The Rain

by Joseph Turkot

  It’s still the middle of the night when I wake up. The first thing I see is the empty seat across from me. Dusty’s gone, and so is Voley. Slowly I come to, rubbing my eyes. I get the weird feeling that Russell has let me sleep for too long. I look to the wheel and the first thing I notice is the tarp. Russell must have extended it somehow because less of it is covering the center, but the driver’s seat is partially covered by a sliver of it. And the sails are raised. I don’t even hear the motor. I realize just how quiet it is out here on the open brown sea. Just the old rain. And we aren’t rocking anymore. I sit upright and my feet go into the water in the center of the boat. Going to have to pump again. I look back to the front of the boat because something isn’t right—there’s Dusty standing up behind Russell. Then I realize what’s happening. Dusty’s got one of our guns. His arm is outstretched and pointed at the back of Russell’s head.

  No! I shout instinctively, and then I lunge forward. Voley, hanging near the stern, sees me jolt and follows me to the front with excitement, sloshing water as he follows. Then it’s like Russell wakes up, as if he’d fallen asleep at the wheel, and he turns to see the gun in his face. Dusty doesn’t react, but he’s shaking. Like he can’t decide whether or not to pull the trigger. Don’t do it! I yell as I almost reach him, heading to dive into him and throw him to the ground. Over the rail. Anything to stop him. Take me home, Dusty says limply, still shaking. But he can’t ever fire the gun because Russell slams him one deep in his gut. Then Russell gets up and slaps the gun out of his hand. I stop before I reach them to watch. The space at the wheel is too cramped. The gun clanks loudly and skids across the rain on the floor of the boat. Russell bends to pick it up and then he shoves Dusty back. Dusty’s so off-balance from the first gut punch that he rocks backward and right over the rail into the water. Water splashes me. Voley bounds up on top of the passenger seat and puts his paws on the edge of the rail, whining and watching Dusty drift past us. He starts flailing. Ice daggers stabbing him in that freezing water.

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether or not I should keep trying to save him now. He was about to shoot Russell. And it hurts because some part of me understands why, and thinks I’d be doing the same thing if the circumstances were reversed. But the words don’t come out of my mouth one way or the other. Part of me wants to watch him die. I go to Voley and tug him backwards so he doesn’t spill in too.

  “Son of a bitch,” Russell says. Then he scares me, not because of how angered he is at Dusty’s attempt, but because he can barely get the words out before he coughs loudly. Then it’s like a chain reaction and he’s in another coughing fit. He can’t stop. Finally he calms down after I walk up to him. I see Dusty behind the boat now, and I hear him calling for help. He’s slipping out of sight and I know he’s freezing to death. Are you okay? I ask Russell. I hope that we accidentally threw more antibiotics in the canvas bags we stole. What are the chances though that Russell packed them? He’d never throw them in. But maybe he would, for me he would. How long does a course of antibiotics need to go for? I ask him. He tells me he’s fine and not to worry about it. Five days or something, isn’t it? I ask, knowing we were only in Blue City for a couple days. And there’s no way he completed all the medicine he was supposed to.

  I start to think about him getting sick again, and even though our motor boat is a little bit more seaworthy, I don’t care for the thought of bailing alone, getting caught in high seas alone. Are you sure you’re okay? I urgently ask him. It’s not like him to fall asleep at the wheel—not when he’s okay again. It only makes sense if he’s still sick. He tells me he’s fine, and from his confident tone I decide whether or not to plea for Dusty’s life. But it’s not me who turns the boat around. I don’t even prompt it. Russell just sits down in the driver’s seat and does it all himself. Like he knows something and he’s not telling me. The boat glides in a wide arc, riding a few gentle humps, repelling the rain with her roof and sails, moving under soft wind, and Dusty’s calls for help suddenly grow louder again. He sees that we’re returning and he tries to swim toward us.

  Part of me wants to ask him why, but I don’t because I’m scared it has to do with him lying about his health. Maybe he thinks I’ll need Dusty. The thought of losing Russell passes through me, like it did before when he was very sick, and I tremble. Then I think that maybe it’s some part of the veneer—to prevent unnecessary loss of life. Russell said once that humanity learned over time to harm less and less. It still did it, harmed all kinds of things. Groups of people, animals, the environment. But there was a momentum, an evolution. Empathy, he’d called it. And we were somewhere on the arc of that evolution, working all the time to increase our empathy. He had told me that the ancients used to watch humans get eaten alive and fight to death in arenas, all real and live and everything. After a long time, humanity learned it was less harmful to do the same thing through movies. Moving pictures. And people learned that the harm could be less harmful, but humanity wasn’t past needing it. Intimacy with violence.

  Of course all of that was before the rain. And who’s to say if the evolution would ever start up again? The idea of not creating harm, being as least harmful as possible. In fact, that increasing empathy was a luxury of the veneer, he’d said. Without it, there’s nothing but survival of the fittest. The same as the hawks and the deer. But as I remember this all, he’s turning the boat around. And something about it makes me think Russell is clinging to more of the veneer than he lets on. Because we pull up to Dusty, and it’s Russell whose hands extend, haul him out of a watery grave. Dusty just lies on the floor of the boat, stunned that he’s alive, and that the man he planned to kill saved him.

  I help Dusty get under the center of the boat. Marvolo comes over. I pump the water dry and let him recuperate for a minute. Russell is back at the wheel and I hear him coughing again. He hasn’t said a word since picking his assassin out of the water. The sky is changing a little bit, and I can’t help but feel like this long darkness might be lifted before long. Smear sunrise. The thought of another surprise land sighting crosses my mind. A place like the one we just left, except where they won’t resort to eating people to survive. Wishful thinking. Like believing in whales.

  Are you okay? I finally ask Dusty. He says yea, he’s fine. Russell tells me he needs me to take over so he can get some sleep. He walks over, stepping right over Dusty’s stretched out body.

  “You know how to work the primer stove?” asks Russell. I realize he’s talking to Dusty. Dusty is as startled as me to realize it. We’ve all forgotten how cold we are, completely numb and nearing frostbite. The thought that we have a stove floors me and Russell pulls out the equipment from one of the canvas bags. There’s a canister of fuel and more in the boat, he says. Dusty finally sits up and says yea, he can work it. And he gets to work. I walk up to keep the boat in line.

  “Which way are we headed?” I yell back to Russell, wondering if he really knows without any landmarks. See the sunset? he calls back to me. Yea, I tell him. It’s starting to lighten a few bands of the gray. Keep it on our back. Just a little to your left, but mostly on our back. All the way to Colorado. A straight line. The Rockies, you hear me Tan? he says. It’s like some new spirit of life has come into Russell. He sounds happy about Leadville for the first time in a week. It’s the old familiar hope. The belief. A city above the waterline. And we’ve traded a broken canoe for a motor boat with sails. And a tarp. A stove. Food. And there’s three of us. Four I mean.

  There’ll be a fire for you when your shift’s up, Russell tells me. I steer us in a line, and it feels like the wind is hitting just right. I wonder how far we are from Leadville, what our speed is. Somewhere there’s an invisible number counting down. The rain is glancing away from me, off the narrow band of tarp Russell’s draped above the driver’s seat. I glance back and see the glow of the primer stove. It’s right in the center of the boat. And a nylon blanket has found its way across from one rail of the boat to the other. The
sides drape down and I realize they’ve build a fort. A fort of warmth. And I’m out here freezing. I want to end my shift right now. It’s not fair. But Russell needs the sleep. I wonder if we could trust Dusty enough to take a turn at the wheel. That would end my shift right now. I steer us on in a line, keeping the smear of the sun in the proper place at our backs, happy that the skies are as clear as they’ll ever be. No more signs of the storm.

  After I’m ready to ask for relief myself, because my fingers are starting to freeze in place, Dusty emerges from the blanket. He walks up to me and tells me to go get warm. You know which direction to steer? I say. He nods and I get up. I head off to the makeshift tent, watching with great anticipation the line of smoke rising from its center, the sign of burning fuel, heat, and life.

  Chapter 11

  I pull the pull the flap of blanket aside to enter the little hut at the center of the boat. Immediately a rush of warmth hits me. With the roof overhead, the floor is almost empty of water. Marvolo is curled up right in front of the primer stove, his eyes closed, dead asleep. Exhausted or just cozy, I can’t tell. And Russell is lying near him, his own eyes closed. I look him over once and then find my spot on the opposite side. He’s not really asleep though, because he asks me a question as soon as I lie down. You think he’s going to turn us around? he asks. I listen to the beating rain hit the roof over our heads. I think about his question because it hadn’t occurred to me until now. I almost want to check that we have the guns safely away, because he could try to kill us both this time while we sleep. But something about how Russell asks me, his voice, makes it seem like it wasn’t a real question. Like it was almost a joke. And that Dusty would never think of it somehow, despite what he tried to do just a little bit ago. I don’t think so, I say. It must be the answer Russell wanted because he doesn’t say anything more. We lie in silence and my body melts with the warmth of the primer stove. I keep my hands right on it for about five minutes, moving my fingers back and forth. Then I give my feet a turn. Everything is coming back to life.

  I turn onto my back and look up at the blanket above, the tiny hole where rain is dripping in and the primer stove smoke is escaping up. I see lines of rain running down the sides of the roof, little veins of light and dark, reminding me that it’s daytime again because I can see them. The boat rocks a little bit, up then down, and the swells are so gentle now that they’re rocking me to sleep instead of terrifying me. Something about having Dusty out there guiding us makes me feel safe. I don’t want to say anything about that to Russell, because I know he must at least feel the same way. He saved him, after all, when Dusty had tried to kill him. And he’d sent him out to steer instead of getting me. For a moment I wonder if it was out of pity he’d done all this, but I remember that he says pity is gone. It’s a relic. You can’t feel sorry for people or you’ll get yourself killed. Not anymore, not anymore can you pity the bad guys. That message has been pretty clear ever since leaving the Sea Queen Marie. Don’t have feelings for anyone. Feelings are liabilities. Worthless as they concern survival. Yet my mind wrestles against some of Russell’s truths, like it always has. I’ve always felt feelings for Russell. And they seem to drive me on, especially since he’s been weak. They’ve actually helped me act stronger. And so my mind plays with the idea of feelings being important to survival, and maybe I still do have feelings for Dusty too. Even after what he tried to do. And I know I have feelings for Marvolo, I can’t even pretend I don’t. But still, I understand Russell’s attitude about feelings—if we started getting too attached to people, even on the Sea Queen, we would have done more to help others when it couldn’t have been done. We’d have gotten ourselves killed twenty times over since Indianapolis doing that. And finally, as I drift off at last into needed sleep, I think that maybe it’s not so bad to be out and moving on the canvas brown again. It feels like we’re back on track on some level. Even though it was beautiful in Blue City, it was an illusion. A mirage of the veneer, not the actual thing. We’d seen the proof with our own eyes.

  “Hey,” says a voice from some kind of heated womb. It comes again and again, trying to raise me from my peacefulness. Back into some harsh reality. I open my eyes and there’s Dusty. He’s sitting up under the blanket across from me. I’m awake again. We’re under the blanket together. The stove’s still going. It’s still light out above the roof. How long have I been sleeping? I ask. A couple hours. Russell took over again. Says he’ll come to get you in a few more. You can go back to sleep. I wonder why he woke me up then, just to tell me I can go back to sleep? But I can tell from his face he wants say more.

  “What is it?” I ask, purposely trying to keep my voice empty of emotion. Voley is gone I realize. He must have crept out into the rain to take in the sea from the edge of the rail again. I almost want to poke my head out to see that Dusty isn’t lying, that Russell really is out there steering us still, that Voley is with us still.

  Dusty takes a long time to say something, and when he does, it doesn’t mean much. Can’t get back, you know? he says. I almost sympathize with him. He just wants to see his dad again. He’s probably known that place for a long time. It’s his home. They moved from Salt Lake City, but he hasn’t moved nearly as much as Russell and me. At least I don’t think he has. He has a concept of home in the first place. I feel my sympathy slip away. I’ve never had that. Russell and I are each others’ moving homes. I remember he pointed the gun at Russell’s head and I can’t say anything.

  He moves closer to the primer stove, but he gets closer to me too. I know it’s intentional, but he doesn’t act that way. I want to ask him what he’s doing. What he’s trying to pull now. Then he just pushes right into me. His legs are right against mine. A flash of electricity runs through my body, and I’m wide alert. And then alarmed. I think about Russell right outside. And whether or not he can make out our silhouettes. And if he’s checking at all. I almost draw back, intentionally move away from his touch, but I can’t. I can’t bring myself to. He finally starts to answer my question. He looks into my eyes and I have to look away because I’m afraid my anger at him will melt away instantly. I have to keep my feelings dead. Forget what happened between us on the hill, in the shower. It was all a slip, and it almost cost us our lives. I sit up, moving my legs off of his.

  It’s—I know you’re not telling me something. You won’t tell me something, he says. He’s fishing for information that I can’t provide. Maybe if we reach land again, or maybe not until Leadville. But on the sea, I know it’s too unpredictable. If he knows the truth, he’ll get too upset. I almost follow through on a kneejerk reaction to ask him if he eats people. If that’s okay to him the way the tarpers do it—frozen in small pieces, so you can’t tell what it really is. Does the change in appearance somehow make it okay? But I don’t ask him anything. I tell him he knows everything there is to know. And that I need to get some more sleep because it’s probably over four hundred miles to Leadville. I pull that number out of my ass.

  He gets the hint and moves back to the other side of the primer stove. I hear a rustling, then see a bulge press against the edge of the blanket wall. It’s a nose. Voley wants to come in. Dusty opens the blanket and lets him in. He comes over to me for some reason instead of Dusty and circles around and then drops down right on top of my arm. I holler in pain and bolt up. There’s nothing covering the stitches now. And the skin is bright pink all around the bullet hole. A bit of blood is still seeping out. Are you okay? asks Dusty. He looks really concerned, but it’s hard to care because the pain’s shooting. I hear Russell walking across the boat floor fast. The flap opens again and it’s him. He asks, What’s going on? Voley sat on my arm, I tell him. His face is washed in relief and he leaves for the wheel. Get sleep. You’re up soon, he says as he heads back to the wheel.

  Voley moves away, sad that he hurt me. He finds a spot by Dusty and lies down. Can you tell me what Leadville is like? asks Dusty after a minute of silence. I almost thought he’d gone back to sleep. Sure, I
tell him. It’s a whole city. But a normal city, working just like they used to work. Before the rain. The highest elevation in America. And they have electricity still. Hot water just like you had. But everything else you’d ever want too. And there’s something more about it but I’m not sure if I buy it.

  What? asks Dusty. I can tell he’s curious now. It’s a distraction for him. It’s like he has to believe in Leadville because what’s happened to him is so awful that he can’t not have hope for something. I tell him the bit that Russell tells about it not raining there. Dusty laughs. It’s the only thing he doesn’t seem to be able to hope for. You don’t buy it either? I say. It’s raining everywhere, he says. Maybe in Europe, or China, or Australia, it’s not raining. But in America, it’s raining everywhere. We got hit the hardest.

  Hit? I ask. He tells me this whole story about a comet, and how it came too close, and dumped all this ice that turned into rain. I say I’ve heard that one before with a snicker. So what do you think it is? he shoots back at me, upset I’m taunting his idea. Easy, I say. Solar flare. It moved the axis of the earth. Now the Pacific is evaporating and flying up into the sky like a great big vacuum. And it gets slung across the sky and dumped on the land here. Dusty laughs again. It’s the first time he’s heard Russell’s favorite theory. And it just confirms for me a gut feeling that I’ve had my whole life—that believing you know the real reason behind the rain is like believing in hokey pokey religion stories about angels and gods and prophets and devils. Because the truth is that no one knows. And everyone has a theory. But what it all boils down to is eating, staying warm, and staying dry. The rest is an afterthought. I tell Dusty this, hoping it’s as profound for him as it is for me, since Russell has pounded it into my head for as long as I can remember. The impact isn’t quite the same though. Dusty just nods a little bit and acts like he understands, but I don’t think he gets it. Then Russell shouts “boats!” He shouts it again, and Dusty and I run out to see. We rush into the rain and there are seven dots. They’re all boats, and they’re moving toward us.