H2O

by Belateche, Irving

  Sarah said she had no idea, but I guess she could tell that we badly wanted an answer, so she told us her father’s theory. He believed that, at night, trucks drove into Black Rock from the east and hauled the water inland. He thought that there were towns inland but that they’d sprung up way after the Virus so they weren’t like the towns in the Territory. They were wilder and unorganized and didn’t have the resources to purify their own drinking water.

  “What do the truckers say?” I asked.

  “They never talk about the water,” she said.

  “What about Black Rock? Do the truckers say there’s a water storage facility there?” For her father’s theory to be true, the water had to be stored there so that trucks could come in from the east and haul it away.

  “Like I said, they never talk about the water and we all learn not to ask about it.” Then she suddenly asked us about the marauders, like she somehow connected them to water, and I noticed that her eyes lit up when she mentioned them. Lily told her the standard stuff and I could see that this was a letdown for Sarah, so I added, “I met a marauder.” That got her attention. It also got Lily’s attention because I still hadn’t told her about Crater.

  “He wanted to know about the water, right?” Sarah asked me.

  She did connect the marauders to water. Why?

  “You’re not really headed east to see if towns are there,” she said. “You’re following the water.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  She looked toward the diner, like she was weighing whether to open up, then she looked back at us, ready to tell us the secret that she’d been dying to tell us all along.

  “Three years ago, when I was in the forest, training myself for the getaway, the one I still haven’t managed to make,” she said, “I trapped a rabbit. I was skinning it and gutting it and thought someone was watching me. Maybe Brian, who had a crush on me. I called out and no one answered. So I built my fire and cooked the rabbit.

  “When I started to eat, he came out. Except it wasn’t Brian. It was a marauder. And he told me he was impressed with what he’d seen. He asked me if I wanted to join the marauders. I wanted to escape, but I didn’t want to be a marauder. I told him that I was learning how to survive in the wilderness, so I could make it through the wilderness and into the Territory. I wanted to live in a town, not the wilderness.

  “He accepted that and then told me he was here to find out about the water. So I told him about Black Rock. Why not? He didn’t seem like a bad person, like those stories you hear about the marauders. He hadn’t attacked the rest stop or the trucks or stolen anything. He just wanted to find out where the water was going. Like you.”

  Sarah looked back to the diner, anxious. She clearly wanted to get through her story before her dad showed up. “So he said that he was going out to Black Rock to find out what was going on. He also said that he’d come back and take me to the Territory if I wanted to go. I could decide when he got back.

  “He left and I began to think about it. He seemed like a good guy. But what if he was lying? What if I went with him and he wanted me to stay with him? Like the truckers. I’d have to run and then I’d be running from the marauders and that wouldn’t be so good.”

  Sarah stopped and took a breath, “Turns out I didn’t have to worry about it. He never came back.”

  She was upset. She had wanted to escape and she’d thought that this marauder might have been her passage out. She told us that no one had ever approached her again. When she went out into the forest, she was always on the lookout for marauders, but she was always disappointed.

  Sarah cleared the table and washed the dishes. Her dad’s shift was almost over and she wanted us to hide in her bedroom for the night. We said we’d sleep outside, but she insisted we stay inside. She said her dad respected her privacy and would never go into her bedroom.

  We settled in on blankets on her bedroom floor and, when her dad came home, I overheard their conversation and understood why Sarah hadn’t run away. It wasn’t because of fear. She and her dad talked about the supply of food at the diner, the number of truckers who’d come through that day, a feud with another family over work schedules, and other mundane topics, but shining through the small talk was Sarah’s bond with her dad. That bond was stronger than her dream of escape.

  As I let the warmth of their conversation wash over me, I noticed a DVD movie on Sarah’s dresser. She had told us that their community had acquired two hundred and seventy-two movies over the years and that she had watched them over and over again. This one was “Planet of the Apes” and that movie was the story of my life.

  Roughly five thousand movies floated around Clearview. Ellen Sanchez, the phone service operator, had the biggest collection in town, one hundred or so, and it was at her house, at a birthday party, that I first saw “Planet of the Apes.” I was in elementary school and it was right after my dad’s murder. She’d invited me to her party because she felt sorry for me.

  I watched the movie and decided it was about my father. He was like the smart astronaut in the movie, Taylor. Taylor crash lands in the wilderness of another planet and starts to hike away from the crash site, looking for signs of life. Then apes suddenly attack him. Vicious, stupid apes. And just like Taylor, my father had ventured out into the wilderness and marauders had attacked him. Vicious, stupid marauders.

  A week after the birthday party, I asked Rick if he would borrow the DVD for me. I didn’t want to borrow it directly from Ellen because I didn’t want other kids to taunt her for lending one of her precious DVDs to the weird kid. Rick must’ve borrowed that DVD for me over a dozen times. The last time, I figured out how to copy it and I didn’t have to borrow it again.

  As the years passed, Taylor, the astronaut, went from representing my father to representing me, and the apes went from representing the marauders to representing other kids. I was Taylor, trying to hide the knowledge I’d learned, and the kids were the apes, hunting me down and kicking the crap out of me because I knew too much.

  Then, as I got older, I wasn’t Taylor anymore, I was Dr. Zira, the scientist. She was the one who’d started to understand why things worked the way they did and she wanted to tell the other apes. But the apes wouldn’t listen to her and, if she talked too much, they’d kill her.

  Of course, I never thought that anyone in Clearview would really want to kill me. I’d decided that what had happened at the Mory Aqueduct was just kids getting out of hand. But after I started my job at Corolaqua, I discovered that I was wrong. Someone did want to kill me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  During my first months at Corolaqua, I tried to keep a low profile. But Frank had heard that I was good at analyzing and fixing things (that was why the Town Council had wanted me to work at Corolaqua), so he asked me to check out some of the plant’s equipment. The equipment worked, but sometimes had minor hiccups which no one had been able to fix.

  I studied the problems and came up with repairs. So it didn’t take long for the other plant workers to resent me and their resentment quickly grew. I found out just how much during the annual Corolaqua celebration.

  Every year, Corolaqua threw a party at Welketch Beach and invited everyone in town. It started in the evening, under the orange red sun, and went long into the night. It’d been a town ritual for forty years. People swam, played football, and soccer, and they barbecued and drank.

  For every stage of my life, I had a memory associated with that celebration. When I was five, I built the biggest sandcastle in the world with my dad. When I was seven, I ended up lost and terrified in the craggy rocks of Juniper Cove and found my way back by following the voices of teens hiding from their parents.

  When I was ten, I argued with Mrs. Levingworth because I wanted to stay at the party after the younger kids had already gone home. I won the argument and thought I was a grown up.

  When I was fifteen, I drank alcohol for the first time and vomited. I lied to Mrs. Levingworth and told her that I’d e
aten too much barbecue. And when I was seventeen, I saw Ellen making out with Brad Stall and realized that I should’ve made my own move that year, that Ellen was ready for a boyfriend, and now her boyfriend wouldn’t be me.

  But all those memories were overshadowed by one memory.

  During the annual celebration, Corolaqua workers all had jobs to do, from barbecuing and serving food to organizing and supervising games.

  I was a lifeguard and there was nothing unusual about that. The younger workers were usually the lifeguards because they were in the best shape. And when night fell and there wasn’t any swimming, only one lifeguard watched the ocean, in case teens dared each other to swim in the dark.

  That night, I was the one lifeguard and I stationed myself far from the barn fire so I could see past the light of the flames. It was hard to see anything at all because the moon was a tiny sliver. I watched the sea and I listened to the waves striking the beach. I heard parents and grandparents laughing around the barn fire and, in the other direction, I could barely discern groups of teens in the darkness.

  Then, between the crashes of waves, I heard a cry. A sharp cry. I looked up and down the beach, trying to pinpoint where it had come from and I heard it again. It wasn’t a burst of laughter. It was a scream. And it wasn’t coming from the people gathered around the barn fire. I looked out into the ocean, past the roaring waves and into the blackness, and heard another scream. I scanned the water and thought I saw movement. It was black on black, but a black separate from the ocean. Then I heard someone shout, “Help!”

  I rushed forward and kept my eyes on the spot where I’d seen that movement. I sprinted into the surf, dove into the sea, and swam under the breaking waves. When I popped back up, I checked that spot again, but didn’t see anything. Then I heard the cry again. It was definitely coming from out there, in the darkness. I was sure some teen had swum out and panicked.

  I swam as hard as I could, barreling through the crashing waves until I made it to the calmer waters on the other side. I looked toward the spot again and I saw the teen. He went under.

  I picked up my pace and checked again. The teen popped up through the water, but was quickly pulled back down. Was I watching a shark attack? Years ago, there’d been reports of shark attacks down south, but never in Clearview. I swam toward the teen, but when I looked up again, I didn’t see him. I wanted him to pop up so I could confirm I was still headed in the right direction and, just as I put my head back down for the final sprint, he did. Then he was pulled under again.

  I was on course, but something was weird. This time I’d noticed that the teen had his head covered. At least, that’s what it looked like. But it was hard to tell in the dark. That should’ve stopped me and I wish it had.

  I closed in on the spot, but I didn’t see the teen. I dove down under the water and looked around. It was too dark to see anything.

  I resurfaced and glanced around me. Nothing.

  Then, a few yards in front of me, the teen popped up, and went under. His head was covered in something. He must’ve been the butt of some cruel joke. I lunged forward and the teen suddenly shot out of the water right in front of me and I grabbed him. He grabbed me back and tried to pull me under. He was panicking. He pulled hard and he was strong, and big, and I realized that he wasn’t a teen.

  I went down with him, then struggled to get back to the surface, trying to pull him up with me.

  We both made it to the surface and I yelled for him to calm down. He was safe now. But he was already pulling me under again and, just as I began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose, someone else grabbed my legs. I tried to kick free, but I felt something clamp down on one of my ankles. Then the man with the covered head let me go and swam away, but I realized I was in trouble so I lunged at him, grabbed his leg, and held tight. At the same time, I tried to shake my ankle free from whatever was clamped around it.

  I wouldn’t let go of the man, so he pulled me along as he swam away, until I came to an abrupt and jarring stop, held back by whatever was connected to my ankle. The man kicked hard to free himself from my grip, but I viciously twisted his leg to stop him from shaking me off. For a second, he stopped struggling. I’d hurt him.

  Then the clamp around my ankle started reeling me down, under the water, and the man easily kicked free of my grip. He was home free and I was buried in the ocean. The reeling stopped after a few seconds and I tried to swim to the surface, but I couldn’t reach it.

  The trap had been perfectly set. I was anchored in place, under the dark sea, with no way to call for help. I could hold my breath for two, three minutes tops, so I had to do something fast. I reached down and checked my ankle. Around it, I felt a metal ring, a cuff of some kind. I felt further down and found the cuff was attached to a thick chain. I wasn’t going to be able to break the cuff or the chain.

  I thought about those apocryphal stories where a bear gnaws off his limb to escape a trap, but even if I could figure out a way to sever my ankle, I didn’t have the time to do it. The only hope was to get to the other end of the chain and find what was anchoring it down.

  I swam down, using the chain as my guide. I wanted to breath, to suck in some fresh air, but I knew I couldn’t. My ears started to feel the water pressure and I began to doubt my strategy.

  But it was too late to change it.

  As I approached the ocean floor, about thirty feet from the surface, I felt faint. I was desperate for air and the pressure in my ears was brutal. I forced myself down to the very end of the chain and, there, I found an anchor. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it. My hands moved across it, and I fought my delirium and concentrated on the facts. A mushroom anchor. Between thirty and sixty pounds. I reached around the anchor with both hands and tried to lift it. It moved, but barely.

  I was going to die.

  I dug my hands under the anchor, pulled myself close to it, then jerked it up. It moved and I started kicking, holding the anchor close. I breathed out. I couldn’t help it. I was going to pass out. I kicked harder, clutching the anchor, hoping to get to the surface, and I breathed in water. I desperately needed air. The anchor wanted to sink back down and take me with it, but I wouldn’t let it. If I could carry the anchor to the surface, I’d live.

  I kicked harder, moving up, closer to the surface, refusing to let the anchor bury me at sea.

  I popped through the surface and sucked in air. I kicked and held onto the anchor, and tried to catch my breath. I wanted to yell for help, but I couldn’t. Breathing took too much effort.

  After about another minute or so, I started kicking toward the shore. When the water was shallow enough, I dropped the anchor and yelled for help.

  Frank heard my shouts, swam out, and helped me back to shore. Later that night, Uslov Sidorov, the welder in Clearview, cut the cuff off my ankle.

  I spent the rest of the weekend keeping my anger in check. I tried not to think about suspects because that made me too angry, but, as usual, I couldn’t completely stop myself. I didn’t have any clues to go on. Anyone in town could’ve acquired the anchor. Before the Virus, there were plenty of boats lining these coastal waters and that meant there were plenty of abandoned anchors. As for the cuff, it could’ve been salvaged from any of the thousands of abandoned police stations all over the Territory.

  I did talk to Clearview’s policemen, but it was clear that they weren’t going to do a thing. Trevor Hunter and Elijah Toric, two of our three policemen, questioned me and treated the entire thing like it was a prank. Corolaqua workers were just having a little fun, like an old-fashioned hazing. I told them that the plant workers had never hazed anyone before and they said, “There’s always a first time.” Hunter and Toric’s job was to keep the peace and this didn’t threaten the peace. It was just a prank, not attempted murder. They thought I couldn’t take a joke and that I was a coward for making this into a big deal. So I didn’t push it with them.

  On Monday, I went back to work. Most of the plant workers knew what had happ
ened and most of them had the same attitude that Hunter and Toric had had. It’d been an elaborate prank. But I was hyper-aware of everyone’s body language, on the plant floor, in the hallways, and in the lunchroom. I was looking for suspects. And the end of my shift couldn’t come fast enough because by the end of the day everyone was starting to look like a suspect.

  I headed out to the parking lot, telling myself that I had to put this behind me. As I climbed into my car, I saw Ledic’s car pull in. He was working the next shift. I keyed the ignition and in my rearview mirror, I saw him getting out his car. He was always a sight to see. When Rick had defended me at the Mory Aqueduct, he’d left Ledic with a broken nose and it had healed crookedly. On some faces that could’ve looked tough and handsome, but on Ledic, it looked sloppy and ugly.

  Ledic headed toward the plant. He was limping.

  Because I had twisted his leg in the ocean.

  I headed home, my anger raging. Ledic had tried to kill me, and this time, it couldn’t be chalked up to kids going too far. And I was sure that Walt Becket had been his partner, the one who’d shackled me. They were best friends who distilled their own liquor and got drunk every night. They had both married wives who stayed out of their way as they brawled over money, women, and any perceived slights. Ledic had been hired two years before me and while I’d been hired because the Town Council was thinking of what would be best for Corolaqua, he was hired because the Town Council was thinking of what would be best for Clearview. Making sure Ledic worked a hard job six days a week kept him out of wreaking even more havoc.

  I walked into my house, thinking about my options. As if there were something I could do. I wasn’t going to mete out vigilante justice, and going back to Hunter and Toric was a dead end. They’d been tolerant of Ledic for years. He’d beaten the crap out of a couple people and destroyed his fair share of property. But they’d never called in the Fibs and they weren’t going to now. And the fact that it was Ledic who’d tried to kill me only reinforced that this was just a drunk bastard who’d lost control. It was just like something that drunk bastard would do. No way was this attempted murder.