“Good,” Marta nodded.
“I’ll miss it, though, Marty,” Louise whined. “I like our home here. I like our roadhouse. But I like anywhere with you,” she smiled at Marta.
“Me too,” Marta ruffled the little one’s head good-naturedly.
“But I’m excited too!” Louise went on. “I’ve never been in a canoe before!”
“Well, you’re in for a treat,” Patrick said, wanting to go along with her upbeat attitude since others within the group like Wendell and Justin did not hold the same excitement regarding their renewed water travels. “Riding in a canoe is like going on the Tunnel of Love ride at the fair.”
“Hmph, maybe for you and Marta,” Michael interjected as he passed his son. “Wait until you’ve been married for forty years and then tell me it’s like the Tunnel of Love ride.”
“Oh stop it,” Caroline chided him playfully.
“Did you ever go on a ride like that at the fair?” Patrick ignored his curmudgeon father.
“No,” Louise said. “But I bet Mommy and Daddy did,” she smiled and then looked sad at the mention of her parents.
“Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Patrick eyed her excitedly, trying to make the trip ahead as exciting as possible for the little girl.
“Uh huh,” she nodded. “I just wish Justin could be in our boat,” she pouted.
“Well, he’ll be in the big fishing boat with my mom and dad. And they’ll be in the river right near us. I’ll bet you’ll be able to talk to Justin as we go.”
“Yeah?” Louise breathed in amazement, as though the whole trip was some sort of magical voyage.
“You’ll never find out if you don’t get your tails moving,” Michael passed them with another load of stuff headed for the boats.
“Guess Dad’s right,” Patrick conceded. “We’d better get our tails moving you little puppet.”
“I’m not a puppet!” Louise laughed.
“You are too!” Patrick grabbed her close and tickled her ribs. “You’re a sweet little puppet!”
“Am not!” Louise squealed, trying to get away. “Eeee!”
“Come on you two. Enough play,” Marta chided. “Your father is right, Patrick. We need to go. The boats are loaded. Everything is ready.”
“Aww,” Patrick and Louise groaned in unison.
Then Patrick recovered. “It’s all right,” he whispered to Louise. “We’re gonna have fun on our trip. You’ll love it,” he hugged her.
Marta watched the two in the dim morning light. Patrick couldn’t see the smile that his interaction with Louise elicited from Marta, but it was there.
“Are you ready, shipmate?” Patrick asked Marta.
“Yes, ready,” she said quietly.
As the others made their way outside, Michael paused beside Ms. Mary. “So how long we got?” he asked her.
“What do you mean?” Ms. Mary shook her head.
“How many days before we’re out of food.”
“Oh…that,” Ms. Mary said somewhat quietly. “I’d say about a week. We’re down mostly to things like rice, beans, a little pasta, a few canned goods comprised mostly of soup and mixed veggies, a couple cans of tuna fish, a can of corned beef I’ve been saving, a little oatmeal, some grits, and some sugar, salt, and pepper. And then there are a few odds and ends like assorted nuts, dried fruit, olives, stuff like that. It’s not a whole lot. If we can find a spot where the river is clean enough to fish, we might be able to draw out our supply timeline by a few more days, but I don’t think it will be much more than that.”
Michael nodded, contemplating the timeframe. “Well, I wouldn’t count on doing any fishing considering the way the river still looks. Plus, we’ll be heading downriver, following the flow of that sludge, whatever it is. I’d say our chances of finding fresh, live, uncontaminated fish along the way are pretty low unless we make camp somewhere with a pond, lake or fresh water stream nearby. What about drinking water?”
“Luckily we stockpiled a good amount of clean water before the river turned,” Ms. Mary said. “Even then, we’re so low on propane for the camp stove that we won’t be able to boil much more even if we find a source of clean drinking water along the way. And with temperatures on the rise, we might be consuming more water. I’d give us three to four days before we’re out.”
“Hmm,” Michael pondered their situation. “Means we’ll have to keep an eye out for good water sources.”
“We should let the others know to keep a lookout,” Ms. Mary agreed. “I’ll tell them,” she turned to go.
“Thanks,” Michael nodded.
Once Ms. Mary was gone, Michael unwrapped the bindings from his injured right hand. As the first few layers of white material were undone, Michael could see that a bit of red had seeped through. The spot of red saturated more and more of the white cloth with each successive layer that was removed.
Michael stepped over to one of the roadhouse windows to take a better look. The skin around the cut was red and swollen. The cut itself was oozing blood and a clear liquid. The opening in his hand no longer looked like it wanted to heal. He touched the spot with a finger from his good hand and recoiled. He couldn’t believe the pain that could come from such a small wound.
He wondered how he was going to make the trip. It was going to be a struggle just to hold a paddle with his hand in this condition, let alone steer the fishing boat. But he didn’t want to worry the others. If they knew he was in pain, they would want to help him. And right now, there just wasn’t time for that. He had to consider the overall wellbeing of the group, not just his own. If he mentioned his discomfort, they’d want to try to find him medicine. That would take time, time they didn’t have. And it would put people in danger as they scavenged for the necessary supplies. He just couldn’t take the thought of someone being injured or worse while trying to find a treatment for his hand of all things.
He re-wrapped his hand, took one last look around the roadhouse, wondering whether they’d ever find a more permanent spot to settle, and then walked outside.
Down by the river, he found the others donning lifejackets, selecting paddles, and making final adjustments to the supplies they’d loaded into the boats.
“Everyone ready!” Michael called, doing his best to sound upbeat about the continuance of what to this point had been a rather disappointing escape from Chicago.
When all this had started months ago, he had such plans, such hopes. He thought that if anything, their escape from Chicago might result in a somewhat cramped and uncomfortable few weeks spent in a tiny cabin, secluded in a remote location. Their greatest burden in such a situation would likely be combating the boredom or temporarily having to make due with a less than adequate bathroom situation.
Never did he think that leaving their homes in Brookfield behind would have landed them outside Riverport less than half a year later. Nor was it conceivable that nearly two thirds of their original Blender clan would have perished along the way.
The thought struck him hard and made him feel as though he’d done a superbly inadequate job of protecting his flock. He thought of the Mendoza family – Juan, Suzana, Jeremy, and Natasha – all lost on the first night of their journey. He thought about the Hines family – Monte, Victoria, Rebecca, Sarah, Anthony, and Patricia – gone by the following day. He thought about young Margaret and Manny Simpson, the sweetly innocent couple taken during the biter infiltration of the tower. He thought about Chris, ripped apart by biters in the bowels of the tower’s basement. And he thought about Josh and Julia, torn from their sweet son Justin by the cruel river, the same river they were once again preparing to travel.
In hindsight, all their deaths seemed preventable. Yet at the time, there seemed nothing he could do to save any of them. He’d rehashed these deaths and the circumstances surrounding them enough times to know better than to blame himself, yet he couldn’t help it. They’d all looked to him for guidance. And he had failed them, utterly and miserably failed them. But he couldn’t af
ford to dwell on these failures. There were still people depending on him. At the same time, his prior failures made him wonder if he garnered such dependence. Maybe these people would be better off on their own. Maybe he should just leave. But that meant leaving Caroline, leaving Patrick, and leaving the others he loved like family. He just wasn’t strong enough for such an act.
The thought made him feel guilty. He was so weak that he couldn’t tear himself from these people. For as much as he felt it might be to their betterment, he was too selfish. He still wanted to help them in any way he could. If he could just find that last bastion, a spot where he could be assured of their safety – or at least as assured as one could be these days. Then he’d feel better about finally being able to let go. But time was running out. Supplies were running out. They needed to find that bastion fast, and he prayed that it would come in the form of St. Louis. It was his last real hope. If they didn’t find salvation there, he wasn’t sure what they would do.
“Michael? You coming or you just going to stay here?” Wendell joked.
Michael looked up. Everyone was loaded into the boats but him. They were all looking at him expectantly.
He nodded, put one foot into the fishing boat, and shoved them off the bank and out into the river.
It was time to go. But would where they were going be any better? It was a question only time would answer.
CHAPTER 13
It felt weird to be on the water again. When the Blender’s had left Hofmann Tower back in Lyons, there had been an air of excitement and anticipation among the group. There had been a renewed sense of hope at escaping Chicago in search of a new home.
When they’d left the island during the flood, there was just fear and desperation. They thought they’d found a spot they might call their own, then had it torn rudely from beneath them by Mother Nature.
Now, as they left the roadhouse, there was mostly just a feeling of exhaustion. Everyone was tired. They were tired of crappy food. Even though Ms. Mary was making the best of a bad situation, she was running out of options to liven up their meals. They were tired of sleeping on floors. They were tired of having to bathe in rivers or out of buckets of warm water. They were tired of poor sanitary conditions and using the bathroom in a portable toilet or just going outside. They were tired of constantly looking over their shoulders for biters or marauding scavengers. They were just plain tired of not having a place they could call home.
The Blender regatta spread out as they had in prior river travels. The kayaks took up the lead. The canoes followed a safe distance behind them. And Michael and the more unwieldy fishing boat brought up the rear.
Christine and younger son Jack headed up the group in one kayak. Christine had been given the binoculars that Patrick had found at the boat rental. She used them to scan the river ahead in search of upcoming obstacles or other indications of danger. Her oldest son, Andrew, got the single-seat kayak to himself. Patrick and Marta, with Louise set in the center of their canoe, followed up the kayaks, pulling the supply canoe behind them. Patrick had been given strict instructions to cut free the supply canoe should they encounter trouble of some sort. Several inflatable float bags that had been discovered at the boat rental had been inserted into the supply canoe to keep it from sinking – along with the majority of the Blender stuff – should such an occasion arise.
Charla and Ms. Mary paddled the third canoe. And Michael, Caroline, Wendell, and Justin brought up the rear of the armada in the dented but still buoyant fishing boat. With most of the remaining Blender supplies stashed in the canoe, the fishing boat, while still a handful, was far more maneuverable than it had proven on prior occasions when it was more heavily loaded.
As the Blenders paddled down a far more serene river than the one on which they’d arrived to the roadhouse, the dawn gave way to what appeared would be a warm, sunny, early-May day.
“How ya doin’ up there?!” Justin called ahead of him to the canoe in which Louise rode.
“Shhh! Not quite so loud, Justin,” Michael reminded the boy. “We don’t know who might hear us.”
Justin nodded his understanding.
“This is awesome!” tiny Louise called back from where she was bouncing back and forth to look from one side of the canoe to the other.
“Don’t lean too far over,” Marta swiveled in her seat at the head of their canoe to remind her. “Don’t upset canoe.”
“It’s all right,” Patrick calmed her concerns. “She weighs so little, it’d be hard for her to throw us off balance. And I can counter her movements just by leaning one way or the other in my seat.”
“Can I take this off yet?” Louise pulled at her lifejacket that, even though it was a child-size fit, still looked ridiculously oversized on the tiny girl.
“No,” Patrick said. “We have to wear our lifejackets at all times when we’re on the water. It keeps us safe if we fall in.”
“But you just said I won’t upset the canoe,” Louise countered, her five-year-old logic seeming quite reasonable to her.
“Yes, but you always want to be safe when you’re on the water,” Patrick said. “Look around you. Look how big this river is. And deep,” he jammed his paddle down all the way into the water so that only the handle protruded. “See, I can’t even touch the bottom with my paddle, and my paddle is a lot taller than you.”
He didn’t want Louise to be afraid of the river, but he wanted her to respect it.
“Wow,” Louise looked on as Patrick let his paddle resurface. “That is deep!”
“When we stop, you can take it off, but whenever you’re in the boat, we have to keep our lifejackets on…all of us. See?” he tugged at his own lifejacket. “I have mine on.”
“And I have mine,” Marta swiveled in her seat again to illustrate her point to Louise behind her.
“Okay,” Louise sighed and got back to work, dangling a piece of string she’d found in the hull of the canoe over its side and watching the trail it made in the current.
“And don’t touch water,” Marta said. “We don’t know what is in or how could hurt us.”
“Okay,” Louise huffed dejectedly this time.
A moment later, she began softly singing a song to herself.
“Never know what,
To do with my undies.
Put ‘em in the dirty,
Or throw ‘em away on Sundays.”
Patrick couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Where the heck did you pick that one up? Must have been from Marta,” Patrick chuckled in amusement.
“Ha, ha,” Marta swiveled in her seat at the front of the canoe to give him a deadpan look. “Always such funny man. Or so you think.”
But she couldn’t help but smile and give a subtle wink to the man who truly did amuse her. His particular sense of humor was something she’d never found in a man before, and she liked it. The “caring clown” she had termed Patrick in her mind, although she would never breathe her thoughts aloud.
“Is beautiful,” Marta said after a moment, gesturing to the landscape around them with her paddle.
“It is,” Patrick agreed. “As long as the river remains tame,” he added quietly.
The river was wide, spanning almost a quarter of a mile at points. This made it somewhat more frightening than when they’d only been faced with a river that was a couple hundred feet across. While it meant that the river was generally calmer than before, it also meant that safety was farther away should they encounter trouble. And now, rather than log jams or rocks to be watchful for, they had to keep an eye out for far larger obstacles. Several times, the group passed – or were passed – by much larger vessels. They termed them ‘ghost’ vessels. These unmanned craft were usually barges that had broken free from their moorings. But there was an array of other un-captained boats, including a tug at one point, that floated by them.
The group had considered commandeering one of these vessels, but with little knowledge of how to operate a ship of such size, it seemed almost safer t
o stick to their smaller, yet more maneuverable boats.
Along the shorelines, they’d often see similar large vessels protruding from the murky depths. Sometimes these boats would be right side up. Other times the hulking vessels lay half submerged on their side or had capsized completely. Their smooth steel hulls were often covered with a combination of river mud, weeds, twigs, tree limbs, and other assorted debris. The Blenders assumed that most of these boats had been deposited in their current locations during the recent flooding. At one point in the middle of the first day, the kayaks came paddling back hard.
“Bear right!” Christine could be heard calling. “Bear hard right!”
Following her instructions, the rest of the Blender armada did just that, narrowly avoiding the top of a submerged vessel, the funnel of which was barely concealed by just an inch or two of water flowing over it.
“Woo! Lucky you saw that!” Michael said after they passed. “I don’t think we would have cleared it. Could have made for a real problem, especially if one of the canoes hit it.”
The current of the river was strong, meaning that the group was making good time, but it also meant they came up on such obstacles relatively quickly. And should they hit them at such speeds, the impact would be substantial, risking harm to their boats or even the potential for capsizing.
But other than the one near miss, the first day back on the river proceeded uneventfully, as did the second. The water, which had kept its orangish hue over the first day of the trip, began to clear toward morning on the second day. And it looked almost normal by early afternoon. Michael figured that whatever was in the water had been diluted enough by that point in its progress downriver to fade visually. But he still wasn’t convinced that the water was safe enough for Charla and Wendell to try their hands at some fishing. Thankfully, however, the group came across several small tributaries where the water appeared clean enough to boil to supplement their fresh water supply.
The Last Bastion [Book 5] Page 11