.
“So, Chattanooga you say? Right here?”
He nodded, watching her pen their progress across the tattered paper.
“Huntsville,” she said, “It’s not that far, just over a hundred miles from here. By my estimate, we can make it in two days.” She lifted her head. “Where to after that?”
Jeremy worked the rusted opener along the can of beans and dumped the contents into the pot.
“Southwest toward Mississippi, then to Arkansas.”
“Can we follow the Mississippi river?” she asked excitedly.
“Hell no we can’t. Absolutely not. We’ll have to cross it, but we’re sticking to the roads and the bridges. We’re not getting anywhere near that contaminated dump.”
He could sense her disappointment and see it on her face, but he didn’t anticipate the words that came next. Sometimes she was like that. She kept him on his toes. And sometimes, she took him off-guard.
“I wish Mom were here.”
He released a pent breath. “Yeah. I know, Sam. I know. So do I.”
Eyes downcast, she swirled the beans with a stick. “What name do you think she would have chosen for herself?”
“Mom? Hmm. That’s a tough one. Maybe Angler? Guppy? Or Perch?”
Frowning, she shook her head. “You’re terrible at this. I think she would have chosen Starfish or Minnow.”
It still broke his heart to hear her speak of her mother in the past tense.
“Searobin,” he suggested.
“Searobin,” she repeated gently. “It’s beautiful. Beautiful and perfect. Like she was.” She met his gaze and nodded her approval. “Not bad, Carp. You usually suck at this.”
He shifted on the tarp and attempted to lighten the conversation. This subject led to nothing but despair. “Will you read to me tonight?”
“Not tonight.” She pursed her lips. “I’m not in the mood. Maybe I’m just tired.”
And with those words he knew she’d fallen into one of her moods, and once she had, there was little he could say or do to lift her out of it. She was a girl who had recently lost her mother, and he was a man who had recently lost his wife. She deserved her moods, and then some.
They ate in silence, an unnatural silence, something that was freakish for this part of the country. He had to admit: she’d been right; the gentle purling of the water was calming. But the absence of ambient sound bothered him. Jeremy remembered his childhood, the cabin, their shelter in the mountains of Sevierville, Tennessee. They would sit on the deck late into the evening, surrounded by the sounds of an animate forest. Back then a rich diversity of species still existed. Well, he corrected himself, perhaps not rich, but more. And there’d been insects, too, a chorus of voices: singing cicadas and chirping crickets, the occasional croaking of a forest toad, none of which existed anymore. Or if they did, their numbers had dwindled such that their voices could rarely be heard.
But this riverbank seemed devoid of life entirely. What was that old saying? he wondered. Something about insects inheriting the earth? Not so, after all. Not even close. The insects had perished when the oceans died.
Sam’s voice cut through the silence. “I wish we were back at home.”
He scrutinized her shadowed face and the outline of her body, set aglow by their small cook fire. “Sam, we don’t have to sleep outside, you know. How many empty homes did we pass along the way? How many side streets and cul-de-sacs? How many large houses and white picket fences? It was your idea to sleep out here. We can leave if you want, find somewhere else. To be honest, we probably should. It’s not safe out here. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Just one more night,” she murmured. “Then I’m done. After tonight, I’m finished with the river. I just wanted to see it, is all.”
Pushing her bowl aside, she curled on the blanket. When she slept, she always put her back against his. She said it made her feel safe. He could see she was tired—physically and mentally—and again the recent changes in their lives amazed him. Things had gone sour in such a short amount of time. When the three of them had still been a family, they’d liked to stay up late. Jeremy and Susan would drink wine from the ark, while Sam would read to them from Harry Potter books. Or the three would play cards or Monopoly, by candlelight. It was perfect, cozy, a private sanctuary on the side of a mountain. And it had belonged to them and them alone.
Jeremy had always been a night owl. He’d always gone to bed late, and risen even later. But things were so different now. He was different. He and Sam had somehow matched nature’s circadian rhythm. The rising and setting of the sun was their alarm clock. In truth, he slept more soundly than he had in years.
He settled on his back, made a trough of the leaves, and peered into the star-speckled sky. “So,” he asked. “What’s the verdict? Now that you’ve seen the river up close, what do you make of it?”
She murmured her reply in a sleepy voice. “It’s lovely, really. It’s peaceful. I’m trying to imagine the way it was before.” The silence blanketed them until her soft voice cleaved it. “I’d like to know where we’re going, Carp. You know I don’t care for surprises anymore.”
“Give me your number first.”
With a groan, she raised herself up on an elbow and held her arm before the light of the fire. “One hundred seven,” she called out irritably.
Instantly at ease, he smothered the fire while she settled back onto the tarp. It was never a good idea to sleep beside a fire. It was a beacon to those who roamed the dark night. It broadcasted latitude and longitude to a dangerously diminished populace. It was a lighthouse that drew miscreant travelers from their tortured paths.
“I’m waiting,” she whispered. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to San Diego, Sam.”
In the dark, he felt her flinch. “To the ocean?”
“Yup. It’s what you said you wanted, is it not?”
He wouldn’t tell her the real reason they were going, that her life depended on his ability to get them there. And he definitely wouldn’t tell her the truth: that they were running out of time, and quickly. He would keep that bit of information to himself.
“Yes,” she replied. “That’s what I said. I’m just surprised is all, surprised you’d take me there.” Suddenly pensive, she let the silence stretch between them. “Is it really dead though? I mean really? How can something that big actually die? Weren’t there millions of fish in the ocean?”
“Not millions, Sam. Trillions of fish. Hundreds of trillions. Trillions upon trillions of trillions. Such a large number that you couldn’t imagine it.”
“And you’re certain all of it’s dead?”
“Afraid so.”
“San Diego’s a long way, Carp.”
She was right. Nodding to the face of the moon, he answered, “It is. But we can make it, slowly but surely. Fifty miles a day. That has to be our goal.”
“Has to be our goal?”
Ever clever, she didn’t miss a
beat, though he chose not to answer that particular question. He knew she’d work out his plan eventually. Sooner or later, she’d discover his motives. As her breathing finally evened, he held his own, but just when he thought she’d found sleep, she murmured something more.
“We’re running out of disks, aren’t we, Carp? Tell the truth.”
“Yes, Sam.” His voice sounded thick. “We’re running out of disks.”
“Pike,” she corrected.
“Yes, Pike. We’re running out of disks.”
When she said nothing more, he worried at the boldness of the revelation. With so many miles to travel, it was much too soon for her to panic. Peering at her, his throat tightened, and after a time, he thought she’d finally drifted off.
“Was the ocean beautiful when you saw it?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “It was terrifying. Barren.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Sam.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Mom, Dad, Uncle Jeff, and Aunt June. Thank you for looking at cover after cover and giving me your honest feedback. Special thanks to my amazing husband, Nat. I know of no other man who would support me the way you have and do. This level of support reaches beyond the norm: the hours I spend crouched over a computer, the dishes that don’t get done, the dust that gathers in the corners of rooms.
Thank you for being my partner and inspiration, my best friend, and my confidant. Nothing means more than your love.
Readers, thank you so very much. This has been the most thrilling experience of my life. I can liken it to breaking a tiny piece of my heart from the whole and baring it for the world to see. I hope you enjoyed Carved in Stone and I hope you’ll give my other works a try as well: Barren Waters, Woven Realms, and Woven Quests.
