Barren Waters - The Complete Novel: (A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival)

by Julia Shupe

  Sam opened the bathroom door and stepped into the silvery moonlight that spilled across the floor. Jeremy startled and came back to himself. She crossed the room, and with an arching of her brow, watched him pocket the remaining disks. He avoided her gaze and together they turned and tiptoed past the entrance to the living room. Jeremy flinched as they passed, stopped suddenly, and peered into it one last time. Similar to when he and Sam had lived alone, the foursome had chosen to sleep together, huddled in the same room and rolled into their individual blankets. Reassurance was often found only in the close proximity of others.

  He scanned the feminine silhouette Meghan’s body shaped of her blankets. It wasn’t lost on him that she would soon find herself alone. Peter would surely die and she would be left to face this world on her own. For a moment he even thought to leave her a note, a small slip of paper with two words scrawled in large block letters. SAN DIEGO. San Diego—their final destination. He thought to share that little bit of information with her, to offer her some glimmer of hope, something to cling to when her broken heart threatened to crush her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This part of their lives was over. He’d likely never see her again.

  His eyes found Peter’s angular form curled beneath the sheets. His leg—as ever—was propped atop several thick blankets. His breathing was deep, his hand curled gently beneath his chin. The leg was still bad. Horrendous really. Meghan could tell herself it was a dry rot as much as she wanted to, but rot was rot. Death was death. No, Jeremy thought with a shake of his head. He couldn’t allow her to follow him, couldn’t permit her to drag Peter in tow. Besides, after his death she’d probably be too angry to try.

  He caught Sam’s inquisitive gaze from the corner of his eye and knew a moment of indecision. Frozen he stood, left arm braced against the wall. They were really leaving. The visualization had become real. Before he could stop himself, he crept into the dark room and crouched beside Peter, ran a nervous hand through his hair. What was he doing? He was stalling, he thought with panic. Chickening out. But his heart went out to the child. He had to admit it. This never should have happened to Peter. It wasn’t his fault. If he’d met Meghan and Peter sooner, it probably wouldn’t have happened at all. Jeremy would never have allowed it. But it was too late and the damage was already done.

  Jeremy’s fingers found the shape of the small teddy bear keychain and closed around it. He palmed it, lifted it, brought it up toward the light. It was old and musty, the coal-black nose hanging loose by ragged threads. He felt a tightening in his throat as he tucked the blankets beneath Peter’s chin.

  “I’m sorry little one,” he murmured softly with a heavy heart. So damn sorry.

  Sorry for what? the voice in his head debated. For abandoning a small and defenseless boy? For caring first for his own flesh and blood?

  Yes to the first, he thought. And yes to the second as well. He was sorry for both those things.

  Sorry for both—and yet one more.

  His eyes found the last sealed bottle of insulin pills and narrowed. Though he felt the reassuring weight of the disks in his pocket, he knew Sam would never make it to San Diego before they ran out. He might need the pills, he thought. Just to bridge the gap. Just to see her over the finish line.

  The bottle sat innocently—tantalizing Jeremy from the table above Peter’s head. And Jeremy wanted it. He couldn’t deny it. His jaw tightened and his palms slicked with sweat. It was Meghan’s last bottle, he knew. Just last night, they’d had an argument over it. She’d wanted to return to the local hospital to look for any bottles they may have missed, but he’d told her it was a waste of time, finally convinced her to travel to Knoxville instead.

  Unable to catch his breath, he lifted his hand and moved toward the pills. His fingers trembled and hovered atop the bottle. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Sam. Her forehead was creased and an unspoken question dangled at her lips. She met his eyes and cocked her head inquisitively. He could practically hear her prickly words in his head.

  With sudden decisiveness he pushed himself to his feet, blocked Peter from her line of sight, and with the sleight-of-hand of an expert magician, palmed the bottle, and slipped it into his pocket. Was it just his imagination, or did Sam tremble as the pills rattled and came to rest in the bottom of his pocket? What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t the act of a sane man. This wasn’t him. Sam didn’t even need these pills—not yet at least. So why was he acting so selfishly? His conscience waged a bitter war within as he scrutinized his daughter’s face. Dear God—that face. He would do anything for that face, anything for her. He was doing anything right now—anything and everything. He was killing a defenseless child for God’s sake. No, not by his own hands. He wasn’t choking Peter or shooting him or pushing him off a cliff. But he was killing him just the same. And his method was almost worse. Peter’s would be a slow and painful death, and Jeremy’s gut went liquid as he imagined it. Would the leg go first or would it be his sight? Would he be lucky enough to drop into a coma or would he be unlucky enough to stay strong and tough it out?

  Meghan would be horrified by this last act of cruelty. She would have to watch her child suffer while frantically foraging for more medicine. Jeremy couldn’t help but see the symmetry in it. She will have come full circle with her own intuition, likely want to punish herself for not listening to her own instincts all along. He would have proven her initial hunch to be true. After all, she had begun their relationship with a gun to his head, and she will no doubt wish she could have ended it there as well.

  But Peter still had half a bottle left right? The bottle Meghan kept under the couch? The one she thought he didn’t know about? Perhaps, he thought with sudden hope, she kept others hidden in secret locations as well. Perhaps she’d never trusted Jeremy at all; never shed that protective shell that had kept them alive for as long as it had. Maybe her attachment had been feigned, just a ruse to get what she wanted or a tactic to get what she needed. But even as he thought the words he couldn’t bring himself to believe them. He was rationalizing this last wicked act, trying to excuse himself for likely committing a murder. He didn’t deserve that—didn’t deserve to get off that easy. He deserved to dwell on this for the rest of his life, to let it haunt his dreams by night and plague his thoughts by day. He was a coward, plain and simple. Passive aggressive and dishonorable. He couldn’t help but feel that this was a turning point for he and Sam. He was killing an innocent. How would karma repay him for that? In what ways might he suffer? Or would it be Sam who would ultimately settle this debt? He faltered as he stared at her, almost turned back, but in the end he didn’t. Lifting his shoulders he crossed the room in three long strides, clasped her hand, and pulled her toward the door. She came willingly, wooden, as if in a daze, and together—for better or worse—they stepped once more into the unknown night.

  Sam remained silent as they walked the length of the road. Eyes forward, hands stiff at her sides, she focused ever on the path ahead. If she suspected something she didn’t say, though she hadn’t yet seen his plan in full. She didn’t know. Before he’d awakened her, he’d slipped behind the house and pushed the cart to the end of their road. He’d made the final preparations, added the last items and hidden it behind an old barn. As they approached its familiar shadowed shape, hulking and awkward in the moonlight, she flinched but said nothing.

  She kept her eyes forward as they marched. Her breath came in soft exhalations and the morning breeze lifted the ends of her hair. The scraping of tires and boots against loose stones were the only sounds marring the perfect tranquility of the dawning day. Together they walked as the sun slowly climbed the mountains. It lit their path and splashed its warmth across their backs. They faced west and Jeremy felt a sense of hope. Somewhere in that general direction—somewhere past the miles of highways, fields, and streams, somewhere at the end of what was sure to be a long journey to come, the outline of San Diego gleamed and glittered against the crashing waves of the Pacific.

&n
bsp; They walked for hours. He wasn’t sure how long. She’d not said much when he smoothed the map across the payment. But she was a smart girl, likely knew exactly what was happening. Likely knew his general plan—she only lacked the specifics. He was certain she knew his fears as well. Perhaps she even shared them. She’d broken the silence only once, pointed toward meandering Neyland Drive, and requested simply that they follow it.

  “It hugs the curves of the Tennessee River,” she’d offered solemnly. “I’d like to see water I think.”

  He’d nodded and altered their course. At least she was talking to him. For that much he should be grateful.

  The weeks that followed were much the same. She hadn’t spoken often, and never unless he’d spoken to her first. She hadn’t asked any pointed questions either, hadn’t pressed him for reasons or motivations for the things he’d done. They traveled mostly at night. The sun was much too hot on their shoulders by day. They slept in vacant homes and searched for any supplies they could find along the way. A few blocks back, he’d begun to detect the sour smell of the river and wondered why she wanted to be so near to it.

  “Wouldn’t they have bikes at a university?” she queried thoughtfully.

  Her voice startled him. So deeply immersed in his own musings he’d been that he hadn’t noticed her stop in front of a building. It was a massive structure with an expansive lawn that swept to a bank of front doors. Nor had he seen the broken sign at the edge of the road. The University of Tennessee, Knoxville, the words hidden by an overgrowth of ferns.

  “Probably rusted heaps of twisted metal by now, Sam.”

  She frowned at that, tiny wrinkles creasing her brow. “You’re such a pessimist. You don’t know that for sure. We should at least go check it out.”

  She raised her face then, and squinted into the sun. Several times she turned to face him, drew a breath as if she meant to speak, then closed her mouth and seemed reconsider. An uncomfortable moment hung in the air between them as he waited for her to verbalize her thoughts. He owed her that much. That much and much more.

  “Pike,” she said finally.

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremy answered quietly. “Did you say ‘Pike’?”

  “My name. I want you to call me Pike. It’s a fish.”

  He nodded. “Was a fish. And might I ask why you’d like me to call you by the name of a fish?”

  She shrugged. “It’s my gang name. You need one too.”

  She closed her eyes and basked in the sun then lowered her face and met his gaze pointedly. “If we’re going to act like a heartless gang then I guess we should choose gang names.”

  With that she turned, walked away and left him speechless. Guilt clawed at his insides with razor-sharp talons. With slumped shoulders, and like a punished child, he followed her. He knew what she was getting at. It was the closest she’d come to an accusation since they’d left. Though she hadn’t said the words, she’d communicated her understanding just as effectively. The depth of disapproval in her eyes was debilitating. Crushing. A knife through his heart. But he’d learned long ago that people were never one thing. Was he a good man? Yes. Was he a bad one? Yeah—that to. One did what one needed to do in order to survive and that was all. Peter wasn’t the first person he’d killed, and he wouldn’t likely be the last. This, a lesson Jeremy had also learned from his father.

  There was nothing left to do now but press forward. Slowly but surely, and with one foot in front of the other, they would make it to San Diego. He’d push them. Hard. Perhaps like she said, they’d find bikes, and if they did, he’d push them harder.

  Perhaps tonight they’d get as far as Huntsville.

  Perhaps they’d even cross a state line.

  Sometimes, the ocean floor is only a stop on the journey. And it is when you are at this lowest point, that you are faced with a choice. You can stay there at the bottom, until you drown. Or you can gather pearls and rise back up —stronger from the swim and richer from the jewels.

  ―Yasmin Mogahed

  Chapter 19

  March 26th, 2165

  LeConte Medical Center

  Sevierville, Tennessee

  “Keep to the shadows,” Jeremy’s father whispered over a hunched shoulder. “We’re not alone in here.”

  Jeremy found Susan’s hand and squeezed tight. In this drafty cold place he was grateful for her warmth, though the depth of her stubbornness still rankled him. She shouldn’t be here. It was too dangerous. Why had he allowed her to come along in the first place? Suppressing a sigh he answered his own question with pursed lips. Allowed her? Who was he kidding? When had Susan ever allowed anyone to manage her? She was persistent and headstrong, unrelenting when she’d set her mind to task. She was as obstinate as they came, and Jeremy loved her all the more for it. She was a partner to him in every sense of the word, so if danger were in the cards, she would demand to be cut in.

  She also held the belief that knowledge and experience were akin to power. In her opinion, all of this was part of her training, her assurance that she could handle things. After Samantha was born, she and Jeremy had both agreed on the importance of shared responsibility and mutual understanding. They shared the view that both should know how to accomplish every task, that both should know how to manage every duty without the other’s help—in case something should happen, of course. Though it was a melancholic worldview, it was also a pragmatic one.

  “It’s just sound planning, really,” Susan had reasoned carefully. “As much as I don’t want to admit the possibility, I can’t pretend that nothing could happen to you. I need to know how to aim and shoot a gun, how to properly forage, how to build a fire in the wild. And most importantly, I need to know how to defend the ark,” she’d explained softly, her forehead touching his. “I need to come along tomorrow night.” She shook her head and her hair tickled his shoulder. “No. Not need. Must. I must come. Besides, I’ve mastered all the tasks around the cabin. It’s time I push past my comfort zone.”

  He snuggled beneath the covers and circled his legs around hers. “Mastered all the tasks?” He pressed his lips to the soft curve of her throat and felt her shiver. “I can think of one more that could use a little mastering.”

  She’d smiled against his mouth then slipped her arms around his neck. “That was corny as hell, Mr. Colt.”

  Although he hadn’t wanted to expose her to danger such as this, he had to admit that she was right. She should know how to do all the things she spoke of and more. He should be equipping her with the required skills she’d need to survive in a world without him. So perhaps this mission would be a good first test after all, he thought. He and Susan, along with both of Jeremy’s parents, had discussed this very plan earlier that evening. They’d sat around the fire and discussed a reconnaissance mission, maps of the local hospital spread across the table in front of them. The room had felt so cozy, so sheltered and secure, juxtapose with the dire nature of the topic they’d gathered to debate. Orange flames from the fire had danced on the curved fluting of their wine glasses. The alcohol had pleasantly warmed Jeremy’s body. Everyone he loved was inside that very cabin. It was almost like an evening from a child’s fairytale, and want for nothing, he had tried to settle into the cushions and imagine different circumstances.

  But things weren’t different. This was their reality and they’d gathered here to face it as a family. Over the course of the past few weeks, it had become clear that Sam was a diabetic. The realization had been staggering, the fact nearly impossible to believe. Understanding had come rushing at them. Acceptance had crawled at a snail’s pace. After the initial shock, it had actually been somewhat of an amazing coincidence to consider. It was quite a stretch of the imagination, a long shot if ever there was one. I mean what were the odds? Jeremy was not related to Liam by blood and yet his own daughter had presented with the same disease. Jeremy’s biological mother had died from it and then lo and behold—the perfect surrogate parents had come along and taken her place in raising him. The
synchronicity of it was awe-inspiring. For days after they’d properly diagnosed Sam, they’d discussed this strange phenomenon, and though the diagnosis was a devastating one, Jeremy and Susan were simply grateful to have finally found answers.

  The process that led to the diagnosis itself had been nothing short of tedious. It was a strain on the entire family. They’d begun to notice the symptoms right after Sam’s fourth birthday. After naptime she’d always awaken groggy, uncommunicative, and irritable as hell. Fuzzy, Jeremy liked to call it. She’d begun to urinate often, to demand more and more water. But it was her weight that had been the most alarming. Despite the fact that she demonstrated a healthy appetite for a child her age, she’d continued to drop pounds. At first the weight loss was slow, her clothes only slightly looser. Very soon her face had become much too slender, cheeks drawn, and gray. The situation had quickly begun to snowball. Her arms had become frighteningly frail, her legs knobby at the knees and bony at the ankles. The twin bones of her hips and the nodules of vertebrae that snaked along her lower spine jutted from her skin unnaturally. Her hair became dull and brittle then fell to the floor in small blond clouds. Fatigue had accompanied the weight loss in matched increments, and soon she was spending more time in bed than was natural for a maturing toddler.

  For weeks Jeremy and Susan stood at the foot of her bed, paralyzed by fear as they examined one gruesome possibility after the next.

  “It could be any number of things, Jeremy,” Susan had murmured quietly, fear shining in her eyes. “It could be any number of things that we can’t even diagnose. Cancer? Leukemia? Lupus? Dear God, Jeremy, what if it’s autoimmune? Something that would require a hospital stay and professional care, monitoring, and long-term maintenance?”