Louise was quickly tiring of eating Marta’s daily catches. And as with most five-year-olds, she made her displeasure vociferously known whenever she saw Marta come up the bank with a new haul. However, she was also intensely curious about the flopping fish that Marta would drop into a water-filled bucket on shore. Louise would often come over to inspect them, talk to them, and take little pokes at them, squealing in frightened delight when they flipped, flopped, and splashed inside the bucket.
But with the entire supply of food they’d brought with them from town nearly exhausted, Marta was finding little that she could pair the fish with to make it more appetizing for Louise. And Marta readily admitted that she wasn’t the world’s best cook to begin with. Before the outbreak, most of her meals had been eaten at Dan’s bar. But she was proud of her recent advances in cooking and culinary creations no matter what Louise’s reactions of distaste.
Her most recent menu option however had for once elicited a positive reaction from her little bunkmate. One day during a brief rain shower that had forced both of them inside for a somewhat tedious hour, the two had taken to scouring the roadhouse again. They took their time inspecting spots they hadn’t searched before, which, by this point, were few and far between. However, at a podium-style host station at the front of the roadhouse’s restaurant section, Marta found a red plastic basket, oval in shape, filled with an assortment of mints, salted crackers, and individually wrapped toothpicks.
Louise was thrilled to see the red-and-white mints. Marta explained, however, that they were to be treats only and not to be consumed all at once, which quickly tempered the child’s excitement. Still, she was content with the single mint that Marta gave her to celebrate the find.
Upon testing the crackers that came in sealed packages of two a piece, Marta found that they were stale. Undeterred by the revelation, she discovered a use for them in the next several days’ meals. Marta and Louise smashed up the cracker packets until they were ground into tiny crumbs. Then Marta took the pieces of the large catfish she’d caught and filleted earlier, rolled them in the cracker crumbs mixed with salt and pepper, and put them in a pan of oil that she had salvaged from the bottom of the kitchen’s deep fryer.
The result was a batch of delicious fish sticks that satisfied not only Marta but Louise as well.
Marta had also been working on perfecting a fish stew, that due to lack of ingredients was coming out more as a fish soup. She added bits of fish, a can of corn, the last of a can of carrots they’d brought along, salt, pepper, and some wild onions she’d discovered growing on the riverbank while fishing several days prior. For thickener, Marta added some of the cracker crumbs, but there weren’t enough cracker packets to make much of a difference and the stew remained rather soupy. Still, it was warm, and with the salt and pepper, it had plenty of taste. But even Marta had to admit there just wasn’t much substance to it.
They needed more food, if nothing else but to help extend their steady supply of fish. They could live mainly off the fish, but neither of them wanted to. But Marta wasn’t sure where or how to find more supplies. If the invaders of their town were out scavenging, they’d likely discovered anything of use that the Riverport residents had missed in previous searches, which Marta guessed wasn’t much.
The former residents of Riverport had picked the surrounding countryside clean in the weeks following the Carchar outbreak. And most of the survivors who lived outside of town had packed up their remaining supplies and come to reside in ‘fortress Riverport’ once they’d learned that’s where the majority of the town’s residents were holding out.
Marta knew there were spots along the river known for their berries, but those berries usually didn’t arrive until summer. Grapes and fruit trees were abundant in the area, but again, not typically until much later in the season. She was running out of ideas and needed to come up with something quick.
* * *
For dinner that night, Marta served several freshly fried fish sticks paired with a small cup of fish soup for Louise. She took a full bowl of soup for herself.
After a minute of eating, Marta asked, “So how is your dinner?”
“Fish sticks are good. Soup is, meh,” Louise held her flattened hand out in front of her, palm down, and wobbled it back and forth to illustrate her “so-so” attitude regarding the food.
It was cute. Even in just the short time the two had spent together, it seemed as though Louise was picking up some of Marta’s mannerisms. And Marta even thought she detected a hint of her Polish accent intermingling itself into the little one’s speech. She had to admit, she liked it. It made her feel closer to the child, almost as if Louise was her own.
“Mint for dessert?” Marta asked.
“Mmm hmm,” Louise nodded eagerly, making big eyes. “But just one,” she added knowingly.
“And only if you eat all your soup,” Marta added, making big eyes of her own.
“Aww,” Louise’s shoulders slumped in over-exaggerated frustration.
“Come now, is good for you,” Marta reached a hand across the small table for two at which they sat in the roadhouse’s kitchen. She pushed the steaming cup of soup over closer to Louise.
“It’s too hot,” Louise nodded at the cup. “I’ll wait for it to cool.”
“Just don’t fill up on fish sticks,” Marta warned, her words reminding her of her own mother admonishing her to eat as a child back in Poland.
It all felt so strange to Marta. Most people had time to ease into parenthood. They had a pregnancy, the birth of the child, and the years ahead to become accustomed to playing the part of parent. But Marta had been unexpectedly thrust into the role and in probably the worst situation possible. Yet she felt somehow at home as a mother, at least to Louise. Maybe with another child it wouldn’t have worked as well, but with Louise, it just felt right. She seemed to make parenting not just rewarding but fun, even at the worst of times.
But the role added an immense weight of responsibility, something Marta had yet to learn how to handle. She wondered if she ever would. It seemed that every time she came up with a way to contend with one problem or security concern related to Louise, she was immediately faced with another. And no matter what solution or plan she came up with to handle such issues, it never seemed to be good enough. Marta wondered if it was normal to feel this way as a parent or if she was just being overly cautious. She didn’t want to coddle Louise. But in her situation, she was left to wonder since there were no other parents to whom she could raise her concerns or questions.
One thing, however, was becoming increasingly evident. They couldn’t stay in the roadhouse much longer unless they wanted to subsist solely off fish for the next few months. And even the most novice parent had to realize that this would not be a good move nutritionally. There was a reason why children were taught about the five basic food groups early in life. And consuming but one of them was not going to cut it for very long.
CHAPTER 17
After over a week of being on the river, and having passed through Peoria several days prior, the Blender regatta arrived at a sizeable island.
Their progress had been slowed substantially before reaching Peoria as they came to a series of lakes into which the river flowed. Throughout this roughly 30-mile stretch, the current decreased noticeably, and the group was forced to paddle much more than they had been while traversing the narrower river channel. It took them over two days to complete this portion of their journey, and it left them exhausted and famished, having burned far more calories than their restrictive diets provided.
After Peoria, which they passed without incident, the river narrowed again. Although the river continued to range between 600 and 1,000-feet-wide at most points, the current picked back up, and the Blenders were presented with a welcome break during which they could focus more on floating and steering than on paddling. The current carried them along swiftly, yet soothingly once through the city, and the landscape returned mostly to woods and farmland.
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Michael estimated that they still had a good 150 miles before they reached St. Louis, although he had no idea for sure since the winding nature of the river could affect his estimate substantially. He put their arrival at the outskirts of St. Louis at anywhere from six to ten days. But that estimate depended on any number of factors including the pace of the river’s current, the exact distance, and river obstacles such as the dam they were forced to circumvent back in Joliet.
And as the group continued their travels, they eased into a sort of daily routine. They’d wake at dawn, climbing from inside the tent or beneath the canoes. Both sleeping arrangements were wearing more than a little thin for pretty much everyone but the kids. People would break off for their morning bathroom activities. Then, several of the group would cook breakfast – usually a pot of grits or creamed wheat – while the rest of the group broke down camp and began to reload supplies into the boats.
After breakfast the Blenders would load themselves into their respective boats. The one bullet-damaged canoe had been patched with some cloth and the remnants of a tube of caulk that Patrick had found washed up on one of the islands they’d stopped at. They’d typically spend about eight hours on the river, stopping at an island for lunch and making occasional stops on other islands for bathroom breaks or to scavenge potentially useful items that might have washed ashore. They would continue in this manner until about two hours before sunset, at which point they’d begin looking for an island on which to make camp. While this sometimes made for an earlier than planned stopping point in their trek, it also gave them the opportunity to find an island that worked well for their purposes. Then they would have time to explore the island to ensure that no one else was there, unload the boats, set up camp, and prepare dinner.
It had only taken one misstep early in their river adventure to realize that selecting the proper island stopping point for their camp was crucial to their safety and wellbeing. The group had stopped at a sandy shoal, the only island they’d come across as late afternoon began to slip into evening. It was not an ideal location.
The island, if one could even call it such, was small, maybe 70 feet long by 40 feet across, sat only about 50 feet from the river’s eastern bank, and had very little foliage. The spot was mostly sand and only rose to a height of about three feet above the river’s waters at its highest point. But with daylight fading, the group decided not to chance continuing downriver only to find themselves forced to set up camp on shore, in the dark, and with the prospect of having to contend with biters.
They had just gotten their tent erected and dinner prepared when they’d heard a gunshot from the distant bank. A few seconds later, another shot sounded, striking the island with a puff of sand not more than ten feet from where Ms. Mary was cooking.
The Blenders could tell little about where the gunfire was coming from other than that it was somewhere on the far bank. Michael and Josh had quickly led the others in a crouched run to the opposite side of the island. There, they lay behind the slight rise in the center of the island until darkness fell. And even though no more shots were fired after that, the group felt so exposed that they ended up sleeping on the cold sandy ground until early morning with little more than a few blankets that Michael fetched from inside the tent once it was dark. About an hour before sunrise the next morning, they hurriedly disassembled the tent and collected their supplies, tossing everything haphazardly inside the boats. Then they made a stealthy escape from the island, only stopping at a larger, tree-covered island once the sun was up to eat, take naps, and reorganize the boats.
Since that day, whenever they chose an island to stop at, even if it was just for lunch, they made sure that it offered enough tree cover that they weren’t exposed to potential gunfire from the shore.
Eventually, the group stopped at a large island one evening. A torrential rain that started late that night and lasted well into the next morning had forced them to remain on the island longer than planned. During the tedium that ensued, as the group sat sheltering inside the tent, it came to light that most of them had grown sick of being on the river. They wanted a break from the monotony of river travel. Therefore, a vote was taken and the group decided to remain on the island with the intention of not only resting sore muscles but exploring the possibility of utilizing the island as a potential longer-term living location.
Ms. Mary was of the opinion that the island offered plenty of room for living, enough trees not only for concealment but for building habitable structures, and a steady food supply in the way of ample fishing. She felt it might even be worth considering the spot as a permanent living location even over continuing their trek to St. Louis.
“We don’t know what’s waiting for us in St. Louis, but we know what we’re getting with a spot like this,” she had offered in the form of advice.
They had set up their camp toward the north end of the island, the size of which they estimated at about a quarter mile long by several hundred feet wide. The entire island was skirted by a sandy beach. Around most of its outer perimeter, this sandy portion was at most several feet wide. But at both the island’s northern and southern ends, the beach was wider. It stretched nearly 15 feet at the northern tip of the island and was closer to 10 feet before the sand met with the tree line at the southern shore.
Most of the island’s interior was heavily wooded. And while there was room to walk between the trees, their coverage kept bushes and other foliage to a minimum. At a spot near the center of the island, the sandy soil rose up to form a sort of hump that reached six or seven feet at its peak. After some exploring, it turned out that the hill was actually an ancient tree that had been toppled, its root system upturned to form the now dirt-covered “hump”. It led Andrew Franko to christen the place, “Whale Hump Island”.
And the name stuck.
As the Blenders settled in to familiarize themselves with their temporary new home, they realized that beyond the sizeable nature of the island, there were other benefits to their locale. The group noticed few signs of life along the riverbanks surrounding them. They took the absence of manmade structures as a sign that they were in a more remote portion of Illinois. And the island was strategically positioned almost directly in the center of the river. Wide channels of several hundred feet flowed around either side. This provided plenty of privacy and security from anyone who might be passing the island or were curious as to whom or what might be on it.
The river’s western bank was lined with a thick forest. The eastern bank was bordered by a small field that was surrounded by more forest. Ms. Mary found this an appealing characteristic of the location. She explained that the field could provide a good spot for potential planting of crops should the group decide to stay longer term.
* * *
The Blenders estimated that it was sometime in early to mid-April from their best consensus, although they had no idea for sure exactly what the day or date. Using that timeframe, they guessed that it had been about four months since they had abandoned their homes back in Brookfield. They estimated that it had been more than two weeks since they’d left Hofmann Tower to start their river trek. But days and weeks were beginning to flow together so that their determinations on such matters were only educated guesses based more on the weather and length of days than anything else.
The river travelers were gradually beginning to warm to the idea of island life. After getting accustomed to their new home, the Blenders had started to enjoy the peaceful tranquility of their setting. It was so quiet, only the birds chirping or the wind rustling the recently appeared tree leaves broke the silence. Even Wendell, who had been terrified of drowning all his life, had begun to relax regarding his constant proximity to water after having been on the river for so long. During the early days of their travel, even when they’d stop at an island, Wendell would continue to wear his life vest, often concealed beneath a bulky coat, due to this overarching fear. But after several days of living on the island, he finally felt confident enough
to venture about freed from this bulky burden.
The weather since they’d landed at their current home had been just about as good as the group could have hoped for. The sun, free to beat down upon the Blenders from a cloudless sky, paired with temperatures in the mid-60s, almost made it feel hot during the day. And this near-perfect weather had provided them with the opportunity to begin construction on a new shelter.
They took the two canoes and laid them upside down and side by side, angled lengthwise so that one set of ends was hefted atop the ‘hump’ near the center of the island, the other set placed on the ground below. They dug stabilizing notches in the earth at top and bottom for the canoe ends to sit in to keep them from rolling. They also dug holes in the ground into which they fit upright logs on either side of the canoes for additional support.
The result was the roof to a lean-to type shelter. They then used a large tarp to seal the center gap between the two canoes. Using an assortment of driftwood, dead limbs, and plywood they’d scavenged from around the island, they then created the side walls for their enclosure.
Finally, they packed the space’s interior with dry leaves for insulation and cushioning. One end of the shelter, the end closest to the campfire, was left open. They constructed a door for this space out of shorter sticks woven together with some fishing line that Charla had donated to the cause.
When they were done, the group could comfortably fit four people inside to sleep. This freed up space inside the tent that had been erected adjacent the lean-to.
It was far from Shangri-La, and the group all agreed that sleeping on the ground was far from their first option. But under the circumstances, and considering the security benefits the island provided, they felt they were making the best of a bad situation.
The Last Bastion Box Set [Books 1-5] Page 75