The Last Bastion (Book 4): The Last Bastion

by K. W. Callahan

  By the dawn of the next day, the Blender camp was in the midst of an all-out epidemic. Half the camp was down for the count with an array of flu symptoms. Everything from uncontrollable vomiting, to diarrhea, the chills, and everything in between ran through the afflicted. By the next day, the other half of the camp was suffering the crippling affects of their illnesses as well. The tent quickly became a cesspool of stench, moaning, restless sleep, and hurried exits as someone did their best to escape the tent before a more uncontrolled evacuation hit.

  It quickly became a miserable situation for everyone. And the lack of medicine, paired with the poor diet on which the group had been subsisting meant that even the heartiest among the group was ill prepared for the overwhelming effects of the flu. They didn’t know where the sickness had come from or how it had hit them so hard. But it had hit hard. And it had hit fast and been extremely violent.

  Poor Ms. Mary appeared to be on the verge of death, although at one point or another, just about everyone in the group felt as though death might be a preferable option to their current status.

  The flu epidemic knocked the entire camp on its ass for the better part of a week. It had kept the Blenders from doing much of anything other than just focusing on their day-to-day existence. Food preparation was almost nonexistent for days on end, as no one had an appetite, not that anyone could keep their food down even if they did.

  And while the rain made things even more miserable, slowly saturating almost everything in camp, there were several positive aspects to the continued precipitation. First, while the Blenders were losing time on their travels due to their illnesses, it wasn’t as though they’d be traveling in the inclement weather anyway. Second, the one supply that the Blenders were consuming quite a bit of was their fresh water in an effort to stay hydrated against the debilitating effects of the flu. And while they were surrounded by river water, none of the Blenders particularly wanted to drink this abundant supply, even after boiling it, due to the amount of garbage and debris they’d seen floating in it. Therefore, the collected rainwater provided an additional source for them to rely on until the group could locate new fresh water options.

  Finally, as their sixth day on the island broke, it found the entire group on the mend and the consistently falling rain finally having passed.

  “At last,” Julia said as the sun peeked from behind a puffy cloud. “Ahhh, that sun feels so good,” she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, letting the warm rays wash over her face.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that bad in my life,” Josh referenced the illness from which they were recovering as he walked over to where his wife stood beside the island’s shore. “I mean, having the flu always sucks, but usually you’re at least in the comfort of your own home. This…” he shook his head, “…well, this was just the worst. Having to sleep outside, on the ground, in a tent or under a canoe, with it raining, I don’t think I’ve ever been more miserable.”

  “I know I haven’t,” Ms. Mary called from her spot beside the camp cook stove where she was boiling water and opening a can of corned beef hash to prepare for the group. It was the first meal she’d formally prepared since their second day on the island. “I’m usually not one to complain,” she went on. “But this time, I think I’m allowed some latitude. I never, ever, EVER want to feel like that again. And if I do, I’d rather just call it quits and shuffle on from my earthly endeavors. That whole experience was something nobody should have to endure, and one that I would frankly prefer to forget.”

  At this point in their trek, the group was a pretty rag-tag looking bunch. It wasn’t as though pre-apocalyptic cosmetic standards had been maintained while in the tower. Hair was allowed to grow longer. Shaving was conducted minimally among both men and women. And bathing was often done with washrags every other day. But the sickness on the island had pushed personal hygiene conditions to a whole new level. And with their recoveries underway, the weather having broken, and temperatures hovering in the low-60s, everyone was taking the opportunity to get cleaned up and as comfortable as conditions allowed for.

  Blenders lined the island’s shore, both men and women in their undergarments. At this point, no one cared much about the potential for impropriety. Everyone had lived among one another for long enough, and they had dealt with so much lately that just getting clean took precedence. Seeing someone in their underwear seemed so unimportant in the overall scheme of things.

  Pale, goose-pimpled flesh shivered against the chill of the river’s still icy waters, yet to be warmed by the fresh bout of spring air with which the season had been met.

  “God only knows whether this is doing any good,” Michael said as he used a washcloth to clean an armpit. “With some of the stuff we saw floating in this water, and being downstream from those factories we passed earlier, we might be doing more harm than good,” he switched the washcloth to his other hand.

  “At this point, I don’t even care,” Christine Franko replied from where she was conducting a similar cleaning regimen. “I feel absolutely disgusting.” She turned and looked back toward where Ms. Mary sat working on breakfast. “Smells delicious!” she called. “I could probably eat two cans of that stuff on my own!” she referenced the hash Ms. Mary was cooking.

  “Be ready in about ten minutes!” Ms. Mary smiled back in response. “I even made coffee.”

  “Coffee?!” Wendell responded from where he stood behind Charla. Charla had un-strapped her bra and cradled it against her breasts so that Wendell could scrub her back. “I didn’t know we still had coffee!”

  “I saved a small freezer bag for an emergency,” Ms. Mary explained. “And I consider this about as close to a coffee emergency as you can get.”

  “Uh, thank God,” Wendell moaned, tilting his head back in delight, stopping his scrubbing of Charla in the process. “I haven’t had coffee in well…I don’t know how long. But it’s been long enough, that’s for sure.”

  “Don’t stop,” Charla groaned. “That feels soooo good. My back is itchy as heck.”

  Five minutes later, the group was finishing up with their scrubbing. Most had wadded quickly out into knee-deep waters and bent to dunk their heads into the frigid flow. Then a small bottle of shampoo was passed from person to person so that hair could be washed if so desired.

  A communal towel, the only one of several that hadn’t been completely saturated during the rainstorms, was passed around for drying. Then everyone quickly re-dressed to warm themselves against the chill.

  The hot coffee that Ms. Mary poured into small paper cups did the group well. Even the kids got a cup.

  Then Ms. Mary served breakfast. “I know it isn’t much for what you all could probably eat if you were given the opportunity, but it’s all I can do. I mixed a couple packages of noodles in with the cans of corned beef hash. The corned beef is all you really taste anyway, so I figured the noodles would help bolster the meal and add to the filler the potatoes provide.”

  “Good thinking,” Michael nodded, hungrily tearing into his paper plate full of food.

  “Remember to eat slowly,” Ms. Mary reminded her brood. “We have a long day ahead of us. And keep drinking water. Drink it slowly but consistently. You need to continue to hydrate after losing all those fluids.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Michael smiled and nodded in response for the rest of the group.

  After breakfast, it took the group about an hour to pack up camp. While the island had been their home for almost a week, and provided a safe haven against the dangers of the world, no one was going to miss the place. There were too many bad memories contained on such a small space. The group was ready to be on their way and far from a spot that reminded them of their debilitating illnesses of the past week.

  “What’s for dinner tonight?” Patrick asked Ms. Mary as he helped her load a pack of supplies into one of the canoes. The canoe was no longer serving as a shelter but had been righted and placed half in the water, half still on shore.

  �
��Hungry already, my growing boy?” Ms. Mary teased the young man.

  “Mmm hmm!” Patrick nodded eagerly.

  “Well, you’re just going to have to wait and find out. Tonight’s menu is a secret. Give you something to daydream about while we’re on the river today.”

  “Awww,” Patrick slumped dejectedly.

  “Be good for you. Delayed gratification makes you appreciate things all the more when you finally get them.”

  “Now you sound like my father,” Patrick groaned. “Why is it that even after I eat, I’m still starving?”

  “Probably because you’re a grown man, and you’re getting about three hundred or four hundred calories a meal at best. Just not enough for someone of your age and build. You probably need two-thousand calories or more in a day to feel satisfied, and lately, you’re lucky to be getting about half that. Just ain’t cuttin’ it,” Ms. Mary admitted and turned to retrieve another loaded pack from camp.

  Ten minutes later, the camp was down, the boats were loaded, the Blenders had taken their last bathroom breaks, and the group was again floating down the Des Plaines River.

  It wasn’t long into their journey, however, before Michael and the others inside the fishing boat saw a kayak paddling back upriver toward them.

  “Aw geez,” Wendell groaned. “Already?”

  “Lots of little islands coming up! Looks like the river really narrows up ahead!” Christine Franko called.

  Michael nodded. “Got it. Stay close. Looks like you’ll have to act as our guides. You come to shallow spots or routes that aren’t passable for the fishing boat, let us know before we reach them so we don’t have to backtrack.”

  “Will do,” Christine turned the kayak around and headed downstream to alert the others.

  After about 45 minutes of slow progress due to the winding course of the river channels as they split around numerous islands, and after having run aground in shallow spots several times, the Blender armada finally made it to clearer waters. And by mid-morning, there was a report from the kayaks of another train bridge approaching, this time an unobstructed one.

  “Thank god!” Wendell breathed a sigh of relief.

  “And it looks like we’re joining with another river, or a larger channel of this river or something,” Andrew Franko announced from the rear of the kayak he guided with Ms. Mary.

  “Good,” Michael nodded as the kayak turned and paddled back downriver. “I’m already beat from all this steering. And I’m sure you guys are tired from paddling so much,” he said to his crew.

  “I wonder if we’re meeting up with the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal?” Wendell pondered aloud. “I remember from one of the classes I used to teach on Illinois history that it links up with the Des Plaines River.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right, Wendell,” Michael said. “I seem to recall something about that as well…like the two meet up somewhere close to Joliet. And it looks like things are starting to get more urbanized around here, so I wouldn’t doubt that we’re getting close to Joliet. At least the river is widening out here. I suggest we keep away from the banks, though, if possible. Don’t want people trying to get at us if they’re lurking around here. ”

  Michael whistled for the boats ahead of them and waved for them to slow down or paddle back. In a few minutes, the tiny armada was linking up for a quick group meeting.

  “What’s up?” Patrick said as he and Charla paddled their canoe up alongside the fishing boat.

  “Wait until everyone else is here,” Michael nodded toward where the other canoe and the two kayaks were paddling up to them as well.

  “How you holding up?” Patrick nodded to young Justin Justak who sat at the ready in the center of the fishing boat even though he currently had no job to occupy him.

  “Okay,” Justin nodded steadfastly. “You?”

  “Hanging in there,” Patrick grinned back. “Could go for a nice juicy cheeseburger right about now, but…”

  “Ugh, don’t say that!” Wendell cried. “It’s like torture! A burger sounds soooo good,” he grasped his stomach with a hand and groaned. “I think I’d give my left hand, or at least a couple fingers, for a cheeseburger right now.”

  “I’d give up a couple digits for half that burger,” Caroline Trove added from her spot beside Wendell.

  Two minutes later, as all the boats drifted together in the center of the river, linked by hands holding gunnels, Michael began their group meeting.

  “Wendell and I think we’re approaching Joliet. Since we have no idea what the situation is in the city, I suggest we stay as best we can toward the middle of the river to avoid potential interference from people along the riverbanks. Who knows how many survivors are there or how desperate they may be for supplies. I don’t want someone attacking our boats. Any survivors here could be heavily armed. Something happens, and someone goes in the water for some reason, and hypothermia could set in quick. Once we make it through the city, we can spread back out.” He scanned the group floating quietly around him. “Everyone good with that?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Christine agreed.

  “Sounds good to me,” Josh nodded.

  “So we just float like this then?” Ms. Mary gestured to their small cluster of craft floating in the center of the broad river.

  “No,” Michael shook his head. “Makes it too hard to control with us all being linked up like this. We can separate for ease of steering. Just stay in close proximity to one another.”

  “Aye, aye!” Patrick saluted and then gave a salute to Justin as well.

  Justin proudly returned the salute.

  “Looks like we have a bridge coming up,” Michael nodded ahead of them. “Everyone on the lookout. Never know what one of these bridges will bring.”

  The bridge was large, but the section of river in which it sat was about 300 feet wide, which gave the small boats ample birth to pass beneath the behemoth structure without incident.

  About a quarter of a mile past the first bridge, they came to another one that could be lowered or raised to allow taller ships passage. A short distance on, they appeared to be entering the heart of the city. And after passing beneath a third bridge, Michael pointed to their left and said, “Look! There’s the casino!”

  The group all turned to see what was once one of Joliet’s major attractions, its downtown casino.

  “Not doing much business now, I guess,” Wendell muttered. “Seems like a ghost town around here.”

  “Just as well,” Caroline said.

  They passed beneath another large bridge just after the casino.

  “At this rate,” Michael checked his watch, “we’ll be outside Joliet in time for lunch. That’ll be good,” he nodded from his position at the rear of the fishing boat. “I’d like to be well clear of the city before we stop again.”

  Suddenly there came a distant popping sound, almost like popcorn being made.

  “You hear that?” Wendell cocked his head to listen with a frown.

  “Yeah…that popping noise?” Caroline lifted her paddle from the water to listen too.

  Suddenly there was a small splash ahead of them, and then another, and another.

  “What the heck is that?” said Wendell. “Are those splashes from fish jumping?”

  “I…I don’t think so,” Michael frowned. He looked around, confused. “I think someone is shooting at us.”

  As soon as he finished the words, there were soft zipping sounds through the air around them and more splashes in the water, closer this time.

  “They’re shooting at us!” Michael called to the boats around him. “Get down!”

  While there wasn’t much cover inside the boats, the occupants did their best to bend or crouch down, removing as much of their silhouettes on the open water as possible. The kayaks were particularly exposed however, since there was absolutely nowhere for their occupants to shelter or duck down into.

  “Why are they shooting at us!” Caroline cried.

  “Spread out!
” Michael called to the other boats.

  “Why not?” Wendell answered Caroline’s question. “They’re probably so used to shooting things that they don’t know what else to do.”

  Several bullets ripped into the side of the fishing boat above the water line.

  “Where are they shooting from?!” Caroline called.

  “No idea!” Michael answered. “Just stay down!”

  “Doesn’t matter!” Wendell yelled back. “We’d be better off paddling! These boats aren’t going to stop bullets! If they hit us, we’ll either sink or be forced to land. Then they’ll just kill us there! We need to move!”

  Michael, realizing the sagacity of Wendell’s words yelled, “Paddle!” to the rest of the group.

  He realized that the fire was coming from a multi-story building overlooking the river’s right bank. He could see flashes of light coming from the top floor.

  Several rounds ripped through the center of one of the kayaks, narrowly missing Jack Franko and his mother. The bullets passed just inches from the end of Jack’s feet and his mother sitting in front of him. In fact, if Jack was several inches taller, like his older brother, he might have been missing several toes. But for the moment, he and his mother had other fish to fry.

  “Mom! You feel that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” his mother called back, feeling the river’s icy bite slowly seeping into their boat. “We’ve gotta bail out. Let’s get over to the fishing boat!”

  Next to them, one of the canoes had been hit too. A bullet had entered one side of its center near the upper portion of the hull and passed completely through. The bullet had angled downward so that it exited right at the waterline, leaving an inch square hole. Water was slopping in through the hole. Charla worked hurriedly to plug it with a piece of fabric she’d torn from her shirt.

  Meanwhile, the Franko kayak had made it over to the fishing boat where both Jack and his mother had both made a hurried transfer. Their bottoms and the backs of their legs were wet, but otherwise they remained unscathed.