Unlike many of the spots they’d made camp at previously, this island had a flatter end facing up-river, as opposed to a more pointed tip, that made it easy to shoot for in their approach.
“I would think so,” Michael agreed. “I’d say another day at most and we should have made it.”
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” Wendell eyed the group’s patriarch with a furrowed brow of concern. “You really don’t look so hot.”
“Just tired,” Michael dismissed Wendell’s worries. “This trip is really taking a toll on me.”
“Yeah,” Wendell snorted. “I’d certainly agree with that. I think it’s taking a toll on all of us.”
The fishing boat crunched onto a pebbly shore behind the kayaks and canoes, the occupants of which were already out and unloading supplies.
The Blenders fell into what by this point on their river travels, even for Marta and Louise, had become a regular routine. Christine and the kids got the feel for the island, exploring its terrain as they scavenged for firewood and anything else that might be of use. The other Blenders set about erecting tents and preparing dinner.
Wendell and Charla took one tent to construct. Patrick and Marta took the other. Meanwhile, Michael, Caroline, and Ms. Mary worked on preparing dinner, a task that was becoming more difficult by the day as their supply inventory dwindled. Most dinners had consisted largely of beans and rice with fish or tiny bits of the last of the canned meat. This was mixed into a sort of gruel-looking stew.
Over the past few days, the bits of meat inserted into these meals had been growing smaller and smaller until they were almost indiscernible from the beans and grains of rice with which they were mixed. To compensate for this reduction in additive, Ms. Mary had taken to mixing a little oatmeal into the stews as filler alongside the other ingredients. The pasty mixture that resulted was far from the most exciting or enticing culinary creation. But it was warm and filling, and that was about the best that could be hoped for considering the group’s current supply situation.
“I sure hope that the people in St. Louis have something other to eat than rice, beans, and oatmeal,” Michael said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to have food, but I have to say, I’m beginning to get a little tired of this stuff.
“I agree,” Ms. Mary said. “I could certainly go for a little pizzazz in my ingredient selection. Even just some new herbs, spices, and seasonings would go a long way.”
“Okay,” Michael used a wooden spoon to stir the bubbling pot of rice with his good hand, “I think we’re about ready to add the beans. Caroline, you want to do that?”
“Yes, of course,” Caroline moved over to where they had their bags of ingredients spread out on the ground. They’d selected a spot near their campfire at the up-river end of the island.
Caroline used a measuring cup to carefully scoop out one precious cup of beans at a time. After her first scoop, she carefully made her way over to the pot, steadying the cup in her hand and walking as though she were on a tightrope.
Just as she was dumping the cup into the boiling pot of water, Michael tried to grab her hand.
“Wait!” he cried, but it was too late. With his good hand incapacitated, it took him just a fraction of a second too long and his wife dumped into the pot the cupful of sand she had just scooped up.
He looked at her in astonishment. His wife’s eyes were full of confusion and concern.
“What?” she asked as though Michael were crazy.
“What are you doing?” he asked incredulously.
“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’? What are you doing grabbing me like that?”
“You just dumped a cup full of sand into the pot?!” Michael shook his head in open-mouthed disbelief.
“I did not!” his wife argued, just as astonished by Michael making the accusation as he was in making it.
“You did!” Michael said as Ms. Mary came over to look into the boiling pot. “Now we’ve got to dump everything out and start again.”
“You’re acting crazy, Michael!” Caroline defended herself. “I dumped beans into that pot.”
Michael grabbed a rag in his left hand and took the pot from its position over the fire. “Look!” he held the steaming pot for Caroline to peer into as its contents stopped boiling. As the water settled, it was obvious from the murky brown sludge layering the bottom of the pot that it was indeed a combination of dirt and sand that Caroline had added, not beans.
“That sure as heck doesn’t look like beans and rice to me,” Ms. Mary agreed with Michael.
“Oh my…I guess you’re right,” Caroline shook her head in bewilderment as she gazed into the pot and then looked at the brown residue inside her measuring cup. “What am I doing? I’m so sorry. I must be tired. I think the stress of this trip is getting to me.”
“Must be,” Michael said. “I think they’ve got at least one of the tents up. Why don’t you go lie down for a little bit? Leave dinner to us. We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“I think I’ll do that,” Caroline nodded. “I just can’t believe that I did such a silly thing. What was I thinking?” she shook her head as she headed off for where Patrick and Marta were finishing their work on tent number two.
“You think she’s okay?” Ms. Mary gave Michael a worried look.
“I don’t know. She’s been acting kind of funny lately.”
“So have you,” Ms. Mary frowned, looking down at Michael’s injury. “How’s that hand?”
“Oh,” Michael waved her away casually, “just taking a while to heal is all.”
“Hmm,” Ms. Mary gave him a disbelieving frown. “I just hope they’re as set up in St. Louis as we think they are. Between our supply issues and the health problems starting to crop up in this group, it looks like we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
Michael took the pot over to the edge of where the island met with the river and dumped its contents.
“Guess we’d better get started on dinner…again,” he said. “We’re going to have a rowdy crew on our hands if we don’t get something cooked fast.”
* * *
“Ouch!” Caroline grimaced as she put a spoonful of rice, beans, and diced canned ham into her mouth.
“You okay?” Michael put his good hand on her knee.
“Just bit my tongue is all,” she shook her head, still grimacing in pain. “The pain would be worthwhile if this meal had some doggone flavor to it!” she mashed her lips together in anger.
Ms. Mary looked at her but stayed silent.
“Caroline!” Michael said, surprised. “Ms. Mary has been doing her best with the menu items she has. And your complaining about it certainly won’t help things.”
“You’re right,” Caroline conceded after a moment. “I’m sorry,” she looked from Michael to Ms. Mary and then around at the rest of the Blenders sitting stunned by her outburst. “I was just mad. It really hurt when I bit my tongue. I apologize, especially to you, Ms. Mary. I know how lovely your cooking is. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s okay, dear,” Ms. Mary smiled at her friend sympathetically. She knew what stress the whole group was under and had been under since the outbreak. It had taken its toll on everyone in one way or another. “Is your tongue all right?”
Caroline moved her tongue around in her mouth. “Hurts like a son-of-a-gun, but yes, it’ll be fine. I have a feeling I’m just tired. I think I’m about ready for bed. I’m going to the tent.”
“You look tired,” Christine Franko eyed her with concern.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Caroline shot her a glance, and then retreated from her ire again. “See?” she put a hand to her forehead. “I’m just so irritable lately. I’m sorry. I’m snapping at everyone.”
“Hitting the sack early sounds like a good idea,” Michael agreed. “I think I’ll go with you,” he set his empty bowl down on the ground beside where he sat.
“Speaking of not looking so hot,” Patrick said to him. “You loo
k terrible, Dad…no offense.”
“None taken,” Michael struggled to stand from where he’d been seated on the ground. “I feel terrible,” he used the back of his good hand to wipe some sweat from his forehead even though the evening air was cool.
As he followed his wife toward the tent, he paused, wavering unsteadily. Patrick jumped up from his seat beside the campfire and grabbed his father’s arm to steady him.
“Thanks,” Michael smiled weakly. He was breathing heavily and his face was pale. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
“Yeah…right, Dad,” Patrick frowned as he continued to grip his father’s arm. “I’ll walk you to the tent.”
After Patrick had gotten his parents settled in for the evening, he returned to the campfire. The eyes of his fellow Blenders were upon him as he sat down.
“Is your dad okay?” Christine asked.
Patrick shook his head. “I think that hand injury is infected. He won’t say much about it, but I think it’s really bothering him.”
“I’ve seen him favoring it a lot lately,” Ms. Mary said.
“We need to get him some antibiotics soon if that’s the case,” Wendell said. “If the infection goes septic, it might, well, it could…” he left the sentence unfinished, not wanting to voice the potentially deadly effects with the kids around. “It could be bad,” he nodded at last.
“I thought we had some ointment in with the medical supplies,” Andrew Franko piped up.
“We lost that in the flood. And he’s past the point of simply needing antibiotic ointment anyway,” his mother explained. He needs real antibiotics…the type prescribed by a doctor.”
“Then time is of the essence,” Charla noted.
“We need to get to St. Louis tomorrow and scout out the situation,” Patrick nodded. “If everything looks good, we should try to make contact with the settlement the day after that.”
“And if it doesn’t look good?” Wendell eyed him warily.
“If it doesn’t, well,” Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s just hope that it does.”
CHAPTER 15
With Michael unwell and in no condition to steer due to his hand injury and a high fever, Patrick took over command of the fishing boat. Wendell switched from the fishing boat to ride with Charla in her canoe, while Ms. Mary moved from riding with Charla to steering the canoe with Marta and Louise.
The day was mild and overcast.
“Any indication of rain, and we’re done. Got it?” Michael instructed from where he sat in the fishing boat, shoulders slumped, head hanging tiredly. He looked exhausted simply from the act of holding himself upright.
“I got it, Dad,” Patrick assured him confidently. “We won’t get caught out again, I promise. Will we?” he glanced over with a smile at Justin who was paddling on his side of the fishing boat.
“Nope,” Justin shook his head steadfastly.
Michael coughed and then nodded. “Thanks,” was all he said.
In the canoe ahead of them, Patrick could hear Louise’s sweet voice singing. He couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying, but just the sound of her melodic voice made him feel good.
He liked Louise. She was unique. She wasn’t like other five-year-olds he had known, not that he had known many. She was quite a character.
This point was being driven home even more clearly to Ms. Mary who had joined Marta and the little girl in their canoe. She was reaping the full effects of little Louise’s joyous singing inside their boat.
“Soggy Doggie, gotta give him a gun,
If he shoots, you’d better run!”
She was merrily repeating this chorus, over and over again.
“Where did she pick that up?” Ms. Mary wondered aloud.
“No idea,” Marta shook her head as they paddled.
“Well, she sure is a creative little thing, I’ll give you that,” Ms. Mary chuckled.
“She has strong imagination for sure,” Marta agreed with a smile as she swiveled in her seat to glance back at Louise who was happily lost in her own little world.
The Blender boat brigade continued their steady downriver progress feeling increasingly insignificant on the vast Mississippi. In some spots, the river spanned nearly a mile wide. And it wasn’t long before yet another river joined in a major confluence. Michael said that it was the Missouri River, which meant that they were almost to St. Louis. And he was right.
By lunchtime, the group could see buildings of various types and sizes lining the riverbanks, a sure indication that they were beginning to enter a more urban environment. And once they’d set out again after lunch, the clusters of buildings became a constant presence, growing in size and number until the banks were no longer tree lined but building lined.
“Did they ever say anything about where this community was set up?” Patrick asked his father as they glided quickly and quietly along the river’s western edge
“No,” Michael shook his head. “Never said. I always assumed that it was downtown somewhere. Guess I should assume nothing in this day and age. Suppose we’ll have to start downtown and work our way out from there if we don’t find anything. I have a feeling that our best friends in our search will be our eyes, ears, and noses. We’ll just have to search for signs of a large group of people cohabitating.”
“I wonder what the process is?” Patrick pondered aloud.
“What do you mean?” Michael asked tiredly.
“I mean, when we get there. Do they just greet us with open arms, welcoming in anyone and everyone who arrives? Or do they make you go through some sort of screening process, like a job interview or something?”
“No idea,” Michael shook his head and then took a long, deep breath and exhaled heavily.
“I’ll run the ice cream machine,” Caroline said.
“If they have an ice cream machine, there’s no keeping me out of that place, interview process or not!” Patrick laughed.
“As soon as I find my jumpsuit and earmuffs, I’ll be ready to go,” his mother added.
“Uh, yeah,” Patrick nodded giving the back of his mother’s head a wary stare. “Whatever floats your boat, Mom.”
Christine and Jack were headed their way in the kayak.
“What’s up?” Patrick called as they approached.
“Big island up ahead,” Christine reported.
“BIG island,” her youngest son emphasized.
“Think we should make camp there?” Christine paddled closer to the fishing boat.
Patrick glanced from Christine up toward where his father sat at the head of the boat. While he couldn’t see the look on his father’s face, his dad’s drooping head, sagging shoulders, and overall limpid stature told him everything he needed to know about his father’s condition.
“Yeah, I think so,” the apparent de facto leader of the group gave his go ahead. “I’d like to get the kids and the parents settled and then take a small scouting party, probably just the two kayaks, downriver a ways and see what we see. If everything looks good, we can send another scouting party out early tomorrow. Maybe we can make contact with the settlement in St. Louis and then come back and get the rest of the group. If we can do that, we might be able to get settled by late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Christine nodded.
“Me too,” Michael agreed.
“Me three,” Caroline piped up.
“I want ice cream!” Justin grinned.
“Well, don’t get your hopes up too much,” Patrick smiled at the boy, tempering his excitement at such unrealistic expectations. “I guess we never know for sure, but let’s get there first. Then we can worry about ice cream.”
* * *
The island that Christine had reported lay ahead was indeed massive. It was at least several miles long, probably a mile wide, and it sat in the center of the Mississippi.
At the northern tip of the island, swinging out to the west like a massive blocking arm was what Patrick termed a “g
iant jetty of junk”. And that was indeed what it was. A collection of logs, rocks, mud, and assorted river debris formed a thin spit at the northern end of the island. The spit was only about 50 feet at its widest point and stretched several hundred feet out into the river shallows beside the island. Behind the line of debris was a scummy looking lagoon created by this junk jetty.
“This river is huge,” Patrick said to Charla and Wendell beside him. He led their kayak around this barrier and out into the river’s main current as they began their scouting mission downriver. Patrick guided the single-seat kayak, and Charla and Wendell followed in the two-seater.
“I’m not really sure we should be doing this,” Wendell said uncertainly. He had forced himself to come along on the trip, mostly as a way to continue fighting his fear of the water.
“Why not?” Patrick asked.
“Well, how far are we going? It’s one thing to paddle back upriver a couple hundred yards or so, but against the current and with the distances we have to cover to get places, I’m not sure we should be chancing this.”
“He makes a good point,” Charla said. “This current is pretty strong, and even in the kayaks, if we’re talking about heading a mile or two or even more downriver, I’m not sure we’ll have the energy to paddle all the way back.
Patrick considered for a moment, turning his kayak and paddling back upriver as a test. It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t exactly easy either. And the thought of having to paddle for a mile or more in such a manner quickly had him rethinking things.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Patrick paddled back to Charla and Wendell. They were coasting with the current but not paddling as they hugged the west shore of the island on which they’d made camp. “I say we call it a day and start bright and early. We’re obviously close. We can take the whole group with us tomorrow. If things look good, we’ll stop, taking in a scouting party then, and go from there. We can always bypass downtown if things look bad. I don’t want us getting separated from the rest of the group now. We’ve come too far. And we’re too close to our goal.”
The Last Bastion [Book 5] Page 13