Into the Yellow Zone

by Lynda Engler

  Following the same directions he had given to Isabella and her group, Dr. Rosario led Luke to the Hudson River, to the base of the George Washington Bridge. Luke had lost time getting injured and estimated he was now five days behind the other group.

  “I was at the Grand Opening of this museum when I was young,” he said wistfully. “It was a gala affair! Black tie and tux. I was so upset that I had to wear the ridiculous penguin suit, but my parents forced me. I wound up having fun in the end. I even danced with a girl! Ah, those were the days.”

  Luke replied, “I’m not sure what a penguin suit is or why anyone would be forced to wear one.”

  The scientist looked confused for a moment, and then said, “No, you wouldn’t, would you? The old world must seem a weird and peculiar one to shelter folk. A ‘penguin suit’ is a derogatory word for a tuxedo with tails because that’s how they made the wearer look.”

  Luke still looked confused, but before he could ask, Dr. Rosario figured out the problem. “A tuxedo is a black suit, boy. It’s fancy dress for a man.”

  “Ah! How old were you?” asked Luke.

  “Just about your age, maybe a little older. I think I was sixteen. Yes, sixteen, I remember now. I was starting college that fall and I was so nervous about that dance. But the girl, I can’t remember her name anymore, she was kind. She didn’t even step on my toes.”

  Not wanting to waste any more time listening to the old man reminisce, Luke urged him toward the building’s entrance.

  “Look, that machine has been moved recently.” Luke pointed to the overturned vending machine. “See the scrape marks on the concrete? Isabella and her group were definitely here! Come on, let’s go in.”

  Once inside, they found footprints on the dusty floor. “And look! They pushed something out that door there.” Again, Luke pointed like a detective to the disturbed dust at the back entrance of the museum. “Bet they took a boat.”

  “Yes, that would have been the prudent thing to do,” said Dr. Rosario. “That was, after all, why I sent them here.”

  They surveyed their surroundings. The museum was empty. Had been for a very, very long time. “Too bad there isn’t anything we can use here to follow them. It would be the quickest way up the river to West Point,” said Luke.

  They were both exhausted from their long journey, but Luke was at least thankful that this part of New Jersey was flatter than the mid-section. The terrain had sloped downhill as they had neared the Hudson River making their last few miles much less tiring. His arm throbbed as his bones mended and the muscles in his chest, already on fire from the tiger’s mauling, hurt doubly with the exertion of their trek.

  Luke glanced out the picture window as he removed the heavy pack from his shoulders to sit down and rest. “What’s that?”

  “That,” said Dr. Rosario, suddenly grinning like a lunatic, “is our ticket up the Hudson, my boy! That is a Vendēe Globe racing yacht, one of the finest sailing vessels ever created. It was built back at the turn of the 21st century to be raced around the world single-handedly.”

  “Do you know how to sail it, Doc?”

  “What do you think I was doing at this museum’s opening? My high school sailing team was the best in the East and I was its captain,” said the scientist with a childlike grin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Isabella

  Rowing upstream was a tremendous challenge for Isabella and Kalla, but they worked out a way to row as a pair and get almost as far as either Malcolm or Clay could alone. In this way, the group was able to row for three hours straight, trading off every half hour or so. They got about five miles upstream, but no one had seen any communities or the slightest sign of habitation. No smoke, no fires, no odd smells, just the unending aroma of pine trees and brackish water, the rhythmic slosh of water against the side of the boat, and the undulating ripples from the current beneath them.

  The group neared a quay that jutted out on the western bank of the river. They had been aiming for it for almost an hour and now they rowed nearer to the shore. The water got choppy as they got closer.

  As they approached, the three tall, white apartment buildings that they had seen from far off in the water revealed terraces on every floor. The buildings were all the same height, about 15 stories by Isabella’s estimate. The narrow isthmus had been deserted for fifty years. Numerous boat docks lined the southern shore, some still sound, others only skeletal shadows of their former selves. Some of the slips in the dock had boats moored there, but they were broken, battered, and sunken into the river.

  Isabella unfolded her map and followed the Hudson River north to where she assumed they now were. She found the location of the quay and could see that once north of the apartments, the river widened into an almost placid lake, probably two to three miles across.

  As they rowed along the down-stream side of the spit of land, Malcolm said, “Since this jetty is pretty narrow it’ll be easy to keep a lookout here.”

  Lookout. Yes, thought Isabella, there could be anything on that spit of land. Eaters. Spiders. Venomous snakes. She had no idea what dangers lurked there.

  Malcolm maneuvered closer to the skinny peninsula. “Let’s head to the other side and see if there are docks there as well. I deem the waves will be less choppy on that side. We can dock there and eat lunch.”

  The group assented with assorted nods or sounds. Isabella’s stomach groaned insistently, comforting her with its commonplace behavior, completely oblivious to the dangers they faced.

  “Odd place,” mused Isabella, looking up at the tall buildings. “I wonder how people could live out here, so open and so high up.”

  The breeze off the calm river drifted over them and she thought that on windy days, it must get cold, especially in the winter. The summer breeze today was nice.

  “Papa,” said Shia, as they made their way around the tip of the point. “Look at the huge bridge!”

  All six occupants of the rowboat stared at the strange metal structure. “It’s very different than the Washington Bridge, isn’t it?” asked Clay.

  The George Washington Bridge dominated the world lower down the river, near New York City, and almost on top of the boat museum. This, however, was a very different structure. “This one is only one level and it’s flat all the way from end to end, except that great big tall part in the middle,” noted Kalla.

  Isabella consulted her map again. “That’s the Tappan Zee Bridge, and I think the high middle section was where the tall ships went under.” She folded her map and put it in her pack, afraid that it would get wet from the splashes of Malcolm’s rowing.

  The upstream side of the isthmus did indeed have docks. Some looked like they were still usable, and her husband aimed their small boat toward a metal dock structure that still had aluminum planking along the top of the pier. As Malcolm slowly coasted into the ancient slip, Isabella climbed out and tied their small craft to a weathered cleat on the dock. The rope they had taken from the boat museum was a dull beige color and made of some type of material that had not decayed, splintered or frayed over the long decades since it was manufactured.

  “I bet there were some beautiful boats here once,” she mused. The others disembarked and stepped onto the dock. It swayed under their feet, but Isabella kept her balance as they walked along it to land. None of them had ever walked on a floating dock before, but the swaying of the boat had given them some sense of balance on the water.

  Once ashore, Kalla, Clay and the little girls walked toward the nearest building to get a closer look.

  “Pier-mont Mar-in-a,” Kalla frowned in concentration as she sounded out the faded sign slowly and deliberately.

  Isabella smiled proudly at her student. “Wonderful reading.”

  “Stay near the dock,” said Malcolm. “We have no idea what might lurk inside the buildings.” A cautious examination of Piermont verified that it was deserted. Isabella watched Malcolm visibly relax once he was sure of their safety. Even this far away from any city,
it was still possible for Eaters to be hiding here.

  They ate their lunch on the dock and then returned to the rowboat to resume their journey up river, staying close to the center of the waterway where they could scan both shores for signs of intelligent life. Within an hour, they were far enough north of New York City that the far shore was not in the Yellow Zone. It was close, however. There could be tribes living there. There must have been animals living in the safety of the trees, but so far, there was no sign of humanity.

  The heat was an ever-present annoyance that Isabella had gotten used to, but the coolness offered by regular river breezes was a pleasant change.

  By evening, they smelled smoke again, and this time it was not just Malcolm and little Andra. The heavy aroma of chimney smoke and cook fires was unmistakable, even to Isabella.

  The smell emanated from the left bank of the river and the small band of mutants who stood there did not attempt to hide their presence or their intentions.

  A dozen mutants, the most mutated beings Isabella had ever seen, stood shoulder to shoulder on the shore, weapons ready. Each one held a spear or a bow made of local wood and sinew, not modern gear salvaged from ancient sporting goods stores like Malcolm and Clay’s. Isabella had no doubt that they would be just as deadly. She was simultaneously nervous and excited to be meeting more new humans.

  Malcolm stood up in the rowboat way too fast, almost capsizing the small craft. After regaining his balance, he laid his fiberglass compound bow on the seat he had just vacated. Malcolm cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “We mean you no harm!” Then he raised his four and six-fingered hands in the air and splayed his fingers, demonstrating his own mutation... and that he was not armed.

  Clay put his own hands in the air, his webbed fingers still visible in the failing light.

  Malcolm announced, “We have small children with us. Please let us come ashore.”

  As if to prove his statement, Shia stood up next to her father, gripping the legs of his shorts to keep her balance in the swaying boat. The little girl was always a little off balance, with her one leg so much shorter than the other was.

  The mutants on shore unknocked their arrows and lowered their bows. The spearmen still stood at attention, holding their weapons, but not making any menacing motions. They wore nothing but animal skin loincloths.

  “Come ashore,” shouted a man who looked very old. “We won’t hurt you.”

  Have we found mutants who live to old age?! Isabella thought eagerly.

  Malcolm and Shia retook their seats and Clay rowed the remaining fifty yards to the wooded riverbank. After Clay ran the rowboat aground on a sandy beach to keep it from drifting downstream, Malcolm stepped out, taking his bow with him but allowing it to dangle at his side. He approached the locals slowly.

  The man who had allowed their entry turned out to be a gangly boy in his mid-teens. The skin of his arms and legs was creased in deep wrinkles like an old man and his head was grotesquely large for his body. His face and neck bulged in irregular lumps like oatmeal. Isabella's heart sank when she saw how young he was. Despite his monstrous appearance, his cerulean blue eyes shone brightly and his teeth were straight and white when he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I’m Reed.” He stuck his right hand out to shake Malcolm’s. Malcolm extended his own six-fingered hand to return the greeting.

  “Malcolm." He made introductions all around and then continued. "We’re from Telemark, traveling north before winter. Can you offer us shelter for the night?”

  They had agreed not to give out information about their mission until any tribes they met accepted them. That strategy had worked well with Diane at Alpine. Gaining trust from tribes first was imperative in being believed.

  “You can stay the night, but we don’t advise traveling any further north. Stay here, or go back where you came from, but don’t go any farther up the river,” said Reed.

  “Why not?” asked Malcolm.

  “No one comes back from beyond the Point.” His voice had a nervous edge to it.

  “The point?” Malcolm stared at the river apprehensively, wondering what danger could lie in its watery depths.

  “Stony Point, where the river narrows and beyond which no sane person dares to go.”

  * * *

  Luke

  Luke and Dr. Rosario found the basement workshop easily, since Isabella had left the service elevator door open. They rummaged through the storage compartments and found several bolts of lightweight cloth, which turned out to be sails. They appeared to be in good repair, but they smelled musty, like two-week-old dirty socks. After spreading the sails outside on the ground, they inspected for mildew and checked the seams and batten pockets for damaged stitching.

  “We’re lucky these sails are carbon-spectra,” said Dr. Rosario. “The rats would have completely devoured canvas.”

  Over the next two days, Luke learned how to lubricate pulleys, hanks, sheaves, and pins. He and Dr. Rosario spent their time cleaning and repairing so they could rig the ship and release it from its five-decade-long hibernation. They wiped down the mast, which for Luke meant a climbing trip up the rigging. He was forced to remove the sling on his arm and regain its use sooner than the muscles were ready, but he acted as necessity dictated.

  At night, before falling asleep, Pumpkin at his side, Luke devoured every word of a sailing tutorial he found in the gift shop. Dr. Rosario had also regaled him with some facts about the vessel they were preparing to take upriver. The 60’ monohull was carbon sandwich construction, much stronger than steel or wooden boats. Its hull had not deteriorated over the decades, as fiberglass would have. It had two rudders and twin wheels, so a single sailor could handle it from one of two different pilothouses or two sailors could work in tandem. Once they raised the rotating mast, the sail would stand 85 feet over the Hudson River, which would make their travels interesting if they came across any low-lying bridges.

  When the yacht was ready, Luke asked, “How are we going to move it into the water, Doc?”

  The old scientist and sailor pointed to a yellow vehicle standing like a lone sentinel, watching the river. “We use the marine forklift.”

  “Does it work? And do you have any idea how to use it?” asked Luke.

  Dr. Rosario grunted. “Hmm. We shall see what is possible my boy, we shall see.”

  Dr. Rosario had never used a forklift before, but intelligent as the old man was, he figured it out. He mumbled something about it not being rocket science, but to Luke, all science was as mysterious as magic; all strange and unknowable.

  The marine forklift was gasoline powered, and once Dr. Rosario disconnected its electronic components, it started up with a loud chorus of creaks and groans, like the old man’s rheumatic joints protesting at the unaccustomed work.

  Dr. Rosario drove the machine right up to the Vendēe Globe and pushed a lever on the console until the giant black forklike tines on the front lowered to ground level. Another lever pushed the tines forward until they were directly underneath the racing yacht. Slowly, slowly, Dr. Rosario began to lift the fork tines, raising the vessel off the metal platform where it had rested for five decades.

  “That’s far enough,” said the old man. “I don’t want to risk it falling off!”

  As he be began backing up, Luke held his breath. The boat was wedged between the metal arms of the fork at a slight angle, not quite centered, but it seemed secure. Once the scientist had the vehicle squared up facing the water, he reversed direction and began the downhill trek to the water’s edge.

  Rumbling down to the water, the marine forklift’s right front wheel hit a rut and the machine made a horrible, crunching noise. The forklift shuddered.

  Dr. Rosario swore. He pulled back on the forward lever and slowed the forward momentum, just as the yacht began to slide sideways.

  Dr. Rosario swore again and pushed the machine forward faster. The wet shoreline rippled under the heavy machine. The entire forklift began to sink in mud
.

  Luke sprang forward, and then froze in his tracks. He was impotent to help.

  Dr. Rosario fought the damp ground and stabilized the forklift. He pushed forward through the mud and ran the entire machine into the river! Before the water rose to the full height of the yacht, he pushed a lever and the forklift lowered the boat into the Hudson.

  Luke pumped his fist in the air when the yacht finally settled into the river. The old scientist eased down from the cab of the marine crane, lowered himself into the water, and walked out of the river. The forklift would never run again.

  Dr. Rosario rubbed his right knee and looked back at the yacht, now resting safely where it belonged. A broad smile spread across his wrinkled face. “You just wait, Luke. Travel by sail is the most euphoric and exhilarating thing you’ll ever experience.”

  * * *

  Isabella

  “The Valley” as the locals called it, turned out to be a five-mile stretch of wooded land on the western edge of the Hudson River. It was heavily forested and consisted of five old state parks, three lakes, a bay, and two tributary rivers that flowed into the Hudson. The woods stretched many miles inland from the Hudson and even before the Final War, there had been very few people living in the area. The trees were tall and green and the underbrush was thick and hard to traverse where the people of the Valley had not worn paths in the earth.

  Loosely affiliated, the Valley had no organized structure or government of any kind. It was not even organized into any kind of community. There were no towns, only small groups of houses – some no more than crude wooden or stone huts – scattered throughout the former state parks. The lakes and rivers dominated the local economy, most people surviving by fishing, hunting, and gathering. Lake trout and bass had prospered well since the war, as had the migratory deer. The people of the Valley seemed to eat well.

  Malcolm and Clay pitched their tents next to a small lake, built a campfire, while the girls picked wild berries, and gathered nuts in a basket one of the locals had loaned them.