The Dystopian Diaries

by K. W. Callahan

  The seas are beginning to get a little choppy, and it looks like we have some dark clouds rolling in from the southeast, so I guess we’d better get our tails moving. The sooner we do this, the better in my opinion. I’m tired of thinking about it and just want to get it over with as soon as possible. Wish us luck.

  1:15 p.m.

  Well, we’re still alive AND the plastic is finally off the propeller.

  I can’t quite put into words just how terrifying it was being out there again. I know that I felt so exposed and defenseless, and while Jeremy hasn’t said much, I’m sure that he felt it too.

  We’re getting ready to attempt restarting the engine as I write.

  1:36 p.m.

  Okay, so I guess our efforts were for nothing. After all that work to untangle the propeller, it appears that something else is wrong with the engine. The way things have been going lately, it figures. I don’t think our luck could get much worse at this point.

  2:29 p.m.

  You would think I would have learned by now not to write things like “I don’t think our luck could get much worse,” since it seems that every time I do, things suddenly get worse.

  In this instance, it looks like we have a new storm blowing in. The wind has picked up dramatically just in the last 15 minutes or so. The wave height has increased as well, and in just the last minute or so it has started to rain.

  Added to all this, the leak in our lifeboat continues to worsen. I’m sure all this wave action we’re getting isn’t helping things. Jeremy says that the movement created by the waves only increases the stress on the boat’s hull, and with added stress comes greater pressure on our ever-widening crack. I’d say there is probably about a half a gallon a minute coming in now. Given, it’s still not enough to have us bailing with a bucket just yet, but it means that someone has to be on “seepage duty” at all times in an on-going mopping up and wringing out process. We’ve split the duty into four hour segments since there are six of us remaining aboard our bobbing boat.

  The family of three keeps mainly to themselves. They seem quite wary of us now, almost distrustful. I don’t know what we’ve done to garner their disfavor. You’d think they’d be grateful to us for risking our lives to clear the propeller. Instead, they seem to blame us for not being able to get the engine started. I suppose it’s just the situation. It’s wearing on all of us. I’m just glad the gun is gone. Oh, that’s right, I forgot to mention that. When Hector went out to work on the propeller before he disappeared, he took the gun with him. He refused to leave it behind. He put it in a sealable plastic baggy and tied it to his wrist with a long string so that it would float along with him but not get in his way.

  Talk about distrustful! But in a way, I’m glad he took it with him when whatever happened to him happened. Now the weapon is no longer an issue. And even though he never used it in a way that would allow him to take advantage or threaten the rest of the passengers, just knowing that he had it gave him a certain power over the rest of us.

  Wow, it’s getting really rough out there. The rain is coming down in sheets. Jeremy just closed the lifeboat door to keep the rain and the wind out. We won’t be able to keep it closed long, though, since we have to continue with our seepage duty. What’s more important? Keeping the rain from coming in or being able to get the boat’s seepage out?

  4:47 p.m.

  The rain comes and goes but the wind and the waves have remained a constant presence. This storm isn’t as bad as the last one we encountered, but it has definitely churned up the seas nonetheless.

  For once, I have some better news to report. Oswald has gotten the lifeboat’s motor up and running again. This is great news. The only problem is that now we seem to be keeping pace with this storm as we both seem to be headed in a westerly direction. Just seems like we can never catch a break. With the good, there always has to be some bad. Plus, now we have to split our already meager labor pool between seepage duty and steering the lifeboat. We’re already exhausted and somewhat malnourished, more work and less rest is the last thing we need.

  Speaking of more work, Jeremy and I rigged up a system to funnel rain water inside the lifeboat. When it’s raining, we open the lifeboat door and hold our bathroom privacy tarp out to funnel water inside and into some empty water bottles we have. It is a lot of work, and you get drenched doing it, but even Lucian, Amanda and Julian have helped in the effort. We have managed to fill three, 16-ounce water bottles in this way. It’s not much, but our water supply continues to grow perilously low, so we’ll take anything we can get.

  We caught Julian drinking some of the collected water, and Jeremy voiced concern to the boy’s father. Lucian, of course, defended his son and became quite agitated in the process. I thought for a moment that he and Jeremy were going to come to blows, but Julian apologized and said he would work extra to accumulate more rainwater, which seemed to calm the situation.

  It just goes to show how strained nerves and relations are aboard our claustrophobic craft.

  September 19th

  (Lifeboat – Day 8)

  7:22 a.m.

  We’ve made it through another long night. I actually got some decent sleep when I wasn’t mopping up seepage, helping to steer the lifeboat, or trying to catch rainwater.

  It’s still storming, but at the moment, the wind and the waves seem to be blowing in from the east, which means they should be driving us to the west.

  I’ll deal with rough seas if they are helping to bring us closer to home.

  8:31 a.m.

  For as hungry as I am, if I never see another biscuit or cookie or whatever you want to call these drab and tasteless things, it will be too soon. What I wouldn’t give for a nice chicken alfredo, a tub of Rocky Road ice cream, and a bottle of red wine.

  11:11 a.m.

  The lifeboat is running low on fuel. We have less than an eighth of a tank remaining. At this rate, it looks like we’ll run out well before we’re back home, not that we have any idea when that would be since we don’t know our location.

  2:19 p.m.

  We now have multiple points of seepage in the lifeboat’s hull. It seems like the waves are battering our poor craft to bits. There are at least three spots where water is coming in now.

  5:11 p.m.

  I’ve hardly had time to write. I’m always doing something – steering, rain collecting, bailing – yes, BAILING! The seepage has turned to a steady stream of water flowing into the boat. We’re using several buckets to help us keep up with the flow. And there seems to be no end to the storm we’re weathering. I’m almost looking forward to us running out of fuel so that maybe the storm will pass us by. But then we’ll be in the same boat again (both literally and figuratively) – no engine, no progress toward shore, and no idea of where we are or how close we might be to the mainland or ANY land for that matter.

  I’d think we have to be getting close to Florida, but five miles or fifty, does it really matter? With no way to judge, and no way to get there other than the current, the distance is too far in either case. And with this stupid storm constantly hovering over us, and our boat beginning to founder below us, things are looking increasingly bleak. We’ve gone from a sinking cruise ship to a sinking lifeboat.

  Jeremy has pulled out several lifejackets for us to wear, and with a plethora of such floatation devices, he’s gathered another pile of extras that he said he wants to experiment something with. I told him that he might as well. We have ten jackets for every person aboard, so we have far more than we’ll need.

  If this is my last entry, well, I guess anyone who reads this will know we didn’t make it through the night, not that anyone would be reading it anyway. Speaking of which, after I end this entry, I’m going to seal this book in a plastic freezer bag we have from the food we brought aboard with us and then seal it inside a plastic container (also from our spare food).

  I’ve told Jeremy that I love him and that should the lifeboat go down and we get separated in the rough seas, my la
st thoughts will be of him so that we’ll be together mentally as we face death even if we aren’t together physically. He said that he would do the same but that we’re not going to be separated.

  I’m doing my best to hold it together emotionally as I write these last few lines. It’s hard to think that after all of this we aren’t going to make it. We’d just started to live together as husband and wife, and to have it all end so quickly, so suddenly, it makes me sad, and it makes me wonder what might have been.

  I guess it doesn’t matter now. All that matters are these last few minutes or hours or however long we have left together.

  September 20th

  (Lifeboat – Day 9)

  6:48 a.m.

  Somehow we’ve made it through another night. I guess I shouldn’t say “somehow”. It was through sheer grit, determination, and a ton of hard work during a largely sleepless night that we managed to stay afloat. That being said, I’m not sure how long we have left.

  It was another long, LONG night, and we’re all exhausted. Jeremy and I, along with Lucian and his family, kept up the bailing efforts for the first portion of the night, taking turns switching off to keep the water inside the boat to a minimum. We were able to maintain the water level at just a couple inches deep throughout the night. It sloshes around with the boat as we ride the waves and is a constant annoyance. Jeremy (when he wasn’t bailing or trying to nab a few winks of sleep here and there) switched off with Oswald steering the lifeboat.

  We ended up running out of gas at about 3 a.m. this morning. Now we’re once again at the whim of the sea. I had to take my diary out of its water-tight container to write this morning, but it’s going back inside once I’m done.

  I’ve put the marker pen I used to draw my hour lines on the wall last week to good use. I used it to draw lines on the side of the lifeboat seats to gauge the rise in water level inside the boat. While the constant movement we experience makes it hard to get an idea of where we stand with our bailing efforts, every so often we hit a calm spot long enough to determine whether we’re staying ahead or falling behind the leaking. It seems like the harder we bail, the harder the water presses its way inside. And we’re not going to be able to keep up with this forever. Even with six of us working in shifts, the constant bailing is taking its toll. We still need to sleep. We still need to eat. Our muscles ache. Our eyes are bleary and bloodshot. We’re constantly sopping wet. During the day we’re sweating. At night we’re shivering. It just seems like our efforts to stay alive are becoming increasingly fruitless.

  8:03 a.m.

  I’m only taking a moment to grab some food, have a splash of water, rest my weary muscles, and write these few words.

  The storm has intensified. The waves are worse. Oswald is at the steering controls trying to keep the lifeboat headed with the direction of the waves to keep us from capsizing. The water inside the boat is making us very unstable. It’s reaching a critical level.

  Water is almost to the bottom of the lifeboat door. More water comes in through the open lifeboat door when we bail than we put out. Can’t stay afloat much longer. I love Jeremy so much. I’m scared. I don’t want to die.

  Epilogue

  This is Jonathon Povault again, the man who found this diary on the beach.

  After reading the entries here, I must first say that I found it interesting to read someone else’s account of their Su flu experiences. Mine were far different, but that’s a story for another day.

  My second observation, oddly enough, is that I KNOW THESE PEOPLE! I don’t know them well, but I’ve met them before. They actually live here in Cocoa Beach. They must have settled here after the flu. But I wonder how they managed to make it to shore without their diary of events. I wonder if they kept the lifeboat afloat long enough to make it to land. And if so, why didn’t Jill Davis write more about their trip? Maybe they were just too busy struggling to keep the boat afloat to write. But if that’s the case, how did the diary become separated from them?

  I have so many questions. I’m going to try to track Jill and Jeremy down to return this diary and find out what happened between when they were on the lifeboat and now.

  TEN YEARS POST FLU

  This is Jill Davis. I’m making my final entry in this diary. I can’t believe I’m writing in it again after all these years. Frankly, I can’t believe it survived at sea (or wherever it was) all this time. Jeremy was amazed as well. We’d almost forgotten entirely about its existence. I figured that it was lost for good on the day of my last entry. I was so thankful that Mr. Povault returned it to me. I wonder if its journey over the last decade has been as wild and interesting as ours.

  Speaking of our journey, it’s time to clarify just what happened after I stopped writing my final entry over ten years ago. Looking back over the final few pages I scrawled in those last frantic minutes aboard the lifeboat brings me right back to that place. I remember the despair of the situation. I remember the disappointment and feeling of failure at not having found a way out of our predicament. And most of all, I remember the fear of the unknown and of death. Drowning at sea seemed horrible enough, but it was nothing compared to the fear of possibly being tossed into that frothing torrent with the same sharks that had taken the lives of Richard and Barbara, and possibly Hector as well.

  As our lifeboat slowly foundered beneath us, and bailing became insufficient, we all donned our lifejackets and moved to the top of the boat. It was windy and rainy, making the lifeboat’s rooftop slick and difficult to hang onto. Jeremy and Oswald brought up the life rafts they’d created. They’d formed these from the spare lifejackets that they had tied together in sets of about ten to form larger raft-like floatation devices. They’d made six of them in total – one for each of us. Jeremy and I had in turn linked our individual devices together so as to keep from being separated in the rough seas.

  Oswald gave us some element of hope as we sat there, clinging to the top of the lifeboat as we continued to be lashed by the storm. We had closed the lifeboat door behind us when we made our exit, and he told us that it might allow an air pocket to be formed inside the boat. This, he explained, could potentially keep the lifeboat from being submerged completely and allow us to remain atop it.

  Less than an hour later, his theory was unfortunately proved wrong as the lifeboat settled lower and lower in the water and eventually sank from beneath us below the waves.

  At this juncture, it was every man, woman, and in Julian’s case, teenager for themselves. We initially tried to stay together in one large group, but that eventually became extremely difficult with the wind and the waves constantly doing their best to rip us from one another’s grasp. As darkness settled, we gave up trying to remain a whole and instead did our best to stay in two groups of three. Lucian, Amanda, and Julian floated one way, Jeremy, Oswald, and I another.

  During that long, long, LONG night, we lost hold of Oswald when a huge wave came crashing over us. Jeremy and I were even torn apart temporarily, but thankfully we were reunited when the wave passed, and we managed to retie our two floatation devices to one another.

  Thankfully, I guess because of the strength of the storm, the sharks were conspicuously absent. Were they there, I’m sure that even with our flotation devices, they would have made quick work of all of us. It was the only reason I was thankful for the storm, and as I made that connection, and for as exhausting as weathering that storm was, I began to pray for it not to end.

  For once, during that trying period in our lives, my prayers were answered – the storm did not stop. It kept on battering us and tossing us about like miniscule toys in a giant bathtub overnight and well into the next day. It was during that next day (I have no idea what time it was since my water resistant watch had died by that point), while clinging to our lifejacket floatation device, a large wave had lifted us up. When the wave peaked, Jeremy said he thought he saw something in the distance. I asked him what he thought he saw, but he said he couldn’t be sure. We then made it a priority to
try to catch another similar wave so that it lifted us again since with all the choppy water it was impossible to see anything other than what was right around us – which was only more water.

  It was at that point we saw it – LAND!!!

  We had no idea how far away the land was. Jeremy estimated it at several miles. And for as exhausted as we were, the adrenaline kicked in at the sight, and we began to swim. But the adrenaline wasn’t all that kicked in. There was fear as well. It was almost as if the sight of land being within reach almost made me more terrified that when we’d been aimlessly adrift at sea. At sea, there had been fear paired with despair and a sense of hopelessness. At the sight of land, hope returned – there was something to shoot for. Salvation was within reach. But that also meant that salvation could be taken from us, just as the lifeboat had.

  I still remember all the thoughts that began rushing through me every time I thought we might be back on dry land by day’s end – the reappearance of sharks, a current that might drag us back out to sea, a giant wave coming and dashing us to bits, or some other unimaginable event that could sink our chance of finally making our way back to some sense of normalcy.

  “Normalcy” – I find it interesting to write that word now, but it’s what I thought at the time. I had no idea just how UN-normal the world had become. But at the time, all I could think about was making it “home” even though I was unaware that “home” as I once knew it, no longer existed.