Pale, goose-pimpled flesh shivered against the chill of the river’s still icy waters, yet to be warmed by the fresh bout of spring air with which the season had been met.
“God only knows whether this is doing any good,” Michael said as he used a washcloth to clean an armpit. “With some of the stuff we saw floating in this water, and being downstream from those factories we passed earlier, we might be doing more harm than good,” he switched the washcloth to his other hand.
“At this point, I don’t even care,” Christine Franko replied from where she was conducting a similar cleaning regimen. “I feel absolutely disgusting.” She turned and looked back toward where Ms. Mary sat working on breakfast. “Smells delicious!” she called. “I could probably eat two cans of that stuff on my own!” she referenced the hash Ms. Mary was cooking.
“Be ready in about ten minutes!” Ms. Mary smiled back in response. “I even made coffee.”
“Coffee?!” Wendell responded from where he stood behind Charla. Charla had un-strapped her bra and cradled it against her breasts so that Wendell could scrub her back. “I didn’t know we still had coffee!”
“I saved a small freezer bag for an emergency,” Ms. Mary explained. “And I consider this about as close to a coffee emergency as you can get.”
“Uh, thank God,” Wendell moaned, tilting his head back in delight, stopping his scrubbing of Charla in the process. “I haven’t had coffee in well…I don’t know how long. But it’s been long enough, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t stop,” Charla groaned. “That feels soooo good. My back is itchy as heck.”
Five minutes later, the group was finishing up with their scrubbing. Most had wadded quickly out into knee-deep waters and bent to dunk their heads into the frigid flow. Then a small bottle of shampoo was passed from person to person so that hair could be washed if so desired.
A communal towel, the only one of several that hadn’t been completely saturated during the rainstorms, was passed around for drying. Then everyone quickly re-dressed to warm themselves against the chill.
The hot coffee that Ms. Mary poured into small paper cups did the group well. Even the kids got a cup.
Then Ms. Mary served breakfast. “I know it isn’t much for what you all could probably eat if you were given the opportunity, but it’s all I can do. I mixed a couple packages of noodles in with the cans of corned beef hash. The corned beef is all you really taste anyway, so I figured the noodles would help bolster the meal and add to the filler the potatoes provide.”
“Good thinking,” Michael nodded, hungrily tearing into his paper plate full of food.
“Remember to eat slowly,” Ms. Mary reminded her brood. “We have a long day ahead of us. And keep drinking water. Drink it slowly but consistently. You need to continue to hydrate after losing all those fluids.”
“Yes, Mom,” Michael smiled and nodded in response for the rest of the group.
After breakfast, it took the group about an hour to pack up camp. While the island had been their home for almost a week, and provided a safe haven against the dangers of the world, no one was going to miss the place. There were too many bad memories contained on such a small space. The group was ready to be on their way and far from a spot that reminded them of their debilitating illnesses of the past week.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Patrick asked Ms. Mary as he helped her load a pack of supplies into one of the canoes. The canoe was no longer serving as a shelter but had been righted and placed half in the water, half still on shore.
“Hungry already, my growing boy?” Ms. Mary teased the young man.
“Mmm hmm!” Patrick nodded eagerly.
“Well, you’re just going to have to wait and find out. Tonight’s menu is a secret. Give you something to daydream about while we’re on the river today.”
“Awww,” Patrick slumped dejectedly.
“Be good for you. Delayed gratification makes you appreciate things all the more when you finally get them.”
“Now you sound like my father,” Patrick groaned. “Why is it that even after I eat, I’m still starving?”
“Probably because you’re a grown man, and you’re getting about three hundred or four hundred calories a meal at best. Just not enough for someone of your age and build. You probably need two-thousand calories or more in a day to feel satisfied, and lately, you’re lucky to be getting about half that. Just ain’t cuttin’ it,” Ms. Mary admitted and turned to retrieve another loaded pack from camp.
Ten minutes later, the camp was down, the boats were loaded, the Blenders had taken their last bathroom breaks, and the group was again floating down the Des Plaines River.
It wasn’t long into their journey, however, before Michael and the others inside the fishing boat saw a kayak paddling back upriver toward them.
“Aw geez,” Wendell groaned. “Already?”
“Lots of little islands coming up! Looks like the river really narrows up ahead!” Christine Franko called.
Michael nodded. “Got it. Stay close. Looks like you’ll have to act as our guides. You come to shallow spots or routes that aren’t passable for the fishing boat, let us know before we reach them so we don’t have to backtrack.”
“Will do,” Christine turned the kayak around and headed downstream to alert the others.
After about 45 minutes of slow progress due to the winding course of the river channels as they split around numerous islands, and after having run aground in shallow spots several times, the Blender armada finally made it to clearer waters. And by mid-morning, there was a report from the kayaks of another train bridge approaching, this time an unobstructed one.
“Thank god!” Wendell breathed a sigh of relief.
“And it looks like we’re joining with another river, or a larger channel of this river or something,” Andrew Franko announced from the rear of the kayak he guided with Ms. Mary.
“Good,” Michael nodded as the kayak turned and paddled back downriver. “I’m already beat from all this steering. And I’m sure you guys are tired from paddling so much,” he said to his crew.
“I wonder if we’re meeting up with the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal?” Wendell pondered aloud. “I remember from one of the classes I used to teach on Illinois history that it links up with the Des Plaines River.”
“I’ll bet you’re right, Wendell,” Michael said. “I seem to recall something about that as well…like the two meet up somewhere close to Joliet. And it looks like things are starting to get more urbanized around here, so I wouldn’t doubt that we’re getting close to Joliet. At least the river is widening out here. I suggest we keep away from the banks, though, if possible. Don’t want people trying to get at us if they’re lurking around here. ”
Michael whistled for the boats ahead of them and waved for them to slow down or paddle back. In a few minutes, the tiny armada was linking up for a quick group meeting.
“What’s up?” Patrick said as he and Charla paddled their canoe up alongside the fishing boat.
“Wait until everyone else is here,” Michael nodded toward where the other canoe and the two kayaks were paddling up to them as well.
“How you holding up?” Patrick nodded to young Justin Justak who sat at the ready in the center of the fishing boat even though he currently had no job to occupy him.
“Okay,” Justin nodded steadfastly. “You?”
“Hanging in there,” Patrick grinned back. “Could go for a nice juicy cheeseburger right about now, but…”
“Ugh, don’t say that!” Wendell cried. “It’s like torture! A burger sounds soooo good,” he grasped his stomach with a hand and groaned. “I think I’d give my left hand, or at least a couple fingers, for a cheeseburger right now.”
“I’d give up a couple digits for half that burger,” Caroline Trove added from her spot beside Wendell.
Two minutes later, as all the boats drifted together in the center of the river, linked by hands holding gunnels, Michael began their group m
eeting.
“Wendell and I think we’re approaching Joliet. Since we have no idea what the situation is in the city, I suggest we stay as best we can toward the middle of the river to avoid potential interference from people along the riverbanks. Who knows how many survivors are there or how desperate they may be for supplies. I don’t want someone attacking our boats. Any survivors here could be heavily armed. Something happens, and someone goes in the water for some reason, and hypothermia could set in quick. Once we make it through the city, we can spread back out.” He scanned the group floating quietly around him. “Everyone good with that?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Christine agreed.
“Sounds good to me,” Josh nodded.
“So we just float like this then?” Ms. Mary gestured to their small cluster of craft floating in the center of the broad river.
“No,” Michael shook his head. “Makes it too hard to control with us all being linked up like this. We can separate for ease of steering. Just stay in close proximity to one another.”
“Aye, aye!” Patrick saluted and then gave a salute to Justin as well.
Justin proudly returned the salute.
“Looks like we have a bridge coming up,” Michael nodded ahead of them. “Everyone on the lookout. Never know what one of these bridges will bring.”
The bridge was large, but the section of river in which it sat was about 300 feet wide, which gave the small boats ample birth to pass beneath the behemoth structure without incident.
About a quarter of a mile past the first bridge, they came to another one that could be lowered or raised to allow taller ships passage. A short distance on, they appeared to be entering the heart of the city. And after passing beneath a third bridge, Michael pointed to their left and said, “Look! There’s the casino!”
The group all turned to see what was once one of Joliet’s major attractions, its downtown casino.
“Not doing much business now, I guess,” Wendell muttered. “Seems like a ghost town around here.”
“Just as well,” Caroline said.
They passed beneath another large bridge just after the casino.
“At this rate,” Michael checked his watch, “we’ll be outside Joliet in time for lunch. That’ll be good,” he nodded from his position at the rear of the fishing boat. “I’d like to be well clear of the city before we stop again.”
Suddenly there came a distant popping sound, almost like popcorn being made.
“You hear that?” Wendell cocked his head to listen with a frown.
“Yeah…that popping noise?” Caroline lifted her paddle from the water to listen too.
Suddenly there was a small splash ahead of them, and then another, and another.
“What the heck is that?” said Wendell. “Are those splashes from fish jumping?”
“I…I don’t think so,” Michael frowned. He looked around, confused. “I think someone is shooting at us.”
As soon as he finished the words, there were soft zipping sounds through the air around them and more splashes in the water, closer this time.
“They’re shooting at us!” Michael called to the boats around him. “Get down!”
While there wasn’t much cover inside the boats, the occupants did their best to bend or crouch down, removing as much of their silhouettes on the open water as possible. The kayaks were particularly exposed however, since there was absolutely nowhere for their occupants to shelter or duck down into.
“Why are they shooting at us!” Caroline cried.
“Spread out!” Michael called to the other boats.
“Why not?” Wendell answered Caroline’s question. “They’re probably so used to shooting things that they don’t know what else to do.”
Several bullets ripped into the side of the fishing boat above the water line.
“Where are they shooting from?!” Caroline called.
“No idea!” Michael answered. “Just stay down!”
“Doesn’t matter!” Wendell yelled back. “We’d be better off paddling! These boats aren’t going to stop bullets! If they hit us, we’ll either sink or be forced to land. Then they’ll just kill us there! We need to move!”
Michael, realizing the sagacity of Wendell’s words yelled, “Paddle!” to the rest of the group.
He realized that the fire was coming from a multi-story building overlooking the river’s right bank. He could see flashes of light coming from the top floor.
Several rounds ripped through the center of one of the kayaks, narrowly missing Jack Franko and his mother. The bullets passed just inches from the end of Jack’s feet and his mother sitting in front of him. In fact, if Jack was several inches taller, like his older brother, he might have been missing several toes. But for the moment, he and his mother had other fish to fry.
“Mom! You feel that?” he asked.
“Yes,” his mother called back, feeling the river’s icy bite slowly seeping into their boat. “We’ve gotta bail out. Let’s get over to the fishing boat!”
Next to them, one of the canoes had been hit too. A bullet had entered one side of its center near the upper portion of the hull and passed completely through. The bullet had angled downward so that it exited right at the waterline, leaving an inch square hole. Water was slopping in through the hole. Charla worked hurriedly to plug it with a piece of fabric she’d torn from her shirt.
Meanwhile, the Franko kayak had made it over to the fishing boat where both Jack and his mother had both made a hurried transfer. Their bottoms and the backs of their legs were wet, but otherwise they remained unscathed.
The gunfire was becoming more sporadic as the small fleet put distance between them and the building on the riverbank. Soon, it stopped altogether.
At this point, the fishing boat was overloaded and riding dangerously low in the water. With the gunfire stopped, Michael called the undamaged canoe back and the group did a careful transfer of Jack to the center of that boat. He would ride inside the canoe until their next stop at which point they could re-evaluate the weight distribution inside their remaining boats.
The lone remaining kayak took up the lead again, acting as scouting vessel. The group passed safely beneath several more large bridges. Thankfully, there was no more shooting. But soon, the kayak was paddling back toward the others.
“We got a problem!” Ms. Mary called. “A big problem!”
“What’s up?” Michael, who had yet to calm down from the last ‘big problem’ ask worriedly.
“Some sort of huge spillway up ahead. Goes across the entire river. And it’s coming up fast!”
“Great,” Michael huffed. “Is there a good place to land before we get to it?”
“Looks like if we get over to the right, we should be okay.”
“Will do,” Michael changed the angle of his paddle to begin taking the boat toward the right. “You heard the woman,” he told his crew. “Start paddling. We don’t want to be sucked over the spillway. Could be the end of all of us.”
The look on Wendell’s face was priceless, and his paddling did more than words ever could to describe the fear he felt.
“Wendell,” Michael called after a minute. “Take it easy man. You’re going to hurt yourself…or someone else. I want you to paddle, but don’t be so frantic with your strokes. You misjudge and your paddle could whack someone pretty good.”
Wendell slowed, but only slightly, willing to do whatever it took to avoid a plunge into the Des Plaines River’s icy grips.
The current was picking up and Michael could tell it wouldn’t be long before it overtook their ability to paddle against it. The sole remaining kayak had gotten over to the right side of the river well ahead of them and was idling patiently outside the main current, waiting for them to catch up.
The canoes were making good progress, but they were also finding paddling against the river’s current increasingly difficult.
“Paddle hard!” Michael instructed, not wanting to scare his crew but trying to convey
the urgency with which they needed to proceed.
A number of concerns were flooding through his mind at the thought of the spillway ahead. Going over would result in a lost boat, lost supplies, and a crew of five in the water and quickly hypothermic. He’d have to pray that everyone survived going over the spillway and weren’t caught in the dangerous undertow such areas often created. He’d heard numerous horror stories about people getting dragged down and held under, or getting hit by or tangled beneath large trees and limbs that became lodged at spillway bases.
Then, freezing and frightened, he’d have to get those who survived the fall safely accounted for after having been tumbled over a spillway into the frigid water. But that was only the beginning. As they bobbed downriver in the still swiftly moving current, he’d have to get everyone rounded up, which included several of the group who weren’t the strongest of swimmers. Next, they’d have to get back on shore – all in the same general spot – and then manage to round up enough dry firewood to quickly get a fire started and get them dry and warm. But that was only if they went over the spillway.
What if their boat became lodged on the spillway itself?
With all the weight the fishing boat was carrying, and for as low as the boat was riding in the water, it was a distinct possibility. Then they’d be stranded on a spillway in the middle of the river. That would almost be worse than going over it. How would they get off? Would they have to try to walk the spillway like a tightrope with water gushing over it? Would they be swept over and drown or injured in the process? How long would it take if they could walk it? Would Justin be able to do it? Would Wendell? Would he?
The questions flew through his mind fast and furious, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting the fishing boat out of the main current.
“Paddle hard!” Michael urged again. He could see a line in the water several hundred yards downriver that they were heading toward with increasing speed. Their progress toward the right side of the river seemed painstakingly slow in relation.
The Last Bastion Box Set [Books 1-5] Page 71