The Last Bastion (Book 4): The Last Bastion

by K. W. Callahan

  “Interesting point,” Michael nodded. “I guess we won’t know for sure until we get farther outside Chicago. As for now, I’m not seeing many signs of life around these parts. And as far as I’m concerned, I’m happy to keep it that way.”

  “I’ll second that,” his wife said from where she stood beside him, nibbling a saltine cracker.

  “As for settling down in a spot like this,” Michael gestured around him, “I’d certainly say there are benefits, security being at the top of the list. However, this isn’t much of an island to spread out on. You’d need something far bigger for a group our size to have any sort of privacy and avoid constantly tripping over one another. And the water around here seems to be extremely polluted. I don’t think I’d want to eat anything we catch out of these waters.”

  “It is pretty disgusting,” Charla admitted, gazing out at the sprinkling of debris bobbing gently downriver around them.

  “And I’m afraid,” Michael went on after a bite of tuna fish salad on cracker, “that it wouldn’t take much to put most, if not all of this island under water. A light rain and half of it would probably be submerged. A good soaking and the thing would probably be under completely. How else would stuff like that,” he gestured to the large tree trunk on which Ms. Mary still sat, “get shoved up here? I wouldn’t want to wake up and find our boats swept away with us trapped on an island in a water-filled tent. We’d be stranded or worse, swept away to drown like rats.”

  Wendell shivered at the thought. He couldn’t think of many worse places to have to live than a spot surrounded by water. It was bad enough having to travel by water. But living in a place where you were bound by the whims of that water was thoroughly terrifying to him. He’d have to wear a life jacket 24 hours a day just to feel some semblance of safety.

  After a half hour lunch, the Blenders took their bathroom breaks and then climbed back into their boats. Soon they were on their way again, sliding along silently with the Des Plaines River as it crept westward and began angling into a slightly southern course.

  Michael was relieved to find that, other than a lot of floating garbage, and an occasional logjam jutting from one bank or the other, their course remained clear. They encountered no obstacles similar to the blown bridges that had initially hindered their progress early in their journey.

  After continuing their trip for almost three hours, Andrew and Ms. Mary came paddling back upriver in their kayak.

  “Potential problem,” Ms. Mary called as they circled around and angled their kayak in alongside the fishing boat.

  They were not the words Michael wanted to hear.

  “What’s up?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Another train bridge coming up,” Ms. Mary declared.

  “Oh no,” Michael groaned, tilting his head back in despair. “Did they blow it?”

  “No,” Ms. Mary said. “But it looks like the pilings that support the bridge have collected a lot of debris on either side. The stuff jams up the routes beneath it. Looks like there is a narrow chute of open water running directly beneath the center of the bridge, but you’re going to have to hit it just right. It’s fast and rough in that portion of water. Some pretty good waves.”

  “Mmm,” Michael frowned.

  “The gap is only about fifteen feet wide, and you have a nasty snarl of logs on one side and concrete bridge pilings on the other, neither one of which you’d want to run into,” Ms. Mary went on. “With the debris jamming things up, it’s pushing all the water right through that gap. That means the current is pretty strong there.”

  Listening to Ms. Mary made Wendell’s stomach churn. His mouth went dry, and one hand instinctively went to his life jacket, cinching it tighter around him.

  “I’ll tell Jack and my mom to station themselves on one side of the gap, and we’ll put ourselves on the other,” Andrew announced importantly. “We’ll act as markers, like road cones guiding you and the other boats in.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Michael said. “That’ll allow us the time to see where we need to be in advance and get the boat positioned as best we can accordingly.”

  About five minutes later, Michael could see Andrew and Ms. Mary’s kayak toward the right side of the river, Jack and his mom on the other. The two kayaks were about 15 yards apart. They were paddling slowly, evenly, keeping their boats stationary against the river’s current.

  “Okay, folks,” Michael announced to his crew with about 100 yards to go before they reached the looming train bridge, “this is going to get a little tight. I need you ready to move when I say. I’ll do my best to keep us straight and centered in the river, but it looks like the current is picking up already. Justin, you be ready to push us away from any obstacle we get too close to.”

  Little Justin just nodded obediently. Michael could tell the boy was scared. Hell, he was scared himself. It’s not as if this was the type of thing he did regularly. And guiding a bulky fishing boat wasn’t like driving a car. His steering input didn’t have the same effect, and it took time to correct a mistake or error in steering judgment. And once a correction was made, it was easy to overcorrect and find oneself in just as bad a situation or worse than before the correction was made.

  With about 50 yards to go before they reached the start of the bridge, they passed the two idling kayaks. Michael envied the ease of maneuverability with which these vessels seemed to glide up, down, and across the river. It looked so easy – ducks gliding smoothly across a calm pond. Meanwhile, captaining his fishing boat into the bridge gap felt like trying to maneuver an SUV into a compact car parking spot.

  As they neared the pile of dead trees, trash, and other debris that had dammed the right side of the bridge’s underpass, the river’s current pushed out and around the bulging obstacle. Michael realized this too late, though, as the current caught the front of the fishing boat and pushed it hard left, catching the rest of the boat seconds later and sweeping it over toward the massive concrete bridge pilings.

  “Shit!” Michael hissed through clenched teeth as he did his best from the back of the boat to re-center them. But his efforts were quickly negated by the strength of the current and the weight of their supply-laden boat.

  The distance between the fishing boat and the concrete pilings, around which the water was swiftly swirling, was rapidly closing. Michael went from trying to steer the boat away from the pilings to getting it angled for an impact that would do the least damage. He decided that if he could get the boat to hit the pilings broadside, it would spread the force of the collision over a wider area. And since the top of the boat’s hull angled slightly outward, it would hopefully minimize the chances of a breach below the waterline.

  “Michael!” Wendell said. “Michael?!” he repeated, his voice quivering in worry. “Are we gonna hit?!”

  There was only about 20 feet between the boat and the quickly approaching piling. Michael estimated that with the speed of the current, they had just seconds before they reached the immovable object which he was now 95 percent certain they were going to hit.

  He jammed his paddle down hard into the water from his seat at the rear of the boat. He did this both to fight the current that kept dragging them closer to the piling as well as to slow the rate at which they were closing. But it wasn’t enough. The weight of the loaded boat and the force of the current were overwhelming any steering input the maneuver might have had in normal conditions.

  “Wendell! Paddle!” Michael barked sternly to the man who sat, paddle on knees, frozen as he stared on in horror at the bridge pilings now looming ahead of them. “Caroline! Justin! Be ready to brace against our impact! Wendell! PADDLE DAMN IT!” his words finally jarring the man to action.

  Caroline and Justin moved forward in the boat, causing it to tip forward and down in the water.

  “Careful! Don’t sink us!” Michael warned as Caroline scooted back slightly to even their keel.

  Michael’s worse fear was that they hit the piling turned completely sideways. He c
ould envision the force of the impact and the strength of the current tipping the boat. In such an event, the boat would rapidly fill with water, and with the weight they were carrying because of things like the fuel and the generator, they would be swamped in seconds, their boat sunk, their supplies lost. His other concern was that they hit head on. Doing so would stop their momentum and potentially swing them around so that they passed beneath the bridge sideways. And with the way the waves were rolling at this deeper section of river, hitting several of them broadside could lower the boat enough that they took on more and more water with each successive wave, eventually swamping and then sinking them completely.

  All these possible outcomes flashed through Michael’s mind in just instants.

  With a few feet to go, Michael called, “Brace yourself! Ready for impact!”

  The bridge above them blotted out the sun. The water around them went from a muddy light brown color to an ominously swirling black. Against the front of the first piling, the water rose up where the current hit with force, then it dropped down and away as it moved around the side of the piling’s rounded edge, sucking and gurgling past the suddenly massive concrete column. The suction pulled the boat in closer, like a giant vortex, working against the command of Michael’s rudder-like paddle jammed down deep beneath the water behind the boat.

  At the last instant, and with just feet to spare, the fishing boat seemed to respond to Michael’s input. The front of the boat swung out and away from the piling ever so slightly. Justin and Caroline reached their paddles out, using them to push against the piling. This forced the front of the boat out and away from the piling while the back end continued in toward it. The boat was turning sideways into the waves, just as Michael had feared. Worse yet, the back of the boat, where Michael sat, rode lowest in the water, which meant that it had the least amount of space to give before water would begin pouring over the side of the hull and into the boat.

  Michael realized that it was pertinent to clear the pilings as quickly as possible, but he needed power to pull them through the waves rolling around and ahead of them in order to do so.

  “Paddle hard!” he cried, sliding in his seat to the right side of the boat to assist. “Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!” he yelled, giving up steering, digging his own paddle deep beneath the waves, and pulling with all the strength he could muster.

  The others, even tiny Justin, followed suit.

  Surprisingly, as Michael looked up from where he was paddling, he saw Wendell digging his own paddle into the water with rapidity, his fear apparently driving him to action.

  Suddenly, the left rear edge of the boat slammed hard into the piling. It caused the boat to lurch, tipping to the left. Michael shot a glance toward this side of the boat, realizing there were still several inches of clearance between the top of the boat’s hull and the water. It gave him relief, but only momentarily as suddenly the generator, the weight of which had held it in place near the center of the boat, slid with a screech toward the boat’s left side.

  “The generator!” Michael cried, instinctively dropping his paddle in the water and diving forward. He landed hard on his knees near the raised metal portion that formed the seating ridge at the center of the boat. The generator was positioned just in front of this seating section.

  The generator came to a rest against the left side of the boat, adding further weight to the already precipitously dipping hull. And as Michael bent to reach for the generator, his body weight only increased the boat’s list. Suddenly water was pouring in over the edge and Michael knew they had but seconds before the boat was inundated with water. He grabbed the generator and ripped it away from the side of the boat, pulling it back to its center position. Then he moved to the far left corner of the boat to counteract the weight of the water that had just come aboard.

  The others were still paddling frantically.

  “Give me your paddle!” Michael commanded Justin, who turned around and dutifully handed it over.

  Michael turned and used the paddle, javelin like, to push the end of the boat away from the piling.

  Caroline and Wendell were still paddling for all they were worth. And with Michael’s assistance, they got the boat moving again and away from the concrete support pillars. Seconds later, they were clear of the bridge and floating through a suddenly lazy section where the river spread out after the harrowing action just a short distance behind them.

  “Whew!” Michael blew a sigh of relief. “Well, that was exciting.”

  Just as he finished the words, there was the sound of scraping against the bottom of the boat as they slid to a hull-scratching stop.

  “Sounds like we’ve run aground,” Wendell said.

  “Gee, you think, Captain Obvious?” Caroline couldn’t help but shoot her paddling partner a sarcastic smirk.

  Wendell smiled back, just relieved to be alive and dry at this point.

  “Good job back there,” she added with a nod.

  “You too,” Wendell nodded back, still trying to catch his breath.

  “There’s your paddle!” Justin pointed out where Michael’s paddle had floated to a stop on a shallow spot in the river that was only an inch or two deep. It was a portion of the large section of shallows on which the fishing boat had come to rest.

  The Franko clan and Ms. Mary paddled past in their kayaks.

  “Almost didn’t think you were going to make it there for a minute,” Christine Franko called.

  “Ah, all according to plan,” Michael called back confidently with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Yeah, right,” Wendell snorted.

  “Guess we’d better get this generator secured better before we set off again,” Michael said quietly to his crew.

  “Better get your paddle first,” his wife corrected.

  “Right,” Michael nodded, taking a moment to shed his boots and socks and then stepping out of the boat and onto the pebbly, water-covered spot on which they were beached. “Oooo, this water is cold!” he grimaced. “Caroline, you and Wendell want to work on getting that generator secured and bailing the water from the boat?” he asked as he walked across the sandbar and collected his paddle.

  “Sure,” they agreed, moving inside the boat to maneuver supplies so they could get the generator re-centered and secured.

  The canoes and kayaks were waiting patiently, pulled alongside the bank just downriver near another bridge.

  After retrieving his paddle, Michael stretched, looked around, and then walked back to where the others still sat in the fishing boat. They had gotten the generator back in the center of the boat and wedged between multiple bags of clothing and blankets so that it wouldn’t move.

  With everything set, Michael inspected the sandbar on which they were grounded. Then, with several mighty heaves, he shoved the boat back into deeper water and climbed inside.

  The river calmed noticeably as the group passed beneath the next bridge without incident. After about another half hour of slow paddling, the Blender fleet passed under another highway bridge, which Michael guessed was Interstate 355, although he had no way of knowing for sure.

  “Wish I had a damn map,” he grumbled. “Make things a heck of a lot easier…well, maybe not easier, but at least clearer. We’d know where we are at least.”

  A little farther on, the river began to curve in a more southerly direction. At first, it widened expansively, and then narrowed again before Michael saw the canoes pulled over to one bank and the kayaks once more paddling upriver toward them.

  “Oh boy, now what?” Wendell moaned. “Are we approaching Niagara Falls?”

  “What’s up?” Michael called to the pair of kayaks gliding toward them.

  “River splits up ahead,” Christine called. “Not sure which way to go. Left side channel entrance is maybe about 75 feet across. Right side channel looks wider, almost double that.”

  “Either one look deeper?” Michael called back.

  “Couldn’t really tell,” Christine answered.r />
  “Hmm,” Michael contemplated. “Guess we’ll head right since it looks like the bigger channel.”

  “Will do,” Christine answered as both kayaks pulled away and headed back downriver to re-take the lead.

  Michael and his crew gave them a few minutes to get ahead and allow the canoes to get going. And they’d only just gotten past the channel split when they saw Christine and Jack paddling back toward them again.

  “Channel splits again!” Christine called before they’d even reached the fishing boat.

  Michael tilted his head back in exasperation. “Ugh,” he sighed. “Either side look bigger?”

  “Nope. Not really,” Jack answered for his mother. “Both about the same. Both about fifty feet wide.”

  Michael could tell that the Franko boys loved this exercise in responsibility. It made Michael feel good. He could tell that their scouting work was giving them a sense of purpose and building their confidence. Michael was proud of his flock, but that pride bred worry, worry that he wouldn’t be able to keep them safe against all the dangers lurking around them. He cared about them, loved them all, too much – even Wendell. As much as the man moaned and groaned about their situation, Michael could tell that somewhere beneath it all, there lay a decent man. Charla was too good a woman to have chosen anything less.

  “Well,” Michael reasoned aloud, “we took the right side the first time, so let’s try something different this time. We’ll go left. Hopefully it’ll rejoin with the other channel and won’t burn us by turning into a trickling creek or veering off course into some suburban neighborhood. Does that sound good?”