by J. L. Esplin
“I considered it,” I tell her, placing the rocks inside my structure. I move to crouch upwind, blocking the occasional gust. “But I think if I bring the water to a boil in the pot and then hurry and scoop some back into the canteens, swishing it around really well as I go, it’ll do the trick.”
“If you say so.”
Using my hand as a shield, I strike a match and light the tinder, carefully pushing the growing flame deeper into the log cabin, feeding the fire more kindling until the larger pieces of fuel finally catch.
With a close eye on my fire, I open the first canteen and carefully pour all the water into the pot. I’ll need a pot holder, so I quickly unbutton my shirt.
I’m hot enough by this fire anyway, and I’ve got a white undershirt on beneath this that will at least protect my back and shoulders from the sun. Wrapping my shirt around my hand and tucking in the ends, I grip the handle of the pot and carefully set it on the rocks, adding sticks to the flame to keep the fire going.
“Think the pee will boil out?” Stew says.
I jump at the sound of his voice so close, and turn to see that Stew, Cleverly, and Will have moved the tarp just inches behind me.
“I told you to sit away from the heat,” I say. Turning back to the fire, I add over my shoulder, “And there’s no pee in it.”
“How do you know?” Stew says. “There’s probably a little bit in there.”
I turn my back to him and don’t bother answering. I’ve got a fire to keep burning.
“Is it horribly disgusting that I don’t even care anymore?” Cleverly says.
“Yes,” Stew says. “I don’t want to live in a world where I am forced to drink toilet water with a little bit of pee in it in order to survive.”
“I’m okay with it,” Will says, “as long as I don’t have to do it every day.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t,” Cleverly says.
“Yeah, it’s not like there are toilets up and down the highway that we can drink from,” Stew says. “Though John would probably love that.”
“It would make things a whole lot easier,” I concede with a shrug.
The pot feels good and stable on the rock platform, so I go ahead and drop my tin mug into the water, using a stick to force it down to the bottom. I figure I should boil the cap as well, so I unscrew it and drop it in the pot, aiming so it lands right inside the mug. As soon as I get the water boiling, I think I’ll just dunk the top of the canteen into the water and let it sit there for a while, so I’ll know the rim is safe.
“We should definitely make a big deal about this,” Cleverly says. “How many people can say they drank toilet water? After this, we’ll be part of an exclusive club.”
“I don’t know if I want to be part of that club,” Stew says.
“Too bad. You’re one of its founding members.”
Will says, “Once you drink the water, urine the club.”
Cleverly laughs. I can’t help but grin, even though I’m trying to concentrate on my fire.
“Fine,” Stew says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re all in the toilet water club.”
“We aren’t calling it that,” Cleverly says.
“We could call it the Potty Patrol,” Will says.
“No,” Cleverly and Stew say in unison.
“Something less obvious, Will,” Cleverly says.
“How about Pathetic Desperadoes?” Stew says. “Because we’re pathetic and desperate.”
Cleverly sighs. “You suck, Stew, you know that?”
No one comes up with anything better, so we sit in silence like the pathetic desperadoes we are, and wait for our toilet water to boil. I stay crouched on one knee, sweating over the flames, my one leg starting to feel tingly and numb, feeding kindling to the fire as the flames get too low. I’m starting to think that old saying is true, the one about a watched pot never boiling. I’m worried I’ll use up all our kindling on our first pot of water, and we’ll have to collect more. But then the first tiny bubbles appear on the bottom of the pot.
“It’s starting to boil,” I say with a relieved smile.
Stew gets to his knees and peers over my shoulder into the pot. “How about we call ourselves the Battle Born?” he says.
I go still. I don’t look back at him; just stare down at the water.
“Oh yeah,” Will says. “That’s our state motto! I learned about it in school last year.”
“Well, yeah,” Stew says, sitting back. “But it’s also something my dad says to us all the time. Like, if something disappointing or bad happens, or if we just totally screw up, he tells us we’re Battle Born.”
It’d look pretty good on your bedroom wall.
“But, what does that mean?” Cleverly asks.
“It means we can do hard things because we’re made of hard-core awesomeness. If we get knocked down, he expects us to get back up and keep going. Because we’re Battle Born.”
Shining my flashlight at the words on the flag, my brother lying beside me.
I stay tense while Stew talks, waiting for my heart to race uncontrollably, waiting for my lungs to feel like the air is being squeezed out of them. But nothing happens. In fact, all I feel is a strange sense of optimism. Well, my eyes do water up a little, but I think it’s just the smoke.
I duck my head, use the sleeve of my pot holder to wipe at them. Then I look down at those tiny bubbles at the bottom of the pot. I watch through the smoke as they grow bigger, rise to the surface, and burst.
We are boiling water to drink. We are in control of our own destiny.
That’s a whole lot harder than battling some fictional zombies.
“I like it,” Cleverly says.
“Me too,” Will says. “The Battle Born! Made of hard-core awesomeness!”
“Are we afraid of drinking a little toilet water?” Stew says, like he’s a drill sergeant. I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes the corners of my mouth turn up, because he sounds like the old Stew.
“No!” Will shouts.
“Are we afraid of the miles of desert in front of us?”
“No!” Will and Cleverly shout together.
“Are we afraid of the snakes?”
“Wait, snakes?” Cleverly says.
“Just say no,” Stew says, exasperated.
“No!” Will shouts.
“Because we … dramatic pause … are the Battle Born!”
* * *
While three of the Battle Born nap, I finish boiling the rest of our water.
But I don’t mind that they fell asleep. I’m actually kind of glad. Because I need them-who-are-made-of-hard-core-awesomeness to get back up and walk another eighteen miles before we set up camp for the night.
I’m just hoping I can do the same.
During the whole boiling process, I lose only a small amount of water—I have one spill toward the end, about a tablespoon’s worth—but otherwise everything goes okay. I aerate the water when I’m finished, pouring it back and forth from the canteens to the pot, allowing the water to come in contact with oxygen so it won’t taste so flat once it’s cool enough to drink. No burns, and I manage not to set my shirt on fire.
Judging by the position of the sun, I’m guessing it’s about three or four in the afternoon, and that worries me. It could take us six hours to walk eighteen miles. We need to get going, but I let them sleep while I fan out my shirt and put it back on—even though it’s still uncomfortably warm. I let the fire mostly die out, and stomp out the embers. I open the canteens and hold them close to my face, testing how much warmth is still radiating from the water.
The metal canteens aren’t going to help the cooling process. We’ll have to keep aerating the water, and maybe in a few hours it’ll cool down enough to drink.
Stew is curled up on one side of the tarp, his head sandwiched between his folded arms—one acting as a pillow, one blocking the sunlight. Will is on the opposite side in a similar position, and Cleverly is in the middle.
&
nbsp; “Hey,” I whisper, touching her shoulder. She’s got my hoodie bunched up under her head, her arm blocking the sunlight. She moves and squints up at me. “It’s time to go.”
She nods without hesitation and leans over Will, shaking him awake.
I nudge Stew a few times. “You ready to go?”
“Are you giving me a choice?” he mumbles.
I roll my eyes. “Not really, no.”
I wait for him to get off the tarp, and then I fold it while he tries to lift his pack onto his shoulders.
“You okay?” I say, watching him carefully.
“If I looked okay, you probably wouldn’t be asking,” he says.
I hesitate, and then ask him, “Do you need to eat something?”
I had hoped we could make it to the halfway point before eating again, but if Stew needed to eat now, I wouldn’t blame him. We basically skipped lunch. I don’t even know if it’s best to keep pushing ourselves and save the food for later, or feed ourselves now. Either choice could have bad consequences.
“Nah, I think I’m just groggy from the nap. Once I get walking, I’ll be fine.”
I nod and take his pack from him, lifting it so he can get his arms through the straps, and then I release the weight onto his shoulders. He wavers slightly but nods like he’s got it.
The sun is off to our right as we walk now, which is both a relief and a worry. We no longer have sunlight glaring in our eyes, but it’s also a reminder that the day is mostly over.
“Did the rest of the water boiling go okay?” Cleverly asks.
We’re walking in what has become our usual order: Stew, me, Cleverly, and Will. I nod at her and say, “Yes. It’s clean, but it won’t be cool enough to drink for a while.”
“How long?” Will asks. He’s dragging his feet again. But I guess we’re all kind of dragging.
“I don’t know, maybe three or four hours?”
Nobody says anything. I guess all that Battle Born energy is gone. I try not to think about how tired I am, try to ignore that pain at the back of my throat, the emptiness in my stomach, the weakness in my legs.
Then Will says, “I have an idea. It sort of came to me in a dream, but I think it could work in real life.”
“What is it?” I say.
His face is scrunched up in thought, his flop of blond hair blown back over one ear by the wind. “I was thinking, maybe when we get to Brighton Ranch, we could borrow some of their horses and ride to our house in Las Vegas.”
Stew bursts out laughing, and my face breaks into a smile. But at least I don’t laugh.
Will’s cheeks get red. “What?” he says.
“Don’t listen to him, Will,” Cleverly says, glaring at Stew. “I think it’s a good idea.”
Will shrugs. “I just thought, horses don’t need gas, we could ride home on some horses.”
Stew is laughing so hard, he’s walking almost doubled over now and seems to be having trouble breathing. I don’t want to burst Will’s bubble, so I say, still smiling, “I’ll ride with you, but only if we can leave Stew at Brighton Ranch.”
“We have food in the pantry at home,” Will says over Stew’s laughter, “stuff that wouldn’t have gone bad yet. And we have a swimming pool. The horses would have plenty to drink.”
“What is so funny?” Cleverly asks, because Stew can’t seem to get his laughter under control. He manages to take a breath and squeak out the word, “Horses.”
I can’t help it; I start laughing a little too. Stew’s doubled so far over now that it looks like he’s going to fall forward and face-plant on the ground. And I realize a second before it happens, that that is exactly what he’s about to do.
“Stewart!” I call out, barely getting ahead of him in time to grab the straps of his pack. He goes limp in my arms, his eyes rolling back in his head. I haul him up, getting my arms underneath his and around his back.
“Stew!” I yell at his face, inches from mine, and his eyes suddenly clear.
“What—” he starts to mumble, confused, searching for footing on the ground. Cleverly helps me take off his pack and slowly lower him to a sitting position.
“Just keep your head down,” Cleverly says to him, but I can barely hear her over the ringing in my ears.
I have his food pouch out of his pack in an instant. I pick a protein bar and unwrap it part of the way, putting it into his hands. They’re shaking. Or maybe it’s my hands that are shaking.
“You got it?” I ask, my hands gripping his until I’m sure.
“Sorry,” he says with an embarrassed smile. He puts his knees up, hanging his head between them. “I guess I got a little light-headed.”
Cleverly is crouched beside him, her hand on his back. “It’s not a big deal, Stew. We’re all feeling a bit weak.”
“We need to eat,” I say, standing abruptly and slipping off my pack. Because she’s right. That was a stupid decision. So stupid, making us walk again without eating first.
I pull out my food pouch, get the can of Vienna sausages I was saving for tonight. It takes me a few tries, but I fit my thumb through the tab and pry back the lid. The tops of seven tiny sausages are visible within a pool of cloudy liquid. I dig out the sausage in the center and stuff the whole thing into my mouth. Then I hand the can to Cleverly, who is now giving me the same worried look she was giving Stew.
“Are you okay?” she says, taking a sausage and passing the can to Will. He’s sitting beside my brother with his hand resting on Stew’s knee.
“Me?” I say, quickly chewing and swallowing without tasting anything.
“You look pale.”
“I think Stew’s pack is too heavy. I bet it’s heavier than mine. I’m going to move some stuff around.”
I hunker down in front of our packs, gripping the zipper. But then I suddenly see Stew’s limp body in my arms again. Like he was dead. For a split second, I actually thought he was dead. Out of nowhere, just dead.
“John,” Cleverly is saying from beside me. “He’s okay.”
I squint down at that zipper, sweat dripping from my forehead, and concentrate on the headache that is just starting to build behind my eyes. It’s only a dull ache at this point, but it’s enough to distract me, to take my mind off other things.
“I can carry his pack,” she says.
I glance up at her, but before I can say anything, Stewart calls out, “I don’t need her to carry my stuff.”
I look back at him. “Let her carry it for a while.”
“She’s got her own backpack to carry.”
“I can take the backpack,” Will volunteers. “I haven’t had a turn yet.”
Stewart ignores him. “I said I can carry my own pack—”
“Let her carry it.” It comes out sharply, but he needs to know I’m not backing down from this one.
His eyes narrow at me. “Geez, John. Calm down.”
“Believe me, I’m working on it.”
* * *
For the next mile and a half, I lead out in front, getting farther ahead of the others. Until eventually, Will quickens his pace enough to keep up with me.
“There’s another mile marker,” he says, spotting it before me.
I take out my Sharpie, glance over my shoulder to see how far behind Cleverly and Stewart have fallen. “We’ll stop at the next mile marker after this one, aerate the water, help it cool down faster,” I tell him.
He nods thoughtfully. “That’ll give them a chance to catch up.”
I give Will a sideways look. He was supposed to be the one to slow us down. But he’s staying right beside me, widening his stride to match mine. It’s almost as if having that backpack to carry has given him superpowers or something. A second wind.
“There’s gotta be some food out here,” he says after a while. He shades his face and looks out at the miles of desert landscape. “I’ve seen survival shows on TV. I know there are small animals that live in the desert, but what about an eatable plant, something easy to gather and eat.�
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I feel him turn to look at me in question, but keep my eyes ahead. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah, of course!” he says, getting excited about the idea.
“The desert dung beetle,” I answer.
He makes a face. “A dung beetle?”
“Yep. They’re super nutritious. Packed full of protein, according to Stew. I’ll help you find some when we stop for the night. That’s when all the bugs come out.”
His face scrunches up in thought. “All right,” he finally says.
I start to laugh, but it quickly turns into a dry cough, warm air hitting the back of my parched throat.
“Wait,” he says. “Are you teasing me about the dung beetle?”
I smile and shake my head, still getting my coughing fit under control. “If you ask Stew,” I say, my voice coming out hoarse, “he’ll tell you there are all sorts of eatable bugs out here. I’m just not that hungry, you know?”
He grips the straps of his backpack, admits with half a grin, “Yeah, me neither, I guess. Not yet anyway.” Then he says, “What about water?”
I nod, rubbing a hand across my dry lips. “We are currently heading to the best source of water we have out here, Will. The reservoir.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” he says, and I tamp down my guilt, knowing that I’m basically lying to him. I mean, he’s not actually going to see it. My plan hasn’t changed. I’m going to the reservoir on my own.
Every mile marker from that point on, we stop to check the water. Will holds the empty canteen while I pour it back and forth. And mile after mile, Stew and Cleverly never manage to close the gap between us completely, though stopping helps the distance from growing too far.
By the time the sun sets, I know we’ve gone at least nine hours without drinking water—besides each of us taking a sip of the cloudy liquid in the Vienna sausage tin. The air temperature has lowered—the sun no longer warming the backs of our necks, the sweat on our shirts. But I don’t know how much longer we can go without drinking. All I can think about is the water in my canteens, the soft glugging sound it makes with each step I take.
