“Marty, I’m sick of fish,” Louise said suddenly.
“Me too. I’m sorry. It’s all we have now,” Marta agreed morosely.
“I know,” Louise nodded steadfastly, the consummate little trooper.
Marta was proud of her little girl. Then the thought struck her – her little girl. Could she consider Louise hers now? She guessed that she could. No one else was playing the parenting part in Louise’s life. She knew through conversations with Louise’s parents, before they had been killed, that grandparents on both sides were dead. Neither parent had any close relatives, at least that Marta knew of. So yes, she guessed that she was as close as Louise could come to family or a parent.
The thought was odd, but at the same time, it warmed a place in Marta that had never felt warm before. Marta’s own family was in Poland – or at least it was until the Carchar Syndrome had struck. Now, god only knew what had become of them. And frankly, Marta didn’t really care. They were just as dead to her when she had left Poland than they might be now. And while Louise filled a previously unrealized hole within Marta’s being, she now found there was something else missing – someone with whom to share her newfound maternal feelings and all the intrinsic rewards that came with them.
CHAPTER 3
Once past the island, the waves decreased in size as the river flattened out, its course straightening. The current, however, seemed to do exactly the opposite, increasing in speed as it swept the Blender armada swiftly along. This portion of the river was a good 500 to 600 feet wide.
The Blenders had only been on the river a matter of seconds before they realized just how fast the current was carrying them. Every time Michael saw a potential stopping spot, pointed it out to the rest of the boats, and then began to get them turned toward the landing, they were already well past it. He quickly realized that it wasn’t the waves, the depth of the river, or even the debris floating in the water around them that was most dangerous, it was the speed of the current.
Their rate of travel meant that most of the group’s attention was spent navigating their boats through the treacherous debris that ranged from tree limbs and garbage cans to vehicles, other boats, and even pieces of houses. At one point, the group passed an upended RV that had plowed into a shallower spot in the river and become lodged nose down in the mud. At another section of river, they passed a partially submerged mobile home that had come to rest near one side of the river. Eventually, they even passed a home – or at least the rooftop of a home.
Because the floodwaters had raised the river level so significantly, in most spots the actual riverbanks had disappeared from sight. Instead of having banks to aim for as landing spots, the sides of the river were designated mostly by a border of trees. And the river’s water level was so high that it had passed the trunk portions of most of these trees, moving all the way up to their lower branches. This meant that rather than the Blender boats being able to glide smoothly into shore, they instead chanced a massive collision with low-hanging branches at a relatively high rate of speed. Such an impact could easily overturn a boat. It could also break a neck or render an unwary traveler unconscious should they not see a thick branch coming soon enough and be clunked in the head. And because such branches jutted 20, 30, or even 40 or 50 feet out into the river, they formed an almost impenetrable wall, especially considering the rate of speed at which the boats were traveling. Worse yet, this wall of branches made it difficult to see potential landing spots until the Blender boats were almost upon them, and then it was too late. Compounding all this was the pouring rain that obscured the travelers’ views and made it almost impossible to see clearly for more than a hundred yards ahead at best.
Every so often, the trees lining the banks would give way to an exposed spot where the river had overflowed its banks and spilled across a road or into a large field. But even these sizeable landing spots proved impossible for the Blenders to get to. By the time the canoes and fishing boat were angled in the right direction and out of the river’s main current, they’d already passed the potential docking spots. And with each successive attempt, the weary travelers grew more and more exhausted.
The Blenders soon found themselves between a rock and a hard place. The safest place to be proved to be in the center of the river that was largely obstacle free. Yet this location was also the site of the strongest current, which took time and energy to escape should a landing spot be sighted. The group felt as though they were traveling in the center lane of a swiftly moving highway, surrounded by other vehicles. Each time they saw a potential exit, by the time they’d safely merged and slowed their rate of travel, they’d already missed it and were forced back into the center lane by vehicles entering the highway.
Eventually, after traveling for miles in this manner, the river narrowed slightly. The Blenders hoped that this might provide them the chance they needed to land their craft. Finally, on the right bank, about a quarter mile ahead, just before a bend in the river, there appeared a gap in the wall of trees.
“There!” Josh pointed from his position at the rear of the canoe he captained. “That looks like a good spot!” he called to the others.
“Agreed!” Michael responded from the back of the fishing boat.
Michael felt like he was trying to drive a tractor trailer down an ice-covered highway, in the rain, at 80 miles an hour. Every correction he made was met with minimal results until it was too late. Then the current would latch onto his steering input, the boat would veer toward one direction or the other, and he would be forced to re-correct.
The poor paddlers inside the fishing boat with him were pushed to their limits. They had to switch their paddling back and forth, from side to side based on Michael’s constantly changing instructions.
“Everyone make for that spot!” Michael shouted to the other boats as he pointed toward the gap along the riverbank.
The occupants of the four vessels immediately dug their paddles into the murky brown river and began pulling for shore, Caroline and Patrick in the kayak leading the way.
But again, just as in their other attempts, the current had its way with them. It carried them past their rendezvous point before they could get close enough to attempt a landing.
“Damn!” Michael hissed as they slid past the potential point of disembarkation still a good 20 yards from shore.
He was breathing heavy and pulled his paddle from the water, momentarily resting it across his knees as he tried to catch his breath. But he didn’t have a chance to rest for long. They immediately had to push back out toward the center of the river. A new outcropping of tree limbs jutted out ahead of them near the rapidly approaching bend in the river.
The kayak had no problem making it around the trees, nor did the lesser loaded canoe bearing Charla and Christine. But the second canoe and the fishing boat skirted the outstretched tree limbs by just feet.
As they rounded the river bend, Michael and the others were both dismayed and horrified to see that the limbs they were currently skirting had ensnared something other than just garbage. It appeared to be the same tree – or at least looked eerily similar to the same tree – that had ended the Blenders’ attempt at establishing a river-crossing tether and nearly cost Josh and Patrick their lives.
Several of the longer limbs from bank-rooted trees had snagged the gnarly root system of the floating tree and now ensnared it tightly. The rest of the snagged tree stretched out like a mighty fence swung outward across the river, blocking a good 100 feet or more of what would normally have been a passable channel. Worse yet, this new obstacle was only several hundred yards ahead of the Blender regatta’s present position, and they were closing on it rapidly.
“Steer wide left!” Michael yelled even though there was no need. It was obvious that everyone saw the looming obstacle. Even in the rain, it’d be almost impossible not to.
Michael could see his wife and son making good progress toward the opposite side of the river in the kayak. He knew they would easily be a
ble to clear the tangled mess ahead of them. The lighter loaded canoe bearing Charla and Christine weren’t far behind them. But his own boat, along with the other canoe that the Justak family paddled, had a good way still to veer across the river to avoid making contact with the outstretched tree. And with the distance between them and the tree closing fast, Michael was having some real concerns about being able to get around it.
“Push hard!” he urged his rapidly tiring crew that included two retirees, two kids, and a man who was terrified of the open water.
Michael found himself regretting having loaded his best paddlers into other boats, but there was nothing he could do about the decision now.
The fishing boat was set up with three rows of bench-style seating. Wendell and Ms. Mary sat in the first row at the front of the boat. The Franko brothers were in the middle row. Michael worked the steering from the back row of the boat’s seating.
Michael rammed his paddle down into the water on the left side of the boat and pulled it slowly backward, dragging the bow of the boat hard left.
“Get to it, Andrew!” Michael urged the young man. “You too, Wendell!”
“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Wendell replied, his voice trembling. He didn’t turn around or even look back when he responded. His eyes were locked firmly on the tree ahead of them that was growing larger and more menacing by the second.
The kayak was making great progress and was nearly around the tree. The first canoe, bearing Caroline and Patrick wasn’t far behind. But Michael could see that the Justak canoe was struggling. They were turned sideways and hardly making any progress to the left. Instead, they were just being swept closer to the snagged tree.
“Jack! Come back here and help me!” Michael instructed.
Jack hopped to the boat’s rear seat and plopped down on the other side of Michael.
“Paddle there,” Michael instructed, nodding toward the right side of the boat.
Jack obediently did as instructed.
Finally, Michael felt the boat begin to turn. Then its bow swung hard left, almost too far left, leaving the fishing boat looking like the Justak’s sideways canoe ahead of them. As soon as the boat was pointed in the direction that would get them around the quickly closing obstruction ahead, Michael lifted his paddle, reached it out as far ahead of him as his arms would allow, dug it into the water, and pulled with all his strength.
It felt as if he were literally trying to drag the heavily laden boat through wet concrete. His arms burned with each progressive stroke. His shoulder and back ached. But the pain didn’t slow him. He knew he had to push more now than ever. Stroke after stroke he kept on. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might give out. He could barely breathe. He didn’t even bother to look ahead of him anymore. It didn’t matter. Either they cleared the tree or they didn’t.
Their progress was agonizingly slow. Each stroke seemed to gain them only inches toward their goal. Everyone in the boat remained silent. Every bit of breath, every ounce of strength was devoted to dragging them away from the cruel fate they faced if they hit the tree.
This wasn’t like the situation they had faced at the dam back in Joliet. There was no time for the kayak to come back and give them a tow. The matter rested solely in their hands.
Suddenly a cacophony of shouts and yelps issued from the boats ahead of them. Michael looked up from his paddling to see Caroline and Patrick pointing in his direction. But they weren’t pointing at the fishing boat, they were pointing just ahead of it. Michael swiveled to look.
Directly ahead of them, maybe just 30 or 40 yards away, the Justak canoe was still sideways in the water. It had come to rest against the tree, pinned in place against several branches that rose to a height of over ten feet in spots. The force of the current had shoved the canoe up against the blockage. The boat leaned at a perilous angle, just inches from being swamped by the river’s flow.
“MICHAEL!” Wendell cried from the front of the boat as he made exactly the same determination that Michael had made.
The fishing boat, unable to circumvent the tree, was going to hit it. Compounding the situation, on their current course, they were not only going to hit the tree, but they were going to hit the Justak canoe first.
Michael dug his paddle into the water, giving it everything he had. He hoped that if nothing else, his last gasp effort would at least help them avoid colliding with the canoe. At the same time, he worked to maneuver the fishing boat from its angled path so that it was headed bow-first for the collision. If they could hit the tree, or the canoe, or some combination thereof, head on, they might be able to survive the collision in one piece. Then they could potentially use the tree limbs around them as leverage to pull themselves around the end of the tree that lay just another 20 feet or so beyond their current position.
But his efforts weren’t enough.
They hit the Justak canoe bow-first with a crash, but the fishing boat’s bow was still at a slight leftward angle. The force of the current shoved the fishing boat up against the sideways canoe dead center, the lip of the fishing boat catching the downward-tilted side of the canoe, shoving it beneath the water. As the canoe tipped, Josh and Julia were dumped from their seats into the chilly river water. Meanwhile, young Justin, who sat in the center of the canoe, came sprawling into Wendell and Ms. Mary’s lap in the fishing boat.
Josh and Julia, along with the canoe, disappeared from sight, sucked beneath the tree and its tangle of debris-filled branches. Then the current swept the rear of the fishing boat around sideways, pinning it against the tree, just as the canoe had been moments before. This time however, because of the size and weight of the fishing boat, the current forced its right side up against the tree at a high angle, dipping its left side down closer to the water. And with the added weight of Jack Franko in the rear of the boat with Michael, the boat’s back left-hand corner was riding even lower, and it immediately began taking on water.
Everything felt like it was happening so fast, yet at the same time like it was also happening in slow motion. Michael’s mind flashed to the idea of trying to bail the incoming water. Realizing that it was pouring in far too fast, his mind flicked to abandoning the boat in an effort to climb onto the half-submerged tree. But there wasn’t time for that. The boat kept sinking, tilting the right front corner higher in the air as it was shoved up farther onto the tree.
Suddenly, Ms. Mary, who had half stood from her seat in an attempt to push the boat off the tree, lost her balance. She toppled over Wendell, who was clinging to the front of the boat to avoid being dumped overboard himself, and plunged into the water. Little Justin, who was crying and still trying to get his bearings after being ejected from the canoe into the fishing boat, was the next to go over the boat’s side as he also tried to stand. Michael made a grab for him, but that only exacerbated things, tipping the boat even more, which increased the flow of water rushing in.
Michael felt the cold of the water swirling around his feet, then his shins, and then his knees as the boat sank beneath him. Then the front of the boat lurched upward and he was suddenly tipping backwards into air. He splashed down an instant later, hitting the water in a state of shock and despair.
The last thing Michael saw before his head went under was the fishing boat flipping over, tossing its last few occupants into the river’s frothy churn.
CHAPTER 4
“We’ve been stuck in this goddamn hellhole for weeks!”
Groush closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and inhaled deeply through his nose. It was a gripe he’d heard too many times over the past few days. The natives were growing restless, and it was fast becoming apparent that he couldn’t be content to rest on his laurels. Sacking the town of Riverport had been good enough for the first week. It had been satisfactory for the second. But apparently, the enthusiasm his crew had initially felt regarding their victory over the tiny town was waning as the supplies began to run out.
The guy doing the bitching – Terrance Baggett
or “T-bag” as he was known among their group of mercenaries – had been with them since before Groush had taken over. Groush had to admit, the man’s longevity and relative popularity among the others was the only reason he was still alive.
A group of five men, including Groush, and two women – the seven heads of Groush’s sizeable band of renegades – sat in an office inside the Riverport city hall. It had been the office of Richard, the prior mayor of Riverport, before Groush and his group had killed him and most of the town’s remaining citizens. The office occupants were a motley looking bunch. But they served their purpose. And under the circumstances, it was the best Groush could hope for in any sort of leadership council formed from his rag-tag bunch of miscreants, misfits, and ne’er-do-wells.
Groush realized that selecting an odd number of council members made it easier to reach decisions. There was never a deadlocked vote with seven people, although they all knew who had the final say.
“We’re almost out of supplies. Hell, I’ve been livin’ off beans and deer meat so long I’ve got it coming out my damn ears,” T-bag continued. “Something needs to change. I didn’t sign up for this. I signed up to be living the good life even when the rest of the world was eating shit. There ain’t nothin’ to do here. There ain’t no other broads but the ones we brought with us, and they’re sketched out as shit. Everybody has taken their turn with them…got their fill. You get me? We need more. We need better. Shit, we deserve better. We’ve worked hard for you, did what you said, and we’ve been taking it up the ass in this shit hole. It’s time for a change.”
“First off,” Groush growled at the man, “nobody signed up for shit. You all are here because you want to be here. Nobody is forcing you to stay. Secondly, you definitely aren’t taking it up the ass here…unless there’s something you’re not telling us,” he eyed T-bag with a smug gaze.
The others, sitting in chairs situated around the desk where Groush held court, all enjoyed a good laugh at T-bag’s expense.
The Last Bastion [Book 5] Page 2