by J. L. Esplin
Not that I need his permission. It’s our freaking water, every last drop of it.
My eyes move to the tanks, set up in the open grassy space between where I stand and he sits, all six of them, under a shade enclosure.
It’s not part of the plan. I know it. But our water is right there.
I tuck the knife into my waistband and unzip the backpack, taking out the water bottle on top and leaving the bag halfway open.
Then I do something that might seem stupid, but I know it’s okay. And I’ve got to do it anyway.
I step out in the open and walk straight in the direction of Clayton Presley, slowly, until I reach that first tank. His eyes never leave the fire.
I drop down behind it, knees up with the backpack between them, back against the cool plastic. I know these tanks well. I know how they work. I don’t need to look. Just reach my hand behind me to the front of the tank and find the short hose where it latches against the side. I pry it loose and bring it around. Then I unscrew the water bottle, palming the lid, and position the hose over its opening. I turn the brass valve halfway, letting it catch so it pours slower. Watching it fill, inch by inch, with clear water.
Hands shaking, I raise the bottle to my mouth.
I don’t think I even realized how much I needed water until it hits my cracked lips and floods my dry mouth. Then I do what I’ve been dying to do for so many days. Guzzle the water in long, dragging gulps.
It tastes a little like iodine—the geniuses have overdone the purification—but I don’t care. The first bottle goes down fast. The second, I swallow with a hefty dose of guilt. Not because I’m taking anything that doesn’t already belong to me. But because this is as much my brother’s water as it is mine, and he’s ten miles away, and he thinks I’m there with him, camped on the side of the road, but here I am, drinking from a water tank that we both thought was long gone.
And the thing is, every drop I swallow now means less water I’ll take from Stewart later. I know that. I get how critical that is. But that’s not my only thought as I drink. I’ve got the plastic rim pressed to my lips, eyes shut, water leaking out the edges and dribbling down my chin, my throat working as fast as I can guzzle … because every dried-up cell in my body is crying out for it.
And then my eyes fly open and I come up for air, swiping my chin across my shoulder. Shoot, Cleverly. I search the line of trees, looking for her between glimpses of tailgate and chrome bumper, but there’s no sign of her. Does she know where I am? Did she see me walk out here?
This wasn’t part of the plan. What was the plan?
She’s waiting for me at Spike’s truck! Either really freaked out or really annoyed. But now that I’m here with the water tank, there’s no way I’m leaving without getting water for her. For Stew and Will. Three canteens, one for each of them to guzzle.
I fill the water bottle for the third time, screw on the lid, and set it aside. I plan to drink that one, too, but I’m forcing myself to take a break. I’ll make myself sick, drinking water at this pace after going without for so long.
I start filling the first of the three canteens. Occasionally, the tank glugs softly behind me, and I know it’s too quiet for Clayton Presley to hear, but I cringe every time—
“… an unprecedented national emergency…”
I shut off the valve, my entire body going still.
It’s the radio.
I strain to hear the voice over the static. The sound quality is bad, but I can tell pretty quickly that it isn’t a real news station; it’s just some guy talking. But it’s someone who’s out there, not surrounded by miles of desert and silence.
“… and these people who are still whining, still waiting around for their government to step in and save them … they’re simply dim-witted. People, you will not survive this blackout unless or until you come to the conclusion that only you have the power to save yourself.”
The words jolt me back into action. I turn the valve on, carefully filling the canteens while listening to the voice on the radio.
“… Here’s your first clue. We are twenty-two days, going on twenty-three, into probably the worst crisis our nation has ever seen, with no end in sight, and still no FEMA to the rescue? At least not in my town, or any town that I have been in contact with. Mind you, this is a federal agency that has an eleven-billion-dollar annual budget, funded by our tax dollars. You’d think they could manage to transport drinking water, maybe some MREs. Because the basic needs of the citizens of our nation are not being met. I’m not even bringing up all that other stuff—and believe me, it’s a mess out here and we’ll be dealing with the consequences of this blackout for years to come. I’m just talking about the most basic things people need to survive right now. Food, water, suitable shelter …
“So what do they do? How do they decide to solve this problem? FEMA is overwhelmed, we have a devastating lack of resources, and they decide to close the state borders! People are dying, they need food, they need water, and they close the state borders so no one can get in—”
A crackle of static interrupts the voice, and I’m kind of glad. I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but it wasn’t that. People can’t get in? My dad can’t get in? But the static lasts only a moment, and then the voice is back.
“—yet manage to place military at state borders and around our power stations? Is this use of resources not highly suspect? No one is leaping to hasty conclusions here. All of these things are leading intelligent people to suspect deliberate sabotage on the part of our government.
“So, what’s the lesson, kids? The lesson is if you’re still sitting around, twiddling your thumbs, and waiting for someone to swoop in and save you, then maybe you weren’t cut out for life. Because maybe this isn’t something you planned for, but this is life as we know it now. It’s ‘survival of the fittest’ time. And the question you should be asking yourself is: ‘Do I want to be a survivor, or—?’”
The radio goes silent. It’s not the static this time. He shut it off.
I go completely still.
Does he know I’m here?
I don’t breathe.
Ten seconds pass. Twenty seconds. Enough time for him to get to me.
Nothing happens.
Quietly, I pack up, placing the full canteens in the backpack. I drink one last bottle of water. I try to take it slow, but my hand is shaking so hard. I guzzle it. A queasy feeling pulls at the back of my throat.
My body wants more water, but I couldn’t swallow more if I tried. My gag reflex would send it right back up.
I fill up the bottle one last time—for later. Screw on the cap and put it in the bag with the other canteens.
I don’t bother to latch the hose back in place, just leave it on the ground. My back pressed to the water tank, I inch my way up, but stay down on one knee. I’m much taller than these tanks. They aren’t very wide either, maybe twenty inches.
I listen one last time, strain to hear anything. A creaking camp chair. Footsteps in the dry grass.
Nothing.
Maybe he’s gone? Or maybe he turned off the radio, slouched down in that camping chair, and went to sleep. I can’t kneel here all night. I’ve got to get back to Cleverly. I’ve got to meet her at the truck.
Letting out a shaky breath, I rise to my feet, glance over my shoulder.
Clayton Presley’s emotionless eyes are no longer staring into the flames. They’re staring directly at me.
15
I DON’T MOVE. I can’t move. My brain won’t send the necessary signal to my legs, or maybe my brain has sent the signal but my legs are ignoring it. Or maybe Clayton Presley’s eyes have me pinned in place, like a moth to a corkboard. Because he’s not moving either. He’s just staring at me.
There’s no expression on his face, no shock, no anger. I think for a second that maybe he can’t see me. Maybe his eyes are still adjusting to the darkness, and if I stay still long enough, he’ll go back to staring at the flames.
&n
bsp; “J-Dog!” a voice suddenly calls out, and Clayton Presley’s eyes unpin me, his head jerking toward the tents beyond the campfire. I’m down on one knee before I even know what I’m doing, scrambling back behind the water tank, breathing hard.
As soon as I’m out of sight, I wonder what the heck I’m thinking. It’s a little late to be hiding. Clayton Presley has seen me. He knows I’m here.
“You tired or what, man? Ready for a break?”
The same voice asks these questions, and I can tell he’s closer. I can also tell that the voice belongs to my old pal, Spike. Great.
I tense, ready to bolt. But all Presley says is, “I told you I’d be fine tonight.” He sounds annoyed. I wait for more, crouched on the balls of my feet.
“Don’t bite my head off, Jer. I’m not in the mood for your crap.”
This comes from Spike, and I can only assume “Jer” is Presley’s actual name. Or at least a portion of it.
It’s quiet for a moment, and I hear the sound of a log hitting the fire, followed by crackles and pops. I’m itching to run, but something is holding me back.
“I can’t sleep anyway,” Spike says.
There’s a hesitation, and then Presley says, “How’s Steph doing?”
“She’s eight months’ pregnant. Gonna give birth in a tent at this crap-hole campsite. How do you think she’s doing?”
“I can’t say I’ve been in her position,” Presley says.
“You’re a chump, Jer.”
There’s another stretch of silence. I don’t like the silences. I can’t help imagining that Presley is miming my whereabouts to Spike. Any second now, they could surprise me, catch me off guard.
I pull the steak knife from my waistband and cringe. It’s such a pathetic excuse for a knife. It probably wouldn’t even cut steak. My hunting knife, on the other hand—you could do some serious damage with that knife. Not that I regret giving it to Cleverly.
I’m taking too long to get back to her. Is she still waiting at the truck? Is she searching for me in the dark now?
“I’ve been staring into this fire too long,” Presley says.
Good.
“Remember that game we used to play when we were kids?” Spike says, and the genuine humor in his voice kind of throws me off. “Fire tag.” He laughs. “Stare into the campfire for a count of twenty, then stumble around like a blind man, trying to tag as many kids around camp as you can.”
“Isn’t that how you broke your arm?” Presley says.
“Oh yeah. The first time I broke it. And you made fun of me for crying before we found out it was fractured—”
“You were always such a baby.”
“And you were always such a jerk.”
“Well, you know me. I get off on tormenting kids.”
There’s a pointed silence. Then Spike says, “You still feeling bad about Jim’s kid? The one that was crying?”
I go completely still. Except for my hands. I squeeze them into fists, pressing my knuckles hard against the ground, my pulse throbbing in my ears. I don’t want to hear them talk about this. I don’t want to hear my brother’s name leave their mouths. If I do, it’s all over. I don’t care if all I’m armed with is a knife that’s not worthy of cutting a piece of cake—I’ll use it to cut Clayton Presley.
“I traded most of that stuff for things Steph and I need for the baby. You know how hard it is to get diapers right now?”
Silence, just crackling fire.
“Besides,” Spike continues, “I told you, I saw them. They’re fine. They’re going up to Ely for help. Resilient little—”
A loud crash from across camp cuts him off, the thunder of metal cans colliding. My whole body jolts in alarm. There’s cursing—I hear Presley and Spike jump up from their chairs and run off in the direction of the crash. I force myself to wait until the count of three; then I push myself off the ground, my soles slipping on the grass before I get a grip and sprint for the trucks.
When I reach the open space where I left Cleverly, she isn’t there. And I’m not really surprised, but I kind of need her to be there, as stupid as that sounds. I skid around the front bumper of one truck, heading for the silver one, and notice that the remaining tires have been slashed on the last truck. Cleverly took care of it.
I want to race off in the direction of that crash, find her now. I messed everything up. I was supposed to forget about the water tanks.
But I can’t go look for her. I know she’d want me to go back to the plan. Meet at Spike’s truck. Hot-wire Spike’s truck. Commit grand theft auto.
The windows are down on the truck. There are no running boards along the side, nothing to step up on. But I can’t open the door—the cab light would come on. So I grip the frame and hoist myself in through the driver’s side. My shoulder hits the vinyl first, and I use the wheel as leverage to haul the rest of myself inside. The steering wheel locks, and I cringe at my own carelessness, but I guess I’d need to bust the lock either way.
Lying low across the bench, I twist, slinging my backpack onto the floor. I’m gonna need the flashlight, there’s no way around it, but I can keep it dim, make sure it’s not putting off too much light. I pull it out, wind it. Then I grab the steering wheel and use it to yank myself around.
Headfirst under the column, first thing I do is look for the parking lights and manually switch them off. I pull myself upright, staying as low as possible, keeping my light aimed downward.
A flathead screwdriver would come in handy right about now. I can make do without it, but breaking the steering lock and prying open the panel on the steering column would be so much easier with something like a screwdriver. I scan the floor of the cab, looking for anything I can use. I yank open the glove box. A bunch of crap falls out, mostly folded-up papers and receipts. I shuffle through the mess blindly, throwing stuff aside, until I find what I’m looking for.
A screwdriver. Thanks, Spike!
Gripping the wheel, I jam the screwdriver between the steering wheel and the top of the steering column, forcing it back and forth and working the wheel left and right until I feel the snap of the lock breaking. Then I work the edge of the screwdriver into the side seam of the lower panel, prying it upward. It’s harder to pry off than I expected.
After a little investigating, I find where it’s screwed on and confirm that the screwdriver is too thick to fit into the holes. I drive it back into the seam and apply more pressure. I can get it separated about half an inch, but it’s not budging.
I check the glove box for a smaller screwdriver, check under the bench for a toolbox or something, but find nothing. So I try prying it off again, and the seconds start adding up into minutes.
I’m starting to panic. I can feel myself losing focus. I’m thinking about backup plans, and ditching this truck to find Cleverly, and getting the heck out of here before something else goes wrong.
But then I think about what would come next. Sixty-six more miles on foot, not enough water, not enough food. I imagine the look on everyone’s face when I explain that I couldn’t get the freaking panel off the freaking steering column.
I forget about staying low. I get up on my knees and put all my weight onto the screwdriver, bouncing on it until a chunk of the plastic finally snaps off, hitting me in the chest. It’s not enough to get to the wires, but it’s enough to fit four fingers inside.
I grip the opening and apply the same bouncing pressure, pushing straight down from my shoulder. The sharp plastic cuts into my flesh, but that’s okay. Because I can feel it breaking, and when it snaps off, I have to hold back a yell of triumph.
I chuck the broken panel aside and grab the flashlight, vaguely aware that my hand is bleeding. I pull myself under the steering column headfirst, holding the flashlight between my teeth, and check out the wires. The two red wires control the truck’s battery, and the two brown ones are for the starter.
I barely register the sound of running footsteps and look up in time to see Cleverly collide with the p
assenger-side door.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, and I am extremely glad to see her.
I take the flashlight out of my mouth, unable to suppress my relieved grin. “Perfect timing. I need my knife back.”
“No problem,” she says, still out of breath. She tosses something heavy into the cab before climbing in. I wipe off my bleeding hand on my jeans and she quickly passes me my hunting knife. With the flashlight back between my teeth, I return my focus to the wires. I separate them with shaking fingers, and then cut the two red wires.
“Hurry, they’ll be back soon,” she says, peering out the back window, the window at her side.
“I am,” I mumble, flashlight still clenched between my teeth.
“Let me hold that,” Cleverly says, taking it from my mouth, giving it a quick winding.
Laying one wire against a piece of broken plastic left behind, I use my knife to carefully strip about a half inch of insulation from it, and then do the same to the other red wire. I test the wires, touching the exposed ends together and watching the dashboard lights flicker on.
“Power’s working,” Cleverly says with a quick smile.
“Still gotta do the tricky part,” I say. Because I’ve got to twist two live wires together without electrocuting myself.
I lay them side by side against the same piece of jagged plastic, wishing my fingers were steadier, wishing my hand weren’t bleeding. Then I carefully keep the exposed ends in place with the flat of my knife. I take a second to wipe more blood from my hand, and then I pinch the insulated part of the two wires together between my fingers, twisting from behind. It takes a little patience, sweat gathers at my temples, but I finally get them twisted together. The dashboard is lit.