365 Days Hunted

by Nancy Isaak

  Porter wants to build a similar platform over our cliff’s edge—only his will be on a car trailer. He’s worked with some of the math geeks to figure out exactly how much weight they’ll need to counterbalance the whole thing. If it works, we won’t even have to bury the droppings. We’ll just keep moving the trailer to a new location.

  Pretty cool idea.

  * * * *

  But—back to Frank and farming.

  He waited until Porter had rolled up his potty-plans and left the room before sitting down to talk to me. I immediately noticed how much better he’s looking. There’s color in his cheeks now and they’ve finally filled out. He’s still a long way from his football weight, but at least Frank doesn’t look sick anymore.

  But he does look tired.

  “You sleeping much?” I asked him.

  Frank shrugged. “Here and there,” he murmured. “Got bad dreams, you know.”

  “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  He took a deep breath, finally looking up to meet my eyes. “I came to ask for a favor.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Ask away.”

  “I want to start a farm.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Not like up at the Fire Camp,” he said, quickly. “A real farm—for food. Vegetables, grains, that sort of thing.”

  I’ll admit it. He surprised me.

  Frank’s a jock—a meathead; and let’s not forget that he just spent all that time as a farm slave.

  “Probably the last thing you’d expect from me,” said Frank—as if he had been reading my mind. “But the truth is…up in the Camp…it was the one really good thing. Working the land, growing something.”

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to just take it easy for a while? We’ve still got a lot of food left from Pavilions and Trancas Market,” I said. “Plus, we haven’t even finished scavenging the houses from around here.”

  “I know,” he nodded. “And I also know that we live near the ocean, so we can always fish. Plus there’s deer and rabbit for hunting.”

  “There’s a lot of game now. More and more each day, it seems.”

  “But the food in the storerooms and the houses will run out eventually,” he insisted. “And the guys will need other stuff—fresh stuff.”

  “I’ll admit that I’m jonesing for a good salad.”

  He smiled at me. “Then, I can start a farm?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Just tell me what you’ll need.”

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a lined piece of paper. It was crumpled and dirt-spotted and covered with barely-legible handwriting. If anything, it reminded me of a piece of homework that Frank would once-upon-a-time have pulled out of his backpack at school, having finally remembered to hand it in for half-marks.

  “There are a couple of lawns along the cliff nearby that I think will work,” he began. “And I know that there are greenhouses on the Point. I’ve seen them when we’ve been scavenging. I’d like to have some guys assigned to me—to help me take the greenhouses apart and bring them here.”

  He told me his plan over the next twenty minutes—bent over his wrinkled paper, explaining each point one-by-one. As he talked, I began to see the old Frank return—bold, determined, strong. At the end of our meeting, when he rose to leave, Frank shook my hand—looking directly into my eyes.

  “Thanks, bro,” he grinned.

  “No problem,” I answered. “I think this will be good for the guys. Not just for nutrition and food, but so that they’ll have a good start for the future—for when the food runs out.”

  He nodded. “It will be nice to leave something behind.”

  “How long do you have?” I asked—the question we all seem to be asking each other these days.

  Frank started calculating, adding up days on his fingers.

  IRRIGATION

  The brutal summer sun arrived with the beginning of Frank’s farming enterprise. It beat down upon him and his workers—drying up the soil, killing their seedlings, burning their backs and their spirits.

  It was Wester who came to their rescue.

  His time in Haiti had been short, but Wester still retained memories of sitting on his grandmother’s knee, watching as the workers came in from the field. He told Frank about how the farmers would split up their days—starting out in the morning, while it was still dark and returning home just before noon. Then, the workers would return to the fields after supper, when the worst of the heat had abated, tending to the crops once again until just before bedtime.

  The simplest of solutions.

  Frank, himself, came up with a way to protect the dying seedlings. He erected wooden trellises all along the rows, hanging a fine mesh netting over top. And for the truly delicate plants—he simply moved them into the greenhouses where they could be better protected until they could survive the heat.

  * * * *

  “I need to figure out an irrigation system,” said Frank. “Carrying up pails of water from the stream at the bottom of the cliff is killing us.”

  “We’ve got that creek near our old house,” suggested Connor. “Maybe we could lay some PVC pipes. Bring the water from over there to the fields.”

  We were sitting in the outer compound—along with the rest of the Locals—having a supper of fish stew and rice. Rhys had just run off to see what was for dessert and Ian and Andrei were kicking at each other under the table. Wester and Ethan, meanwhile, were engaged in a deep conversation over who would win in a battle—Iron Man or Optimus Prime.

  Porter had yet to show up—I expected he was still over at the garage, happily evicting the red ’67 Chevy Corvette L88 and the ’66 Shelby Cobra 427—not even caring that he was manhandling a good ten million dollars in fine domestic automobiles.

  “Do you have enough PVC to run a water line like that?” asked Josh, who was sitting across from me. “Or do we need to make a trip into the city?”

  “There are construction sites all over the Point,” said Connor. “We’ve got everything we need here already. The problem is figuring out how to get the water to flow through the pipes to the fields. Our old house is lower than where we’re farming, which would mean that the water would have to travel uphill. Unfortunately, that goes against the laws of physics.”

  “What about the creek we have on this land?” I asked.

  “There’s not enough water coming out of it,” said Frank.

  “What I don’t understand is why you’re not using the block and tackle to haul up water from the creek at the bottom of the cliff,” I said. “That’d make a heck of a lot more sense than carrying it up pail by pail like you’re doing now.”

  “Agreed,” said Frank. “Only the tribe is having a hard time just bringing up enough pails of water to drink. There’s no way we could handle hauling up water to irrigate the farm as well.”

  Porter finally showed up, falling into a seat at the far end of the table. “Phew!” he said, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. “Those Hot Wheels were heavy! Sorry about the dent we put in that Duesenberg Model J, by the way. Turned out that fancy-schmancy car was a little more delicate than we thought”

  I frowned at him—not rising to his bait.

  Still, he grinned. “So, what was that I heard you guys talking about just now—bringing water up the cliff?” he asked. “Rhys actually thinking about having a bath or something?”

  “Frank needs to irrigate the field,” I said. “Connor suggested laying PVC pipe from the creek at our old house to the farm. But it doesn’t look like that’ll work.”

  “Why not? It sounds like a good idea to me,” Porter said, filling an empty bowl from the big pot of stew at the center of the table. “You’d just have to build a waterwheel or a ram pump to make it work. Either one will get the water here.”

  Everyone stopped to look at Porter. Meanwhile, he slurped away at his stew, oblivious to our stares.

  “Porter,” I said, quietly.

  He looked up, stew dripping down his ch
in. “I was just kidding about the Duesenberg,” he quickly amended, wiping away the stew dribbles “No dents and safe and sound beside its foreign cousins.”

  “Not the car, dude.”

  “Then, why are you all looking at me like that?” he asked, suspicious.

  “Because you know how to get water to travel uphill,” I said, incredulous.

  “Of course,” he shrugged. “I listen in science class.”

  JOURNAL ENTRY #30

  This has been, by far, one of the best days in a very long time.

  It started out with Porter and Frank finding the last pieces they’ll need to complete the ram pump. I’m still not really certain how it’s going to work but—if Porter says it will, that’s all I need to know. That kid is crazy-smart.

  And, in the afternoon, most of us went down to Zuma Beach. It was actually Josh’s idea. The guys—and I mean all the Locals—have been going a little stir-crazy.

  A few fistfights, a lot more arguments.

  Stupid stuff—mainly because too many guys have too much time on their hands.

  So, we decided to let off a little steam.

  * * * *

  Porter, Connor, and Frank stayed behind, as well as, eight volunteers to guard the compound. The rest of us rounded up our boards and headed down to ride the waves or simply play on the beach.

  There really wasn’t a lot of surf today, but it still felt good to just sit in the water—enjoying the coolness against our legs and the offshore breeze tickling our backs. At one point, Rhys, Nate, and I found ourselves separated from the others. We sat on our surfboards, moving up and down in the swells, watching the antics of the guys along the beach in front of us.

  “Oh-boy,” I cringed. “Looks like Andrei took another header.”

  “He’s getting better, though,” Rhys commented. “He stayed on that boogie board a good ten minutes before he lost it this time.”

  “Did you catch him on the surfboard earlier?” I asked. “Dude’s such a Barney.”

  “Kid’s too eager,” said Nate. “He just goes for it instead of reading the waves.”

  “Tell me about it,” I agreed. “I think that’s how Andrei lives his whole life.”

  “What are Ethan and Wester doing over there?” asked Rhys, squinting as he looked toward the shoreline.

  I pushed up on my surfboard, trying to get a better view. The two boys were buried up to their waists, shovels flashing as they flung dirt this way and that.

  “Digging a hole,” I said, sitting back down.

  “What for?” asked Rhys.

  I shrugged. “Because it needed to be dug?”

  Suddenly…“JACOB...JACOB...JACOB!”

  The voice was frantic—barely reaching us over the noise of the waves. I looked the other way, along the beach to where Ian was hopping up and down on a small sand dune, waving at us, yelling.

  “What’s going on?” asked Rhys, looking worried. “Why is he yelling?

  Immediately, I began scanning the hills and road around us, searching for trouble—for the Crazies. Meanwhile, other boys were coming forward along the shoreline, joining Ian in yelling and motioning for us to come in.

  “Let’s go!” I cried to Rhys and Nate, lying down on my surfboard and beginning to paddle. “Move it!”

  “Wait!” yelled Nate. “Hold on, Jacob…stop! They’re not telling us to come in. It’s not that!”

  I stopped paddling, pushing myself up to look at the beach.

  Sure enough—the guys there were waving—but at something behind us.

  “Shark!” screeched Rhys, spinning about. “Shark!”

  * * * *

  But it wasn’t a shark.

  Instead—coming around Point Dume—were two lifeguard longboats. They were full of guys—rowing steadily, heading straight toward Zuma Beach.

  “Get to shore,” I ordered. “Get to shore now!”

  Rhys and Nate immediately started paddling, hoping to catch the next wave. Unfortunately, it was soft and they had to continue on their own—paddling hard for the shoreline. Beyond them, meanwhile, I could see our guys racing along the beach, pulling out their weapons.

  My armed guards—only a few could really surf or swim well—were standing at the edge of the beach, looking in my direction and wading out into the water. They had their weapons in one hand and were waving me in with the other.

  Ignoring their pleas, however, I knelt on my surfboard—turning toward the intruders. I watched them close in—noting curiously that not one had lifted up a weapon, yet.

  “Jacob!” This was Rhys calling—having dragged his surfboard up and onto the sand—now horrified to discover that I had remained back in the surf. “JACOB!!” he yelled—this time, even louder.

  Taking a chance, I stood all the way up, standing on my tiptoes—struggling to stay upright as my board dipped into the trough of a swell. As my board came up the other side and I rose above the waves, I suddenly had a clear view—right into the bowels of the first boat—all the way back to the guy manning the helm.

  I immediately lifted up my fist—shaking it at him. “Dude, I am so going to kill you!”

  * * * *

  My brother just laughed as he steered the boat alongside my surfboard. A hand reached out, meanwhile, helping me onboard.

  “I repeat—I am so going to kill you,” I growled, rushing back to take Kieran into a bear hug. “You scared the crap out of us! Rhys and I have been so worried.”

  “Sorry, bro,” he grinned. “Not like we could have texted you.”

  A few feet away, Pauly saluted me from the helm of the other lifeguard boat. Like Kieran, the boat he was piloting was filled with guys.

  I took a look around at the occupants of both boats. As with the boys of Fire Camp #13, these guys were skinny and sickly. They ranged in age from seven to seventeen and had that shell-shocked look of someone who had been through too much—seen too much.

  “How many did you save?” I asked Kieran.

  “Twenty-four,” he said. “It was twenty-five, but one…well, we gave him a Viking funeral off Topanga Beach.”

  “You came down Topanga Canyon?! That’s on the other side of Malibu!”

  “Pauly and I figured that if we brought the guys along the water, we’d have a better chance of getting them here safely. But there are Crazies all along Pacific Coast Highway and we couldn’t get to the beach through Malibu,” Kieran explained. “So, we went toward Los Angeles—came down the mountains along Topanga Canyon. We found these longboats there, at the County beach at the bottom.”

  “Where’d you find the actual slave camp?” I asked.

  “Crazies had them up at that Tapia water treatment facility. Just outside of Malibu Creek State Park.”

  “Smart,” I acknowledged. “Farm next to the reservoir. We should have thought about that in the first place.”

  I suddenly felt something touch my foot. Looking down I saw a young, redheaded boy—around ten—his fingers on my ankle. He smiled up at me, gap-toothed and freckled.

  “Are you Jacob?” he asked, shyly.

  I nodded.

  “Kieran saved our lives,” he told me, proudly. “They were going to kill us in the Arena and him and Pauly—they came and saved us instead.”

  The hackles rose along the nape of my neck. “Arena?” I asked my brother.

  Kieran shrugged.

  “Why don’t we surf these dudes home, bro?” he suggested. “Then, we can talk.”

  * * * *

  And that’s just what we did.

  Skimming the waves, spray in our faces, wind in our hair.

  To the laughter and cheers from the boys on the shore, Kieran, Pauly, and I surfed two longboats full of freed slaves right onto Zuma Beach.

  It was—and will always remain—the most amazing ride of my life.

  AUGUST

  JOURNAL ENTRY #31

  It’s been a while since I’ve written anything down. Guess it’s time for me to catch up—starting with Zuma Beach two d
ays ago.

  I wish we could have taped what happened that sunny afternoon. No doubt it would have gone viral.

  Sometimes I really miss social media.

  * * * *

  When the longboats landed, our guys rushed forward, helping everybody out and onto the sand. Some of the freed slaves were in pretty bad shape and Josh immediately sent a runner back to alert Porter and Connor to be ready for patients in the new medical center. Two other runners were assigned the task of readying the block and tackle to move any badly wounded up the side of the cliff.

  Meanwhile, Pauly and Kieran were surrounded, with guys clapping them on the back, congratulating them on the success of their mission. Kieran—surprisingly—looked a little uncomfortable with all the attention. Pauly, however, seemed to be drinking it in. He held up his arms in triumph, grinning widely and shaking his hands above his head.

  “Look at Rhys,” said Ian, coming to stand beside me. He motioned to where my younger brother was jumping up and down with excitement, right behind Kieran—reaching out every few moments to touch our brother’s shoulder, as if to reassure himself that Kieran was actually there.

  “Rhys is relieved,” I said. “So am I.”

  At that exact moment, Kieran looked over at me.

  Our eyes met and he nodded; I nodded back.

  A simple gesture between brothers that meant so very much.

  * * * *

  The freed slaves all had different reactions on reaching dry land.