by Jacob Gowans
Sammy made a sound of annoyance. A switch had flipped in his brain, and all of a sudden he didn’t feel like talking. Every step made him hungrier. He knew he couldn’t keep the pace up all day, maybe not even half the day.
If something doesn’t happen soon . . . he let the thought hang over him. I shouldn’t have shared that pizza with Toad.
He enjoyed the silence; nothing but birds singing and air blowing around them. The serenity helped bring things into focus. They walked through patches of forest, then patches of clearing. Sammy preferred the forests because he felt safer under cover, even though traveling was slower.
Toad, on the other hand, didn’t like the quiet. He tolerated it for several minutes at a time, but then came right back to pestering Sammy with more questions or talking about any subject under the sun. The only subject Toad avoided was family. “How did you get your superpowers?” “Where did you learn to use them?” “I can run really fast.” “Do I have powers, too?” It reminded Sammy of his conversation with Feet in Johannesburg while they’d been trying to elude the Shocks.
“You aren’t answering any of my questions,” Toad reminded him.
“I know,” Sammy said dully.
“How did you—?”
Toad stopped walking, but better yet, he stopped talking. It wasn’t because they had just come to the edge of the woods or because the sun had finally found their faces again, it was because the end of the woods marked a large community, a town stretching on for . . . Sammy couldn’t tell exactly how long.
He watched Toad’s face as it turned from hopeful to confused.
“Do you feel that?” asked Toad. His breath condensed in the air, dying centimeters from his lips.
Sammy didn’t notice anything at first except the pains in his stomach and shins. When he took a moment to really pay attention, he understood what Toad meant. The panorama before him was so static it could have hung on a wall. It was obviously an older town; the materials of the homes were quite outdated. The lawns were overgrown, the tall trees breached the borders of the houses, growing over roofs and into windows, and yet Sammy could still have believed the town was inhabited had it not been for the perfect stillness captured like a picture.
Toad stood next to him and gave a loud sniff. “Ghost town. They’re all over, I think.”
Sammy had seen them before in Europe when he’d gone with his family. According to Sammy’s history instruction, the worldwide average of fatality was over fifty percent during the Scourge. In South Africa, the casualties had stayed close to twenty-five percent. But in places as densely populated as China, India, and the United States, much higher percentages were seen, even reaching ninety in heavily urbanized areas. After things began to settle, mass mobilization resulted, with people moving back into the more urban areas. In the end, the small and mid-size towns took the greatest hit.
The effect was eerie. No artificial light streaming from windows or street lamps. No cars humming down the street or even standing parked in driveways. No joggers on the sidewalks or dogs barking behind fenced yards. Perfect quietness prevailed.
“This is great,” Sammy said, intruding on the pervading quiet. “Let’s see what we can find.”
They went to the nearest house. The front door was unlocked, so they let themselves in. Sammy couldn’t help his nervousness when they went inside. After all, they were entering a house uninvited.
The rooms were bare of furniture, the walls of any decorations. Drab curtains still covered a few of the back windows. A thick layer of dust coated the carpet and any other horizontal surface. Sammy’s mind instantly went to food, and it seemed that Toad’s did as well, because they both tore into the kitchen in a frenzy. With bangs and crashes, they systematically opened each kitchen cabinet, the fridge, freezer, and searched frantically for a pantry. It didn’t matter. There was no food to eat.
“Are you kidding me?” Toad shouted as he slammed the pantry door shut.
Sammy swallowed his own disappointment. “Look for blankets and clothes.”
They combed every room and closet in the house and found nothing.
“I’m taking those,” Toad said, pointing at the curtains. He ripped them off the windows and wrapped them around himself as blankets, then they moved onto the next house. And then the next house, and then the next house . . .
As the sun set that night, Sammy and Toad walked down County Road clutching the thickest curtains they’d found around their shoulders. Toad pulled a badly rusted red wagon behind him. The wagon contained all their treasures: a sealed bag of rolled oats, three cans of corn, one can of chicken, and a few odds and ends they’d picked up. They passed a sign dangling upside down, hanging on by one nail. The next bad windstorm would tear it completely off the post.
“Welcome to Cedar Mills. Great Fishing. Great People,” Sammy read aloud while craning his neck. “I hope the sign’s right about the fish.”
“I’m depressed,” Toad mumbled.
“What’d you expect?” Sammy asked, “A banquet?”
“No.” Toad sniffed a couple times and rubbed his nose. “But I didn’t think they’d be totally cleaned out. He kicked a rock and watched it roll end over end down the road. “Now what?”
“I wish I could cook,” Sammy grumbled.
“Can we just eat?”
Sammy shook his head. They caught up to the rock Toad had kicked, and Sammy gave it another good boot. It rolled out of sight. “Let’s pick a house to sleep in. We’ll eat there. Maybe tomorrow we can find some more food. If not, we’ll keep going north.”
Toad picked the closest house, an older looking two-level on the corner. It felt good to rest. Sammy noticed how tired his legs had grown from all the walking.
They started a fire in a metal pail with some matches Toad had found earlier in a jar under a broken bedspring. Looking at their food, they had to decide which to eat. Corn was the obvious choice, as they had three cans. Sammy picked the meat to go with it. He used his knife to open the cans.
“Okay, what about water?” Toad asked suddenly.
“What about it?”
“I need some. I haven’t had any in hours.”
Sammy licked his own dry lips, almost annoyed that he was now noticing how thirsty he was, too. “Neither have I. We’ll split what’s in the corn can and get some more tomorrow.”
They ate slowly, savoring each morsel. Sammy stared blankly into the flames as he ate. A dark mood passed over him as the tongues of fire danced, forming shapes that mostly resembled Stripe’s face. He became so lost in his own thoughts, it took a minute to notice that, across the room, Toad was crying. It started with that annoying sniff, then more sniffles, and finally Toad shook as he covered his eyes and bawled.
“What are you crying about?” Sammy demanded. “I’ve had the same amount of food and water as you, and I’m not crying!”
Toad responded by curling his small body into a ball beside the fire. Sammy shook his head, disgusted with Toad but also with himself. It was like two different people lived inside his own head, the old Sammy, and the new one: a twisted creature who’d risen out of the broken, beaten, nearly-destroyed person, thanks to the care of Stripe. The new Sammy had neither time nor patience for crying and whining. This new fellow wouldn’t mind leaving Toad behind to fend for himself or die. He might not even mind putting Toad out of his misery if things got bad enough. Fortunately, old Sammy was stronger now and held the new one at bay.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“I miss my parents so much, Sammy.” Toad’s voice was muffled by wet hands covering half of his face. “I don’t mean to be a baby.”
“I know.” He felt inadequate to the task of comforting Toad, so he said no more.
Toad looked up at Sammy. Tears had paved little paths down his dirty face. Something was in his eyes that both scared and thrilled Sammy.
“Will you teach me?” Toad asked.
“Teach you what?” Sammy asked even though he already knew the
answer.
“To fight. To kill them like you did.”
Sammy did not answer for some time. He stared back at Stripe in the flames, hating him and in some odd way missing him, too. His silence seemed to help calm Toad. “I don’t know, Toad. We’ll see.”
He wanted to say something else, something profound or sensitive, but nothing came. A blank slate. That happened too often lately. It drove home again the possibility that maybe his Anomaly Eleven was just . . . gone. Perhaps he should do something else, a kind gesture, like put an arm around Toad or give him a compliment. He opened his mouth to let out whatever would come from it, but Toad had fallen asleep.
Day two of searching the little town of Cedar Mills yielded a couple things Sammy hadn’t expected. In one house they searched, they found an old Texas/United States map in a kitchen drawer. Sammy could barely contain his excitement. Upon perusal of the map, Sammy discovered the second thing he hadn’t expected. They had to cross Lake Texoma in order to get to Wichita.
At first, Sammy couldn’t believe it. He led Toad outside and they walked northeast about a kilometer. Sure enough, before them stretched a giant reservoir as far as they could see. Seagulls flew lazily along the coast, congregating cordially on the docks that stood empty in rows stretching out into the water. Several weather-beaten signs pointed in the directions of the Cedar Mills Marina Resort.
Sammy stared at the reservoir for a long time, enjoying the sound of the water and birds, feeling something in his soul he hadn’t felt for months: peace. A part of him felt cleansed, whole. He wouldn’t mind staying here longer, in solitude, right on the lakeside.
“When I get old, I’m going to live on the water,” he told Toad.
Then his mind snapped back to reality and he swore out loud. Toad looked at him, puzzled.
“We have to find a boat,” Sammy explained. “We’re gonna have to row across the lake. Two or three kilometers up north.”
Toad unfolded the map and traced his finger along a white line running north. “There’s a bridge we could cross right here. Highway 377! We don’t need a boat.”
Sammy snatched the map from Toad and folded it carefully. “Think about it. We can’t take the bridge. We’ll be out in the open with nowhere to go if they find us.”
“Give me a break! We won’t even be on the bridge for a half hour.”
Sammy’s face grew hot and he struggled to maintain his calm. “You’re right. We won’t be on it at all. Can you take any of them on in a fight? If so, then you can help make decisions. Until then, shut up and do as you’re told.”
Toad took a swing at Sammy, but Sammy pulled back, letting Toad’s fist hit air. A gentle blast put Toad on his butt in the sand.
“I told you not to hit me anymore!” Sammy growled.
“Then quit being a jerk! Okay? I asked you to teach me to fight, and you said you would.”
“I said ‘we’ll see.’ That doesn’t mean yes. Now get up and help me find a boat and more food.”
For most of the day they went through houses, one by one, street by street, until they’d gone through the whole little town except the northern-most street: Oxford. Several houses on this block were larger and older, two of them even boarded up and condemned. Inside the first condemned home, the wooden floors creaked under their steps. Some of the windows had been left open, exposing the walls and floors to water damage and debris. Sammy sent Toad upstairs to search while he went through the main level. He heard Toad stomp up the steps and the ceiling groaned under his weight.
The kitchen was designed in a rustic log cabin sort of way: stove and counter tops made of brick with wooden bordering. Sammy ran his fingers along the brick as he went from cabinet to cabinet, finding all of them empty. He went into the pantry, a small room filled with shelves. The floor was covered with a faded, dusty rug of red, white, and blue. In the back was a small cardboard box. Sammy crossed the small room to check it out. The floor under his feet gave an extra loud creak, startling him.
The box was full of empty glass jars and lids. Sammy kicked the box half-heartedly. As he crossed back to the door, he felt a pop under his feet. At first he thought the floor was about to give way under him. He grabbed the rug and pulled it aside to inspect. Instead what he found was a square trap door, big enough for one person to enter.
He pulled opened the trap door and looked down into a small cellar not big enough to stand in. It was about twelve feet wide and went back under the house about thirty feet. The smell reminded Sammy of the walkway above the abandoned grocery store in Johannesburg, as if no one had been down there for a long, long time.
And it was filled with food.
Toad came running when Sammy called him. They went down together, and hauled up more food than they could hope to carry. Powdered milk, dried fruit, bottled water, guns, ammo, canned fruits and meats and vegetables, even dehydrated meals. Toad found toothbrushes and toothpaste. On the back wall hung two flags. Sammy recognized one as the Texas flag. It matched the symbol on the map they’d found. The second flag had a large snake and read: “Don’t Tread On Me.”
Their lunch of crackers with canned ham and apple chips was heavenly. They loaded two large packs full of supplies, then filled the wagon to the brim. Toad looked nervous when Sammy said he wanted to take a gun, but Sammy paid him no mind. In fact, he felt a lot better having it.
“We’ll spend the rest of the day looking for a boat, then come back here for the night. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll row across the lake and start hiking to Wichita.”
They did just that. Toad spotted a canoe resting on sawhorses in a backyard near the corner of Oxford and Old Castle. Sammy inspected it and found only small cracks in the red paint. The oars were in bad shape, too. Finding nothing better, they portaged the canoe over to the lake’s edge before it got too dark to see where they were going.
After a large dinner and another night’s rest in the old house, they woke up with the sun and headed out with the packs and wagon. The weather was lousy, but they had ponchos now, so Sammy didn’t mind as much when the gray clouds unleashed a steady drizzle on them as they loaded the canoe.
“Do you know anything about rowing?” he asked Toad.
“Sure, I’ve seen it before,” was Toad’s answer.
“Where?”
“In a movie.”
They got the canoe into the water and Sammy told Toad where to paddle. The weather made the water choppy and steering more difficult. The lake was only about two kilometers wide where they decided to cross out. They were well out of view of anyone who might be driving across the bridge, but the going was slow. Toad dropped his paddle twice and Sammy had to fetch it before the canoe passed right by it.
About a third of the way across, Sammy noticed the canoe was taking on water.
“Is that from the rain?” Toad asked, pointing at the small puddle in the bottom of the canoe.
“Just keep paddling,” Sammy told him. “We’re fine.”
But as he examined the canoe more closely, he realized that what he’d thought were chips in the paint were actually cracks in the canoe.
He began paddling faster. Toad wasn’t able to keep the pace, which threw Sammy off. Most of the canoeing he’d done had been with his father on the lakes near Johannesburg. He knew his father’s routine well. Canoeing with Toad was much more difficult. He tried giving orders to help Toad, but it only made the process more confusing. About halfway across Lake Texoma, the canoe started to creak and squeak like a giant rat. Sammy saw that part of the wood was now leaking water steadily, and the puddle had grown much larger.
He moved the packs to a safer place and paddled with more vigor.
Come on, Sammy! You can do this.
Toad heard the noises of the packs being moved and turned to see what was happening. His eyes got big when he saw the water, and he started sniffing again.
“Are we sinking?” he asked.
“Just paddle,” Sammy ordered. “Don’t worry about it.”
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But they needed to worry. The canoe was moving slower than ever. The muscles in Sammy’s arms burned. His body was out of shape, having wasted away from no exercise and little food for two months.
The northern shoreline was still about a kilometer away. Sammy encouraged Toad to paddle faster, but this only made Toad nervous, causing him to drop the oar again.
“Come on, Toad!” Sammy shouted. “I need you to do better than this.”
He reached for the oar as it came within his range, but the wood was now quite wet. When his fingers touched the oar, they slipped off. He swore loudly as he watched the paddle float away. He considered braking and circling back, but they simply didn’t have time to do that. The water was coming in too fast.
“Can you swim?” he asked Toad.
“Yeah, can you?” Toad sniffed several times in rapid succession.
“We aren’t going to get anywhere in this piece of junk. Grab your pack and swim to shore. Take off your poncho first.”
They took off their ponchos and left them in the canoe, which now held about ten centimeters of water with more flowing in. Sammy jumped first.
About ten seconds later, Toad joined him. Sammy treaded water as he watched for Toad to resurface. The canoe began to sink. Sammy shook his head as he thought of the wagon still inside with everything they’d stacked on it. Then the canoe went down.
It’s not fair. What’s the point in letting us find all that food?
Toad made his way over to him doing a bad impression of the side stroke. “I can’t swim with this pack,” he gasped, spraying water from his lips. His dark hair clung to his skin, covering his eyes. “It’s so heavy.”
Sammy turned and began to swim to the north shore. “You’re not eating any food out of my pack if you let yours go.”
The swim was exhausting. His arms and legs ached with fatigue. Toad was far behind him now, barely keeping his head above water. They hadn’t made much progress, maybe another quarter of a kilometer. As much as Sammy didn’t want to admit it, the pack was killing him, like trying to swim with a rock strapped to his back.