Michael sat at the rear of the boat, acting as captain and using his paddle as a rudder to steer them. Caroline and Wendell were positioned one on either side of the vessel. They served as the boats engines. One or the other, and often times both, would paddle depending on which way the boat was angling in the water in an effort to keep them straight or adjust their course. In such instances when more power was needed, Michael would join in paddling from the back of the boat. And Justin, since he weighed less and was more agile, was deemed “bumper man”. With this title came the role of moving from side to side within the boat, using his paddle to push the craft away from dangerous obstacles like large rocks or partially-submerged trees when steering input was not enough.
By the time the group had reached their first major obstacle, they had begun to settle into their roles. This was fortunate, because they were suddenly faced with three such obstacles in rapid succession. The first of these three hurdles was the blown bridge that once spanned the river at Ogden Avenue. Thankfully, only a portion of this bridge had fallen into the river, leaving a safe route of passage underneath the section that remained intact. But just down from this bridge, at a section where the river narrowed, the Historic Route 66 bridge had been blown as well. Due to its shorter span, the entire portion of the bridge across the river had collapsed.
With the group’s kayak guides having scouted the area and paddled back to relay their findings, the rest of the boats managed to shoot a small gap near the right-side riverbank. There was minimal banging of hulls against the missile-blown bridge debris that had fallen into and obstructed the river.
Their third and final obstacle in their brief 30-minute voyage thus far came at a point where the river re-widened at the 47th Street Bridge. This pitfall was actually a pair of obstacles encountered in rapid succession. Due to the slightly wider nature of the river, the debris left from the blown 47th Street Bridge was passable with only a few bumps and bangs of boat hulls while skirting the concrete and re-bar formed boulders. But just about 300 feet beyond this point, there were two train bridges that had been blown as well.
The problem with the train bridges was that due to the steel rails and the ties linking them together, they had created a sort of metal and wood mesh that hung down into the river. This mess of entanglements had collected an array of logs, trees, and other debris that had floated downriver and built an impassible dam formed from this material.
With the armada already hugging the river’s right bank, they were close enough to shore to make a quick landing before encountering the tangled web of debris ahead of them.
“What now?” Caroline looked back at her husband as they paddled the last few feet to the bank where Justin, rope in hand, nimbly hopped out and tethered the fishing boat to a nearby tree.
The other boats had already reached the shoreline, their occupants having secured their craft and made their way up onto the bank. Most stood watching the water, hands on hips, awaiting further instruction.
“Don’t see any choice than to portage around it,” Michael said. “It’ll be a pain in the butt unloading and then reloading all this stuff just to circumvent a hundred foot stretch of river, but it’s the only way around.”
The group spent the next hour of their morning doing just as Michael had said. The lengthiest part of their work revolved around having to untie all the supply bags from where they’d been secured to the boats and then re-secure them once the boats had been relocated.
Caroline and Julia served as lookouts to ensure no roving biters stumbled upon them while they were working. But the group’s out-of-the-way location seemed to allow for privacy as they toiled. And by the end of the hour, everyone was warm, and most were sweating from their work even in the chilly mid-March air.
By this point, however, everyone was beginning to rethink the wisdom of water travel. It had taken them almost two hours to travel maybe a mile. But they quickly realized they had little choice and had largely reached the point of no return in their journey.
“At this rate, we’ll make St. Louis by next year,” Wendell frowned as he and Charla carried a cooler between them.
“Now, now,” Charla coaxed. “At least we’re on our way. Things will hopefully clear up once we’re outside Chicago,” she tried to stay positive.
She heard Chris’ always-optimistic voice in the back of her mind reminding her not to let Wendell’s dismal attitude get her down.
Wendell hadn’t always been like this. While Charla would never describe Wendell as ‘upbeat’, ever since the onset of the Carchar Syndrome, he just hadn’t been himself. But then again, who had? And could she blame him? For the past two months, he’d been thinking another man was putting the moves on his wife only to find out that this was the furthest thing from the case.
Finally, the boats had all been unloaded, carried around the river blockade, and reloaded on the other side.
“All right, folks, anyone needs to take a quick bathroom break, this is the time to do it,” Michael announced. “I know you want privacy, but don’t go far.”
Once people had taken their private moments and had reconvened, Michael said, “Let’s get rolling…floating again.”
The Blenders all climbed back into their respective boats and started off again, kayaks in the lead, then canoes, then the metal fishing boat.
Michael found himself nervous as he sat in the boat waiting to shove off. He expected to see a herd of biters come lurching out of the woods at any instant. But there was only the soft chirping of birds and the sound of gurgling water as it worked its way through, under, and around the train track created dam just upriver from them. And once they’d pushed away from the bank and gotten back into the smooth tranquility of the river’s murky flow, he felt better.
A short time later, Michael encountered the first stroke of luck on their journey as they passed beneath a still-intact 1st Avenue Bridge, near where 1st Avenue linked with Interstate 55.
It was a leisurely float from there. Most of his crew’s efforts centered around simply keeping the fishing boat straight and in the center of the river.
Every so often, one of the kayaks would paddle back and make a report that all was clear up ahead. Michael figured it was mostly a way for the youngsters at their helms to stave off the boredom. But Michael was glad the kayaks were making these runs as it helped their passengers who weren’t as proficient at guiding these vessels, gain experience and confidence.
Eventually, the tiny fleet passed beneath Interstate 55 near where it split with Interstate 294. It was eerily silent as the tiny boats slid beneath the behemoth structures, careful to give wide birth to the massive concrete pilings that kept the bridged highway from crumbling into the river below.
Michael was amazed at how much trash floated around them and also lined the river’s edges. It was a sad commentary on the world both pre and post-Carchar Syndrome.
Every so often, someone inside the fishing boat would point out something interesting on shore or comment on their travels. They floated past large collections of debris that had gathered along the riverbank or been snagged by fallen trees. The limbs from these trees acted as gnarled fingers, outstretched to snatch items from within the river’s current. Sometimes these collections would form themselves into massive mounds. A lone tree might snag another that was floating downstream, and then another, and then like a giant sieve, filter out trash bags, bottles, barrels, tree branches, tarps, leaves, fishing line, clothing, and just about anything else that might float into its snarled webbing. These debris piles could grow to be as tall as a house. They would collect more and more garbage as the river level rose and fell until a flood – or the sheer size of the mound itself – would eventually dislodge the encumbrance. Then the debris would be washed free to float downstream until it was collected somewhere else to begin forming a new such statue that exhibited nature’s artistic ability. As the Blender fishing boat would pass these creations, its occupants would make observations about what the masses
looked like.
“A tug boat! That blue barrel is its funnel.”
“An old sea hag! See her face? There! Right there! That limb is her big hooked nose!”
“A giant cat! See its eyes in those two milk jugs?”
“A race car! Those old tires are its wheels!”
“Look at that one! It’s a bunny rabbit! Its ears are…wait, is that a…uh, my god.”
Wendell stopped his observation as he realized that one of the ears to his bunny rabbit was formed from a body. It remained undetermined whether the body was human or biter, but it was a sad reminder to everyone in the boat of their current situation and that of the world around them.
The boat was quiet for a moment as they slid passed the river snag that had become the temporary resting place for – biter or not – some unfortunate soul.
Michael silently wondered where the person’s final resting place would be. How far downriver would their body, and eventually their bones be swept as they succumbed to rot, hungry river creatures, and the strength of the river’s current?
“How much distance do you think we’ve covered so far?” Caroline asked. Her question was mostly to break the awkward silence and the thoughts the dead body had whipping through their minds like the eddying waters swirling around the corpse itself.
“Not sure,” Michael shook his head. “It’s darn near impossible to judge distances. I figure we’re probably traveling at a couple miles an hour, but other than that, there’s no way to know for sure.”
“Going to make it hard to know when we’re getting close to St. Louis, isn’t it?” Wendell asked.
“I think the Mississippi River will answer that question,” Michael responded. “More than anything, I think it’s going to be difficult to judge how many days…or weeks we have in front of us until we reach that point. And that can make it hard to ration our supplies.”
“We should probably start rationing from today forward,” Caroline said. “We did well when we were living in the tower. I think we should probably take it to the next level. Not starve ourselves or anything like that, but definitely watch our intake levels.”
Eventually the tiny group of boats passed beneath the bridge at Willow Springs Road. After this point, the riverbanks became more wooded, more natural, and there were fewer manmade structures visible. This made Michael begin to feel better about the prospects for their escape from Chicago. And after another hour on the river, since the group had yet to eat, Michael decided it would probably be a good time to start looking for a stopping point.
When Jack and Christine Franko paddled back in their kayak to check in, Michael said, “Why don’t you guys scout some places to stop for lunch. Look for an island or a more secluded spot where it would be safe for us to take a break and not be surprised by biters.”
“Will do,” Jack saluted, loving the responsibility he was being charged with as scout and lookout for the group.
They eventually found their spot in a sort of twisting “S” in the river as it flowed westward. It was a small island, maybe a 100 feet long by 20 feet at its widest point.
The boats all pulled up and beached themselves at the island’s easterly end. Landing on this point was easy for most of the more agile craft. But it took some work for Michael to guide the somewhat clunky fishing boat in to shore. The craft continued to prove slow to respond to his steering input. While he was getting better at captaining the boat, they almost overshot the mark as Michael first headed wide right and then overcorrected to the left. He only brought the vessel back in line by having everyone move to the left side to paddle as he back-paddled on the right. The fishing boat swung to at the last second and Justin was able to hop out with their anchor line. His father took hold of the line to haul the heavily loaded fishing boat in the rest of the way to shore.
“That was close,” Josh said as he helped the rest of the Blenders out of the fishing boat and onto the small island.
“Too close,” Michael agreed. “Thought you all might be enjoying lunch without us for a minute there. There’s no way we’d be able to paddle back upriver if we overshot.”
The group gathered on the tiny isle and took a minute to stretch sore arms, shoulders, and backs from paddling. They flexed stiff legs and buttocks from sitting, and generally worked out the kinks from hours spent in hard and rather uncomfortable seats.
The younger in the group, joined by Patrick and Josh, began exploring the small island. The front portion of the island, where the boats had landed, offered a sandy shore. But the rest of the island was mostly covered in trees and a thick tangle of bushes, rotted driftwood, and garbage that made it largely impassible.
“Everyone ready for lunch?” Ms. Mary called after several minutes.
There were exuberant responses from the others to the affirmative.
Michael had a sort of serene feeling settle over him as he stood, staring around the tiny plot of land. It was almost as though he was back in the tower again, except this time, even though his group was more exposed, he almost felt safer and more at peace. In fact, he admitted to himself, that it was the safest he’d felt since the onset of the Carchar Syndrome. He was confident that no one was around, and if they were, it’d be impossible to approach the island unnoticed. And for once, he wasn’t worried about biters. It was a worry that topped a long list of concerns that Michael was constantly processing and re-evaluating. And it was one that even inside the thick stone walls of Hofmann Tower he had never been able to completely set aside.
The rest of the group was beginning to form up around Ms. Mary. She had settled herself on a large piece of driftwood that had been shoved ashore during a flood. A pack was set out on the ground before her. She was hunched over it, rummaging through it, pulling items from inside and setting them on the ground around her.
The air had warmed to what Michael estimated was right around 50 degrees, but it felt warmer with the sunlight that rained down on them from the largely cloudless sky.
It would have been a perfect day for an island lunch on a group river getaway back in the pre-Carchar world. Now, this was their life – traveling by river to avoid the dangers land, eating lunch on an island as a security measure, transporting all their worldly possessions and loved ones in five small boats.
Ms. Mary set a sealed plastic container on the ground in front of her. Then she dug out paper plates from her pack, a spoon, a half-cup measuring cup, and then a box of saltine crackers.
Caroline moved to assist her as they formed a tiny assembly line production of Blender lunches. The night before they had left the tower, Ms. Mary had whipped up a batch of tuna fish salad. It wasn’t tuna salad as it was commonly known however. Due to their lack of certain ingredients, including hardboiled eggs, fresh celery, and onions, Ms. Mary had been forced to improvise. After mixing the tuna with whipped salad dressing, and adding salt and pepper, she had diced canned carrots, canned kidney beans, sweet pickles that she had canned from her own garden, and walnuts, and added them to the tuna. It was an oddly unique culinary creation, forced – as so much was these days – by necessity. But it worked. The filler elements not only extended the three cans of tuna Ms. Mary had used, but the beans and nuts provided additional much-needed protein for the hungry river travelers.
Ms. Mary would measure out a half cup of tuna fish salad from her plastic container and carefully plop it onto a paper plate that Caroline held. Then Caroline would count out six saltine crackers from a packet and add them to the plate before handing it over to one of the Blenders hungrily awaiting their grub.
It wasn’t much of a meal, and Ms. Mary advised everyone to chew slowly and make the most of their tiny portions since they wouldn’t be eating again until dinner.
As they ate, Charla said, “This is kind of nice…this spot I mean. Maybe we should consider a spot like this, larger of course, to set up a more permanent camp. We could fish. I’m sure there would be larger animals around to hunt. There could be berries, nuts, and other natural foods
around too. And we might be able to scavenge the surrounding area and locate canned goods or other items that haven’t gone bad yet.”
“I think we’re still too close to Chicago,” Josh said. “Still too many people and biters probably around.”
“I didn’t mean right here,” Charla clarified. “But maybe once we get outside Chicago, away from the big city, once we’re into the lesser populated parts of Illinois.”
“All of Illinois is lesser populated now,” Wendell clarified with a snort.
“True,” Charla conceded. “I meant lesser populated before the Carchar Syndrome hit. I’m sure such places are almost devoid of people now.”
“It’d be interesting to know if that is indeed the case,” Michael said. “We know that the city was obviously hit hard by the spread of the syndrome, but we don’t know what more rural areas are like. Did they get hit like the cities? Or were they better able to hold out against the spread because of their more secluded nature?”
“Or did they get hit even worse?” Christine Franko said after swallowing a bite of cracker and tuna fish salad and washing it down with a drink from her water bottle.
“How do you figure?” Michael frowned.
“Well,” Christine tilted her head to the side in consideration, “sometimes smaller communities tend to band together more tightly during tough times. They have closer bonds with friends, family, and neighbors than we commonly do in the city. We’re a different breed from most city dwellers,” she gestured around at the other Blenders. “Many of the people I worked with didn’t even know their neighbors’ names, and if they did, they didn’t associate with them much more than through an occasional friendly nod or a wave in passing.”
“That’s a good point,” Julia said. “I grew up in a small town, and we knew just about everyone. People saw each other at the grocery store or at church each week. There was only one elementary school, one middle school, one high school, so unless someone moved, kids grew up together. If a house burned down or someone became seriously ill or died, almost the entire town knew about it. And in such situations, we often did fundraisers for the affected family. In a situation like the Carchar Syndrome, people would likely have bonded together to try to help one another, to care for the sick and stuff like that, at least until they realized just how serious the disease they were dealing with was. And by then, it might have been too late. So much of the town might have been infected that there would have been no way to stop the spread.”
The Last Bastion (Book 4): The Last Bastion Page 8