The Blue (Book 3)

by Joseph Turkot

  He follows behind me, sulking, until I change the tone in my voice. I tell him he’s a good boy. You did nothing wrong boy, I say. I say it a few times, and then go over to pet him again. He licks my hand and together we go to the metal table. I drag some unburnt strips of clothing and lay them as a blanket on the metal and we lie together without another word.

  I’m half-tempted to turn the radio back on, and start asking the million questions that have come up since I last talked to the woman. But each one I want to ask will only hurt me. Make me wish I was there and not here. So I convince myself that I can just fall asleep for an hour. And then make up for the time I’ve lost. Get more food cut out and get the raft free. Plenty of time to do it before everything goes down. Staring up at the sky with my hands running over Voley’s stomach, I hum for him. Silent night. And it’s me putting him to bed now, I realize, like Russell used to do for me. By the time I’m done, singing through the entire song three times, knowing none of the words but getting the melody down exactly, just as it’s been etched onto my heart, I can’t keep my eyelids open anymore. And pulling him closer to me, just enough so he won’t get upset and try to find his own space somewhere else on the wing, we push in against the stove. Still going strong. And then, my mind is finally done and I fall asleep.

  Chapter 21

  The brightness and the heat wake me up. It’s like the sun is boring in right through my eyelids to my brain. I crane my neck and open my eyes to see the bright white ice and realize I’ve slept too long. Come on boy, I say. And before I get up I lean over and press the button on the radio in. The yellow screen lights up but nothing comes through the air but static. Voley looks around like he’s content and would rather keep sleeping, but I tell him again it’s time to go. I click the button on the receiver and say hello. Then, for a long moment I wait, thinking the communication was all a dream, and maybe so was the floor compartment under the man. When I’m about convinced no one was ever there, and it was a dream, I try again, a little more desperately. Still no reply. I put the receiver down and let the static roll on. My eyes trace the blue scar in the sky, dazzlingly bright. And then, I hang my head and follow the ice back to the plane. The top layer of the iceberg is almost all slush. Time to make new cuts.

  As I enter the cocoon of metal and see the rays of light wafting over the seats and onto the center aisle, and see the completely carved out thigh, I have to look away. It’s like eating the meat had been a dream too, something I’d pushed out of my head until the sight of my own handiwork. But looking at it in the glaring stream of the sun forces guilt back into my consciousness. And I decide that I’m not going to keep digging—not right now. I want to see the raft with my own eyes.

  Leaning down, I grab each of the man’s boots and wrap them under my arm, snug against my chest. Voley pokes his head in for a moment and then wanders off to survey the ice. I yell to him to be careful and stay close. I say it as firmly as I can, but I don’t want to waste any more time. Not with the cracks opening up underneath of us. I have to pull.

  Leaning back and tugging all in one motion, I manage to pull the body another few inches. I breathe in deeply, letting my muscles reset, and then do it again. By the time he’s down another two feet I have to wipe a film of sweat from dripping into my eyes. Some of it slips through my gloved fingers and burns, reminding me of just how hot it is inside the metal cage.

  Rationing my energy and going out for water a few times, and taking one trip to check on the supply pile on the wing, I finally get the body moved enough to clear the space on the floor. I’m so excited to open the door that I almost trip over the man’s head. There it is—the circular handle sitting flush against the floor panel. I kneel down and lift it up but nothing happens. It’s like the thing is locked in place. I try and try again, but it won’t give. I’m almost ready to run back to the radio in a panic, accusing the void of tricking me, a last desperate and soulless trick of pure cruelty, but it dawns on me—try twisting. The metal circle twists in the sunlight, clicks, and then slides up easily. Right away, before the light catches the dark underneath, I see the white. The door comes up so fast that it almost slams back down, but there it is—a white barrel with strings coiled around it. It looks like an impossibly hard shell of plastic and I have no idea how I’ll turn it into a raft. I tug it loose after freeing the straps holding it down and roll its surprising weight over the body, out the plane aisle, and onto the open ice. At first I leave it be and look around for Voley, but there he is, lying back down on the plane wing. Disinterested in walking through the slush surface anymore. Maybe still satisfied from his meal. For a moment I just want to join him, and cherish this place as long as I can. To die here just like this, instead of going voluntarily once more into the hell out there. But I can’t help but keep working on the raft. There’s got to be an easy to way to get into the barrel. I look for handles or latches but don’t find any that open. And then, on the corner, I see the sign on a little sticker. It’s two men pulling the strings of the barrel from opposite ends. Right away I look to the curled broken steel of the engine, something I could tie one end around. And then, in the next minute, I have it tied securely.

  You ready boy? I warn Voley. And then, taking up the other end of the rope, I pull. At first it seems like nothing’s going to happen, and that the inside mechanism of the thing must have broken in the crash. I pull harder, and finally dig my feet down into the melt and start to really put the last of my strength into it. A quick pop and clap of plastic peels through the air, and then the slow and steady sound of inflation. Like a dream to my eyes, the bright red and black raft appears from the tiny barrel like a nut from its shell, and then it starts to inflate all on its own. Strong ridges blow out, the hexagonal edges of the thing, and the nylon mesh tarp slinks over the center. We did it! I yell to Voley, running back to him and watching the completion of the automatic inflation. Then the raft sits there, enormous compared to the size of its discarded shell, waiting for me to slide it back into the brooding sea. To float aimlessly again, looking for a needle in Colorado. But I know it’s not as easy as just leaving. I still have to cut up the body. And just when I’m feeling motivated to keep working, to finish the job and cut up enough food to last us a few days on the ocean, the radio crackles and then the woman’s voice comes through. She says hello and reminds that she’s from Visitor’s City.

  I rush over and click the receiver. I tell her I’m still here and I have the raft inflated. Good, she tells me. And then she goes over the only information she has for me. Try to look for skyline formations that aren’t ice. You may only be a hundred miles from us because of the channel we’re using. And then she asks me again about the satellite equipment stored in the cockpit. I assure her I have it. Safe and in the raft and ready to go. I just have to gather up the rest of my supplies and then I’m going to be shoving off. She wishes me good luck, and that she’ll keep someone by the radio at all times in case I manage to spot something that might help fix my location. I tell her about the sky, and the blue, because that might help her know where I am. All she says is that she sees it too, right now, at the same time that I do. And that it’s over much of eastern and southern Colorado. And it won’t help her get a boat to me. She doesn’t mention again what will most likely happen to me—getting swept east by the pull of waterspout alley. And neither do I. She says the battery on the radio should last a week if I’m conservative. I tell her I’ll keep it shut off and do my best. And after that, despite all the questions that danced in my head last night, I have nothing more to say to her. She’s as meaningless to me as the last shards of ice surrounding Plane Floe now. So I say goodbye and tell her I’m getting into the water.

  The knife works quick, like it has a life of its own. I yell at Voley when he comes into the plane, seeing what I’m working on again. I tell him to shoo, and that he’ll get more, but not right now. That I have to ration it out now. Because it has to last if we’re going to have a shot. And I tell him that maybe we’ll g
et to Visitor’s City and just keep on going. All the way to Mexico like Ernest wanted to do. Stop and take some of their food, just in time before they discover I don’t have the equipment, and then shove off again. Floating like a bottle, all the way down to Central America. Because the weather is different there, Vole. But it’s not just the weather. The seas aren’t high there. And from there, we’ll make it all the way out to the dry Atlantic. Right through the gulf. Dry everywhere as far as the eye can see. It’s a dream, but I keep talking to him as I work, unsure if he’s even close enough to still be listening.

  Once I’ve got the meat from last night replaced, and another three pieces on top of it, I gather all of our supplies in the world. First, I seal the meat in the corner of the duffel bag with a plastic bag from the first-aid kit, stuffing with it the driest ice I can find. While I’m in the first-aid kit I pull out the empty plastic jug and fill it with water. I drink down the full bottle, then let Voley drink as much as he’ll take. I refill it to the brim and seal it tight. Then I refill the stove with fuel, and then the cup. There’s another scrap of metal I use, just the right size, to almost cover the lid of the fuel cup so it won’t spill so easily. Using both bags, I gather up all the clothes we have. I even put on the new clothes first, a clean sweater and pants and then on top of it all the black rain suit. At first Voley barks at me, like he disapproves of my outfit, but then he just runs over to the bags like he can help pack. You ready to drag this son-of-a-bitch out to sea? I ask him. And then I throw everything into the corner of the raft. The first aid kit, the knife, the cup, the meat bag, the clothes, Russell’s clothes, and the radio. One wave and the radio’s done for, I tell Voley as I tuck it carefully into the corner, latching its black plastic case shut again. Think she’s waterproof? I ask. Voley wanders off to the plane wing, sniffing as if they’ll be more food leftover somewhere, fallen off of the metal spear from the plane wreckage. It clicks in my head to take the spear, something easy to hold the meat with, right into the flame, or a weapon in case I lose the knife. And then, having put everything we have in the raft, I put the nylon roof mesh flap over the top.

  Together we walk—me hauling, Voley watching the sky like there could be birds or something out there. But there is nothing in the sky except gray and blue and the burning disc of the sun. It’s almost easy moving the raft—like the slush makes it glide faster than the friction of dry snow. And by the time we reach the edge of the shelf, I notice that I haven’t heard a single rumble. Not one hint that the iceberg really is going down after all. Like it will live on as the last survivor of the pack. It doesn’t sit right in me, as if I want to hear the horrible sound. But it dawns on me—the biggest fear, almost crippling. Maybe Plane Floe is too big to break up.

  And all at once it makes sense—that the other tiny floes weren’t really fragments of the pack, but it’s just that we’ve drifted out of the pack, and everything has separated so far that it looks tiny and broken up. We’re just back in the wide open sea, heading out of Colorado and into Kansas now, being sucked along slowly at first, until the waterspouts hit, and the raging torrent. But there’s no reason to think this mammoth floe will ever break up. And it’s the same problem as Nuke Town. Why leave? ricochets through my head. You’re safer here than out there. Stay as long as you can. Until the breakup makes you leave. Until you’re forced back to sea. Because you stand a better chance here. And there’s more food. You could dig out the other bodies. Fuck the woman. And their gas-powered boat fantasy. It’s a con anyway. It’s just you and Voley and the ice. And leaving the ice is the worst thing you could ever do.

  I stand at the brink of the shelf, listening to the slap of the calm swells, watching the distant jags of other icebergs, so far now that I can’t confirm that they’re shattered remnants or Ice Pancakes. It’s all a shot in the dark, I tell Voley. And my eyes scour the horizon, trying to give me one good reason why I should leave and head into it. This is what I’ve always wanted, right here. A warm, dry place. I almost turn around and bring everything back and unload. But then, on the ground, I catch the fissure of the ice. Stay here boy, I say. And from the edge of the floe I walk back, just another fifty feet. And there, where I can trace the crack again, the one stemming from the nose of the plane, I hear the running waterfalls. And the deep black divide that looks bigger than my imagination remembers it. The only thing that comes into me is the night I woke up in the water. And how there’s no getting around that it’s going to happen again.

  When Voley finally wanders over to me, curious about why I’ve abandoned the raft, I kneel down and wrap him up. You know why we’re leaving? I tell him. He just kisses me and struggles to get free again. But I hold him tightly and point his face into mine. Because we’re going to Leadville.

  And with that, and not another thread of doubt or a better planned action, I walk back against the pain of my calf and push the raft into the water, keeping the rope tied three times around my forearm. It hits with a flat splash and smack and then bobs gently, right at the edge like a magical bridge, waiting for us. Come on boy, I say, and then I get on. Voley waits at the edge, unsure, and as stupid as I am, I make a promise I know I can’t keep. “I’ll keep you safe boy, it’s okay. I promise.” And he comes on.

  Chapter 22

  I pull the nylon roof over us, pinning it to the metal rings on the edge of the raft, and we drift. The swells push the cold floor of the raft right up into my legs, and Voley and I shift back and forth as the red hexagon carries us away from Plane Floe. I watch it grow smaller in the distance, until finally, the plane becomes once again just a glint, a silver mark in the horizon, echoing the brilliance of the blue above. And it seems like we’re riding forever underneath the scar of the blue. Like it’s guiding our path from above, sending us along some line between the complete gray armor on either side of it. And forward and backward, through the slit of the nylon roof, I peek out. There is nothing but the occasional mark of an iceberg dagger, poking in some distance stretch of the ocean up into the sky. I almost expect the fog to return, to block us in, and then for the monster icebergs to appear. All over, just like before. But that part of the country seems to be behind us forever. And we’re either drifting to some edge of the Rocky mountains, or we’re long past them, and the first suctions of the Great Plains waterspout alley have us already.

  By the time the plane is out of sight, entirely disappeared behind us, it’s unbearably sticky and hot under the nylon ceiling so I open it up for air. The second I uncurl the flap from the metal ring, the whole thing flies across the raft and half of it drags into the ocean. It won’t go anywhere because it’s stitched in, and all of a sudden I realize it’s even hotter without the ceiling cover. The blue is directly overhead still, and the golden bolt of the sun feels like it’s taken aim right for my face. Voley moves around, his thick fur no help to him now. The wind is steady and cool but it doesn’t fend off the heat. And then, just like that, there’s nothing to do or say.

  At first, as the hours pass and we drift along with no sense of direction, having lost all contact with Plane Floe behind us, I try to organize everything in the raft. I sort through the bags and make sure the meat is sealed as good as it can be. I tuck everything neatly into the far corner and lay some clothes out for Voley and me to lie on. The fabric is a bit more comfortable than the rubbery lining of the bottom of the boat. And I make sure the knife is wrapped in a sweater so that nothing is accidentally punctured. But then, once the supplies are all organized, it’s like there’s nothing else to do. I lay my head down against the back ridge of the raft, Voley curled in a nook by my legs, and try to drift off myself. But the heat is too much, so after ten minutes I get back up and pull the ceiling flap back out of the water. And that’s when I notice it: the ice is gone. In every direction, at least for now, it’s missing—the fixture of the horizon, the only color we’ve known for the longest time, is gone, replaced again by the dull canvas brown of the rolling sea. And peeling the ceiling over again, I realize just ho
w long the swells last. It’s like each one carries us for half a minute before we start gliding down. Nice and long and soft. Then, with a quick glance up to see that we’re still in position under the scar of blue, I lie back down. The ceiling blocks out the worst of the relentless sun, and Voley raises his head in approval. My stomach tells me it’s time to eat again before long but I ignore it and follow the motion of the swells gliding through the raft.

  I know enough about rationing. Russell and I had to do it so many times over the past few years. But something tells me that it doesn’t really matter with the meat. That it will go bad anyway, and we should eat it up as soon as possible. Part of me thinks of the abandoned bodies in the ice back at Plane Floe. And how we wasted them. We should have dragged them, each one, just as it was, onto the raft. We could have crammed them all in. And we’d have been able to have something to eat for just that much longer. I pull the small jug of water out from the bag in the corner, wondering how much we can afford to drink. Because there’s never before been a need to ration water. Even with the snow, after it stopped raining, we could always drink the melt. But now, there’s no ice in sight. Not that we’d be able to steer toward it if we needed the water anyway. And before, for all the years I’ve lived, I can never remember not being able to look skyward and open my mouth and receive, even while I cursed it, the life-giving water. The drops that sustain us just at the same time as they flood everything to a soggy whirlpool of mud that pull us slowly out into the deep abyss. But now there’s no rain and no water and nothing to drink. Nothing but the plastic jug.