“Merle, you don’t look so hot, but I don’t have the tools to—“
“Mom,” Amber called as she rounded the corner of the house. “Check this out!” She pounded up the front steps and proudly handed over a thick book to Cami. “Marty said this would help.”
“TEOTWAWKI Medic Manual…” Cami muttered. She flipped through the pages. “This looks like it’s got a little of everything in it. Nicely done, sweetie.”
“What’s it say about Amy?” Merle coughed. “About Amy’s condition, I mean…”
Cami flipped to the index and looked up the symptoms. In seconds, she found the page listing for stomach ailments and waterborne diseases. “Never thought I’d be researching this stuff for people in our own neighborhood. This is crap you worry about in third world countries…”
“Never thought a freakin’ wave would mean the end of the world, either…” Merle commiserated. “Look what that did to us…”
Cami smiled sadly and looked down at the book. “It says here…ah, here we go. She’s got a fever—”
“Yep,” Merle said.
“Stomach cramps…”
“Yup.”
“Diarrhea, vomiting…”
Merle nodded. “And it’s nasty, all like mucus…sorry,” he said to Amber.
“No worries,” she replied with a grim face.
“That sounds like…dysentery.” Cami looked up from the book.
“What?” Merle asked as he leaned forward, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “Is she gonna die?”
“Isn’t that from the Civil War or something?” Amber asked.
Cami glanced down at the book. “It is, honey, but it can pop up anywhere there’s…wait a minute. There’s a version caused by an ameba.” She looked up from the page. “I’ll give it to you straight, Merle. This bug likes warm water in the southern states—that’s us, and that’s our pond. If this is what she’s got, she’s in a world of trouble. We’ve got to get her on the right side of this or…yes…there’s a chance she could die from it.” She pointed at the page. “Says here something like 80,000 soldiers died of dysentery in the Civil War.”
“I knew it,” Amber muttered to herself.
Merle closed his eyes and leaned over the railing. “She can’t…she can’t die…not like this…”
Cami put a hand on his back. The heat from his body made her step back. “Merle—you’re burning up. When was the last time you had something to eat or drink?” She caught Amber’s eye and inclined her head toward the door.
Amber nodded and slipped inside the house.
“I don’t know…” Merle moaned, distraught. “Does it matter? Amy’s gonna die…”
“She’s not going to die, not if there’s anything I have to say about it,” Cami replied sternly. She held up the book. “And we’ve got the Medic Manual on our side, remember?”
“I don’t know what to do…” he moaned.
“Merle, there’s a list of things to try in here,” Cami replied, nose back in the book. “But first and foremost, we need her drinking water—clean water—and plenty of it. If that means taking the extra time to keep the water boiling, then you’ve got to do it. Her life is in your hands now.”
Amber returned with a sports bottle full of water and a bag of veggies. “It’s not much, but here’s some stuff from the garden and some water. I found some Gatorade packs from last year in the pantry when we cleaned it out…I don’t know if they go bad or not, but when I had a fever, mom always made me drink Gatorade.”
Merle took the supplies in hands that trembled. “Thank you…thank you both…I can’t believe it…”
“Electrolytes are good for her—for both of you, now that you’re feverish,” Cami said. “Go home and get her to drink, you eat some veggies. Do you have any crackers or rice?”
“Uh…yeah, we got some Saltines…”
“Good, get her to eat those. I’ll see what I can find out about how to treat it, and stop by in the morning, okay? Nothing else for her—water and crackers. ”
Merle nodded eagerly and stepped off the porch. “Thank you, Cami—I won’t forget this!” He turned and walked briskly down the driveway, then jogged down the road toward his home on the other side of the neighborhood.
“You think she’ll be okay tonight?” asked Amber as she put her arm around Cami’s shoulders.
Cami sighed. “I don’t know. We don’t have a record of her temperature…this is about all we can do for now. Let’s get a care package together and see if we can research some more tonight, then visit them tomorrow morning. What do you say?”
“I’ll do the research. This stuff is fascinating. I can’t believe someone wrote a book for the end of the world like this…it’s kinda awesome.”
Cami handed the thick, doorstopper of a book to Amber and raised an eyebrow. “This from the girl who was bemoaning the fact she had to go back to school a few weeks ago?”
“Well…” Amber said with a shy grin, already engrossed in the book as she walked back inside. “Compared to dealing with the end the world, learning’s not so bad, is it?”
Chapter 8
Sailing Vessel Intrepid
Northeast of Port Jefferson, New York
Reese checked their position on the chart plastered next to Intrepid’s steering wheel. According to the map, Long Island extended another fifty miles or so southwest. The wind had died as the sun approached the horizon, and as a result, their speed dropped from a brisk six knots down to a sedate three knots. They were almost to the point where Reese was ready to suggest they switch on the outboards just so they can make Port Jefferson by nightfall.
It had been a long, heated discussion when he’d forced Byron’s hand, but the two skippers had buried the hatchet. Temporarily. Reese and Jo talked, and she confirmed everything Bryon had said—Libby did indeed need insulin, and she grew worse by the day. In his mind it still didn’t justify the secrecy, but at least he could understand Byron’s actions. They’d agreed to continue on to Long Island and find help for Libby—who was barely conscious—but Reese couldn’t guarantee that he and Jo would continue south with Byron, Libby, and Tony after they found medicine.
The question remained unspoken, but nagged at the back of Reese’s mind: what if they didn’t find insulin for Libby?
Reese frowned again and looked at the map in the dim light. Port Jefferson. He never thought he'd be so close to New York. But after some apologies and much discussion, Reese and Byron had settled on trying for Port Jefferson as the most likely candidate—and the easiest one to reach—for a safe harbor on the western side of Long Island. When they reached the extreme northeastern tip of the island, Tony had discovered to everyone's disappointment that the tsunami had devastated the eastern end of Long Island where the ground sloped down to meet the water.
Reese couldn't say that he was surprised. Cami had predicted the tsunami would have fifty to one-hundred-foot waves. He couldn't believe it until he'd seen it with his own eyes in Maine. The destruction they'd witnessed all down the coast since leaving Mount Desert Island confirmed that the waves had indeed been of monstrous proportions.
So, they sailed silently around the eastern tip of Long Island and decided that the western half of the island—according to their charts—was considerably higher. As the light faded, Reese hoped that they’d guessed right. If they made their way to Port Jefferson only to find that the entire place of been wiped out as the waves rumbled down Long Island Sound toward New York City, it would be a long night.
"I can't believe your uncle never bothered to tell me that Libby was diabetic and out of medicine…” Reese groused.
“Hey, I would have—but that's just me. Uncle Byron is a bit more…reserved. You know what I mean?"
Reese nodded. "Yeah, I know what you mean. He doesn't like taking help from anybody. I just wish he would've reached out for help on this. Crap like that's gonna get somebody killed.”
Tony nodded. "As long as they have medicine in Port Jefferson, I think w
e’ll be okay.” He shrugged. "Uncle Byron doesn't really hold grudges, so it should all be water under the bridge."
Reese kept his hand steady on the wheel but turned to look at Tony. "I don't much care if he holds a grudge or not. Honestly, once we make it to Baltimore, we’re all splitting ways, right? You're going to your farm and your aunt and uncle are…going back out to sea or something. I don't know, and I don't really care. I'm headed to South Carolina—it's already been almost two weeks since I’ve seen my wife and daughter. I don't even—” Reese's throat tightened up and he couldn't finish the rest of his thought.
I don't even know if they’re still alive.
"To anyone receiving in Port Jefferson, this is sailing vessel Tiberia approaching from the north east. Anyone receiving in Port Jefferson, over."
Reese looked at Tony, then glanced at the radio. Right on time, Byron had commenced broadcasting on the radio to see if they could get anyone's attention before they arrived.
Reese grimaced. "I still think this isn’t a good idea.”
Tony sat on the aft bench. "I don't know what to think. I'm just sick of being out on the water. I have a feeling somebody's gonna be shooting at us before long anyway—that seems to be the pattern every time we get close to land."
Reese shook his head. "That might be the pattern of life from now on but announcing our presence before we even have a chance to figure out what we’re going to do and how we’re going to dock isn't what I would call smart.”
"Anyone listening in Port Jefferson?" asked Byron over the radio again. "This is sailing vessel Tiberia approaching Port Jefferson from the northeast. Anyone receiving?"
Reese glanced at the darkening sky, then flipped the switch that illuminated the mast and safety lights, and also the anti-collision lights at the bow and stern.
"What are you doing?" asked Tony as he jumped to his feet.
"Anybody paying attention already knows where we are," Reese said. "Your uncle made sure of that. But in a couple minutes, I'm not gonna be able to see where he's at. The last thing I want to do is run right into them."
As they worked their way down the northern coast of Long Island, constantly heading southwest, Reese noticed pinpricks of light here and there well up above the ocean surface. "Look, Tony, that's a good sign…”
"Doesn’t look like a lot of lights to me," Tony mumbled.
"That's not the point—there's no electricity anywhere—those are probably fires. There’re survivors up there. That means the land was high enough up that the waves didn't destroy everything. Look—there's light reflecting off of glass windows!" Reese said as he pointed.
"I see it! It's a house—and it’s not destroyed!" Tony called out.
"Sailing vessel Tiberia, this is National Guard Camp Echo. We receive you loud and clear. We haven't seen a lot of ocean traffic lately. How can we assist you?"
Tony cheered, and Reese grinned as the younger man's enthusiasm rebounded across the water.
"Echo, Tiberia. I can't even begin to tell you how good it sounds to hear your voice."
"Roger that, Tiberia. Are you in need of assistance?" was the no-nonsense military reply.
"Yes—my wife—she's sick. We need insulin. She's diabetic."
Reese held his breath as he listened for the response. Several agonizing seconds went by before the radio chirp again. “Copy that, Tiberia—are you declaring a medical emergency?"
Byron's answer was immediate. "Yes. Sailing vessel Tiberia declaring a medical emergency."
“Hard copy, Tiberia. I just confirmed with the doc—-we have insulin here. Proceed to the main harbor. You can’t miss it—we've got the docks cleared of debris and will have the lights on for you."
"Thank you, Echo Base, thank you. Tiberia out."
Reese counted to five, then switched to the private channel he and Byron had arranged beforehand so they could speak and lessen the chance of eavesdroppers. "I thought you said you weren’t going to announce that she was diabetic?"
"You heard them—they got a whole National Guard base, just like the guy in the lighthouse said."
Reese shook his head. “Not to rain on your parade or anything, but have you ever considered that maybe they guy in the lighthouse was working with the people in Newport?"
“You think this is fake?" asked Byron.
"I don't know,” Reese replied testily. “That’s the problem. I can't see anything out there. The sun’s gone down, and now everything’s getting dark. Could be another set up like Newport. I'm just saying, I think we need to be a little more cautious than telling them everything right off the bat."
"You mean like going in with our running lights on?"
"They already know we’re here—they’ve been talking to us on the radio. I got those lights on to make sure you don't run into me, and if you turn on your lights, I'd appreciate it, because I don't want to smash into you,” Reese snapped. After a moment, the radio chirped again, but instead of Byron it was Jo.
"Listen to me," she said in her gruff voice. “Libby ain’t doing so good. We don't have much of a choice anymore—she's barely conscious. If we don't get her some insulin now, she's not gonna make it. Don't look at me like that, Byron, you know it's the truth,” she said, her voice muffled as she turned from the mic. “You wouldn't have risked our lives back in Rhode Island if you didn’t believe it. The time for mincing words is over, boys,” she said, her voice louder as she turned back to the mic. “Y’all need to cowboy up, get this done, and get us out of here."
It took another 15 minutes of careful navigation in the dark to bring the sailboats within sight of Port Jefferson proper. They rounded the desolate, partially devastated headlands at the entrance to the harbor, and saw the wreckage of several boats along the shore, their hulls glistening in the moonlight.
The tsunami had caused damage on the west side of the island as well, but as they grew closer to the shore, it was easier to see where the soil had been laid bare only 20 or 30 feet up from the coast, and where the trees and shrubs had held fast against the oncoming water. The rocky hills and cliffs that lined the north side of Long Island had sheltered the back half of the island from the ill effects of the tsunami. Reese wondered if the people up there knew how lucky they were.
His wonder grew to amazement as they approached. Lights—real, electric lights—illuminated what was left of the harbor and marina. From what Reese could tell, a couple different yacht clubs or sailing clubs had occupied the extreme end of the port before the tsunami. As with anything at sea level, it was a pile of wreckage, but any debris in the water had largely been cleared—unlike in Boston and everywhere else they'd seen along the coast.
Only the streets, buildings, and houses immediately near the water had been damaged by the wave. Port Jefferson, situated for the most part on the side of a hill that led up toward the spine of Long Island, had only suffered minimal damage compared to Bar Harbor. Hundreds, if not thousands of lights sparkled across the town—most of them clustered around the harbor—but as the town stretched off up into the darkened hills, the lights grew more sporadic.
Reese whistled. “There’s a lot more survivors here than anywhere else we've seen."
Beside him, Tony stood in silence. "Yeah," he said after a long moment. “But what's that mean? A lot more people the National Guard has to take care of and feed…”
"Well, I guess we’re about to find out one way or the other…”
Several sentry positions, on either side of the mouth of the harbor, were manned with soldiers in camouflage and electric lights. The muted roar of the generators rumbled across the water, and several small figures illuminated by arc lights along the coast waved as the sailboats cruised by. Tony waved back.
Reese narrowed his eyes but saw nothing out of the ordinary—or from what he'd expect of a National Guard encampment in a post-disaster situation. No bodies lined the streets or floated in the water along shore like Boston. True to the radio operator’s word, debris had been cleared, streets plo
wed, and lights flickered in dozens of houses—electric lights, likely powered by the same massive generators that ran the National Guard camp.
As they approached the shore, Reese got a better understanding of just how big of a presence the National Guard had established at Port Jefferson. Where the waves had demolished several square blocks of buildings, the debris had been bulldozed aside and the ground cleared in the two weeks since the tsunami. Portable fencing and security structures had been erected around a good chunk of property that faced the water.
The command center—or what Reese assumed to be the command center, since it sprouted dozens of antennae—had been built with a spindly tower that housed even more whip-like antennae and a revolving radar dish. Several tractor-trailer size generators grumbled and belched black smoke into the night sky on the far side of the encampment. At least a dozen modular buildings about the size of a tractor trailer had been constructed, arranged in a grid pattern that looked to Reese like barracks. Mixed in with these were dark green tents that looked like barrels cut in half and on their sides.
"Just how many guys did they bring?" he muttered.
Tony pointed out big camouflage trucks that lumbered down the streets—some equipped with bulldozer blades on the front while others carried crates and boxes of supplies or even people.
"This is amazing…” Byron said over their private channel.
"Yeah, it looks great," Reese said cautiously, “but we still need to keep our eyes open. Something doesn't feel right about this."
"All right, Obi-Wan," Byron sighed. “Look, you’re right—Newport was a bad idea. But look at this—this is the army, this isn't some fly-by-night gang like we saw in Boston, or a bunch of pirates in Rhode Island. These guys represent the federal government. They're here to help."
Reese snorted into the mic. "Yeah. Okay, Boomer."
"What's that even supposed to mean?" Byron demanded.
Broken Tide | Book 3 | Maelstrom Page 8