Barren Waters, A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival

Part 1

I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it’s because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it’s because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea—whether it is to sail or to watch it—we are going back from whence we came.

—John F. Kennedy

Present Day

November 20th, 2176

Somewhere outside Chattanooga, Tennessee

2,147 miles to San Diego

“Samantha. Sam, wake up.” Cursing himself, he shook her bodily, “Sam, come on. Come back to me.”

Though he poked and prodded her, she remained unresponsive. This was his fault, his failing. He laid a cool cloth across her forehead and cursed aloud. How could he have been so stupid? So reckless? He’d known she was low, but hadn’t listened to the whispering voice inside his head. He’d been foolish, imprudent, doggedly persistent. Why hadn’t he heeded his carefully honed instincts? The voice in his head sometimes managed to make sense, but it was a voice that also seemed quieter each day. And for a moment, he wondered: had he finally lost himself? Somehow, after this pain and torment, somewhere along this agonizing journey, had he left a vital piece of himself behind?

Wanting them to make it as far as Huntsville in a week, he thought he’d feel better once they crossed the Alabama border. But what would be the point? To say they had done it? To say they’d gone an extra fifty miles? To prove they could cross a state line within a month? What was he trying to do? To prove? And to whom was he trying to prove it? When all was said and done, whose agenda did they follow? He set the boundaries. He made the rules.

And rules are easily broken, he told himself, frowning as he regarded her motionless body.

“Sam. Come on, Pike. Open your eyes.”

When he ran his hand along her scalp, his fingers came away damp. Not good. He should have known better. He knew all the signs. By now, he was a master at recognizing them. About thirty minutes ago, she’d begun to appear fuzzy. Fuzzy, he remarked. Fuzzy in the head. That’s how he’d always described it. She’d stare off at nothing, her eyes unfocused, muscles in her face gone slack. After that, she’d become irritable and cantankerous, or worse, emotionless, impassive, and distant. Those were the times when he preferred an irritable Sam. Irritable, at least, was considered an emotion. It was the dullness that frightened him so, the flatness, the times when the edges of her smile bled to a frown, when her face went blank and the sheen left her eyes.

These past few days, he’d been pushing her too hard. And while he had to admit they’d made excellent progress, they’d been blessed with a fair amount of luck along the way.

Luck.

Jeremy frowned. Did he really believe in that?

Luck was a double-edged sword. Good luck could easily turn bad. And fast. It was something he knew too well. Personal experience was the best of teachers.

But, he reflected, of late they’d been fortunate. In Knoxville, fate had delivered them the bikes. Though it had been her idea, he reminded himself. He had to give credit where credit was due. Perhaps it wasn’t fate after all.

Her idea had been nothing short of brilliant. They’d been following the sleek curves of Neyland Drive, which clung to the contours of the Tennessee River, when somehow, despite the odds, she’d seen the sign for the University of Tennessee. It was remarkable she’d seen it at all, he mused. Weeds and tall grasses had expelled it from the earth, ejecting it like it was a cancerous growth. It was leaning on its side, its base bent and corroded by rust. The lettering had long since faded by then, and the paint had chipped and worn free. Fungi crawled over its every nook and cranny, and had begun a slow digestive process.

“Wouldn’t there be bikes at a university?” she’d queried.

“Probably rusted heaps of metal by now, Sam.”

She’d frowned at that, tiny wrinkles creasing her brow. “You’re such a pessimist. You don’t know that for sure. We should at least check it out. What do we have to lose?”

And so they had. And she’d been right. After picking through the rusted heaps of metal, still chained to the racks at the edge of the campus lawn, they decided to search the domiciles. And after glumly inspecting more than thirty or so rooms, they finally hit pay dirt. He’d hoped to find discarded old clothing, made of fabric that wasn’t moth-eaten or pilled, or perhaps a hidden bottle of water, seltzer, or soda, or a fresh pair of tennies that weren’t split at the soles.

But damn if fortune hadn’t smiled that day—smiled, and shown a bit of teeth. Against insurmountable odds, in one of the supply closets behind a pile of old suitcases, they found a row of bikes with gleaming polished frames: reds, blues, silvers, bright oranges, with glinting steel spokes and firm tires. Flat tires, mind you, but firm and usable, made of rubber that was thick, with deep treads. The tires had needed air, of course, and the chains a bit of oil, but it was a treasure trove of good fortune. He was thankful. As nothing had in weeks, the sight had lifted Jeremy’s battered spirit. He’d taken the gift and run with it, so to speak.

The bikes had been in such excellent condition that he’d hated taking only two of them. Who knew when the tires would pop or run flat, or when the brake pads would disintegrate into dust. But thankfully he’d ignored his insufferable negativity. Best to not think about things in those terms—like a pessimist. Right?

She was always right.

Besides, he told himself, by then—for both of them—desperation had begun to sink in.

Before the bikes, they’d been walking for weeks, and he’d started feeling the beginning stages of panic. And it wasn’t the walking that slowed their progress. Ironically, the cart was responsible for that, the vessel that was their livelihood, their sustenance, which contained what they needed to make this journey. The ark, so aptly named, was a burden. But it was also a necessary one. A vital one. Without their supplies, they’d be dead in a matter of weeks.

Even with the bikes, you won’t make it, the voice hissed. Not with enough time to spare. You know that.

The thought, when it came, sparked renewed panic, and he refocused his attempts to rouse her.

“Come on, Pike,” he said, ignoring the sinister voice as he shook her. “Time to return to planet earth.”

He peered beneath an eyelid, lifted her arm, examined the numbers that glowed at her wrist. Forty-eight. That was better. She was coming out of it. Lifting her head, he tried to coax juice into her mouth, though most of it dribbled down her chin. Shit. She’d come out of it soon, he promised himself. She always did. But even that didn’t save him from feeling like a heel. He should have been more thoughtful and attentive, and he shouldn’t rely on the things she said. She often lied.

Her diet was unstable, her sleep unpredictable, her stress levels beyond what was normal for her age. This, a trifecta of conditions for most, was downright dangerous for a struggling diabetic. Even with the disk in place, she could experience unpredicted highs and lows, particularly after periods of intense physical exertion, which was something that couldn’t be helped. Not yet. He was doing his best with what he’d been given. But there was light at the end of this tunnel. He was certain. He would push her toward it with his last dying breath. It was there. He could feel it. He knew it without a doubt.

Are you certain? the little voice sneered in his head.

Yes, he sneered back. I’m certain. Shut up.

It had to be there—that light, that hope. It was the point of this journey—to bring her peace and stability. He only wished stability wasn’t so far away.

Lifting her arm, he inspected the numbers. Fifty-two. She should be waking by now.

“Sam,” he whispered. “Can you open your eyes?” He massaged her hands and rubbed arms, regarded the boniness of her elbows and knees. She was far too thin.

He pushed the thought away.

Her eyes fluttered, and with a sudden twitch of hands, a lazy smile spread across her face. “Sam?” she muttered. “Who the hell is Sam? The name’s Pike. I’ve told you that ten thousand times.”

“Yeah. Right. I forgot.” He heaved a sigh. “But are you sure about Pike? Wouldn’t you prefer Albacore, or Orange Roughy?” He tucked a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear. “Pike is a boy’s name, Sam.”

She allowed him to lift her and prop her against his thigh, where she held her juice with trembling hands. “It’s not a boy’s name,” she admonished him lightly. “I just like it. It suits me. It’s a solid choice. You chose Carp, of all things. Carp sucks. It’s a terrible choice. Doesn’t suit you at all. You’re more of a Bass, or a Salmon, or an Eel.”

“An Eel? Hell no.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll take Carp, thank you very much. Or Thresher. What do you think of Thresher? You have to admit, Thresher sounds kinda cool.” Inhaling through his nostrils, he offered an astute analysis. “So here’s the deal. Listen up. Salmon is a nerd’s name. Bass is a girl’s name. Eel is a pervert’s name, so I’m definitely not an Eel. So that leaves Carp. Final answer. Deal with it.” He supported her neck and pushed the cup toward her mouth. “Drink up. We’re stopping. We’re done for the day.”

“We’re done?” He watched thoughts spin through her head. “Where’d you come up with Thresher, anyway? What kind of fish was that?”

He pulled a kerchief from a pocket of his cargo pants. “Wasn’t a fish. Threshers were sharks. Though I’m afraid they went extinct a long time ago—extinct like everything else that swam.”

A bubble of laughter escaped from her throat. “A thresher was a shark? Then you’re definitely not a Thresher. You were right the first time. Carp is better.” She dismally pushed clumps of hair from her face and peered toward the side of the road, where her bike had fallen to the ground in a heap. “Was I bad? Did I fall? Did I ruin the bike?”

“Nope. Caught you before you fell. Saw it coming. You got fuzzy again. Knew it would happen.”

Crinkling her nose, she set down her cup. “I hate that word. Don’t say it like that. People don’t get fuzzy, Carp. That’s a terrible description.”

She lifted her shirt to inspect the meter, which lay two inches from her navel. When Jeremy saw it, his belly clenched painfully.

“Thirty-eight percent,” she called out, lifting her head. “That’s why we’re in such a hurry, isn’t it? We’re running out of disks, Carp. Tell me the truth.”

The lie came easily to his lips. “No, we’re not. We’re not running out of disks, Pike. I swear to you. We’re not.”

“Okay. Then show me how many we’ve got left.”

Lifting his fist, he shook it in her face. “How about I show you a knuckle sandwich instead?”

Groaning, she rolled her eyes and pushed herself to her feet. She bounced on her heels to test the strength of her legs. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But you know I’m not stupid. I’ll just look inside your pack when you’re sleeping.”

He sighed, thought his hand reflexively moved to his pocket, where he traced the outline of the disks against his thigh. The familiar shape brought immediately comfort.

“How far did we make it, anyway?” she asked.

He stood up and dusted off his jeans. “Not far. If you didn’t get fuzzy, you’d remember.”

She ignored that. “Didn’t make it to Huntsville, I presume?”

“Nope. Not even close. We’re somewhere outside Chattanooga, I think.”

“Chattanooga?” She lifted the tail of her shirt and used it to mop the sweat from her brow. The gesture reminded him of his own discomforts. Ignoring them, he peered westward. Though the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, it was still hot as hell. Unnaturally hot. Or was this the new natural? He supposed it was. This was summer, autumn, winter, and spring: the thickness of the heat; the alien fungi—the species that seemed to have taken over the world. It claimed everything with its greedy lithe fingers. This was the new climate now, the new standard. There was no escaping this heat.

And the heat, of course, was the least of their troubles. What of the thinner air that occasionally caused intense moments of panic? Every now and then, if they pushed themselves hard enough, they would succumb to dizziness and poor coordination, and to the curious black spots that preceded unconsciousness. The planet’s oxygen levels were much lower now, and the death of the oceans was the cause. And discomfort wasn’t relegated to the highest elevations, either. Not anymore. It was everywhere now. Thinner air. Intense heat. God how he missed the mountains.

“Let’s set up camp by the river,” she suggested, lifting her bike and kicking the stand down.

“I’m warning you, Sam. It’s gonna stink down there.”

“No it won’t. It won’t be that bad. Not after you get used to it. Don’t you find that you get used to certain smells? If you give them long enough, you don’t notice them anymore.” She shouldered her pack and then swayed beneath its weight.

He eyed her warily. “Stop right there. We’re not going anywhere until you eat something first.”

Searching through his pack, he found a bottle of water and an old Balance Bar, and leaning against a rotting old tree, he took comfort in watching her eat it. What was this fascination she’d developed with the river? It had been her idea to follow it. And it really did stink—even from here. Not of fish, or of plants, or of common river tang. There were no fish. Not for decades now. It smelled of something worse, something chemical and caustic, an acetic and corrosive perfume reminiscent of bleach, fertilizer, or pesticide. It lifted with the delicate breeze and burned the nose. It tickled the throat and watered the eyes.

“You get used to the smell,” she repeated around a full mouth. “Besides, I don’t care if it stinks. I like looking at it. Sue me. I’ve never seen naturally flowing water before. I just like it, okay? I wonder where it goes. I mean I know where it goes, but it’s kind of amazing. It runs for hundreds of miles, cutting through hard-packed earth and rock. It carves its path over time.” She shrugged. “It earns its path with hard work, I suppose.”

It earns its path with hard work? He couldn’t help but smile. “Where the hell do you learn this stuff?”

“Found a Grand Canyon brochure at the last house.”

“So you like to imagine where it goes,” he prodded.

“That,” she said as she sipped her juice. “And I like the sound it makes. It sounds like mom’s old sound machine, the one she used to fall asleep to. Remember? She’d scramble to find batteries that worked, and then set it on white noise and try to fall asleep. When she finally did, I’d change it to babbling brook.”

Of course he remembered. How could he forget? He clenched his fists and wiggled his toes, his thoughts threatening to slither to a much darker place, where memories of home crouched and waited in the dark. Not good. Shake it off. Don’t think about that. He tried to paste a smile across his face.

“You ever see the Grand Canyon before?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft and dreamy.

“Yep. Long ago. I was a boy at the time. But I remember it well, though I saw it from a distance. I was in an airplane, high up in the sky. I remember it being so big and so vast, though it may have seemed big because I was so small. It was breathtaking, though. That I remember.”

“And a river made that?”

“Yep. A river made that. But it took that river millions of years to get it done. Something that beautiful can’t be created overnight.”

“No,” she murmured. “I guess it can’t. Something that beautiful can’t be created overnight. But it sure as hell doesn’t take long to destroy it.”

He didn’t have an answer for that. No one did. He ignored it and rifled through his pack. From it, he removed the air pump they’d found in that UT supply closet, and made his rounds to test the firmness of their tires. Given the weight and pressure of their supplies, he constantly worried about the longevity of the rubber. Back at the college, when they’d discovered the bikes, he and Sam had crafted hand-made panniers out of any materials they could find, which they’d tied as securely as they could to the bikes. And from the cart, they transferred as many supplies as they could cram into those roughly sewn pouches.

It had been one of the most difficult decisions Jeremy had ever made. Take the bikes, reach their destination faster, or continue to walk and push their heavily laden cart. Initially, the idea of abandoning their supplies was inconceivable to him. But so was deserting the bikes, he’d concluded. Who in his right mind would pass on that? The vehicles were just as important as the supplies. So they’d made the best of a difficult situation, brought as much of the cart along with them as they could. Though now he worried that they’d brought too much, that it was too much weight for the slim tires to bear. Pursing his lips, he squeezed a tire. There was nothing he could do about it now. Move on.

“Are you ever gonna tell me where we’re going?” she asked. He could hear the exasperation in her tone.

“Can’t. Told you. It’s a surprise.” Straightening, he peered into the purpling sky. “Come on. Let’s move off the road. It’s getting dark. We need to find a place to make camp.”

He lifted his bike and turned from the road, slipping into the forest that hemmed the river’s bank, where the trees seemed thicker than they’d been back home, though not thick enough to offer proper camouflage. Acid rain had flayed their bark, choking them of vital nutrients, and as a result, they’d shed most of their leaves, like an aging man fighting a losing battle for his hair. Some of the pine trees were still lush and full. The tall deciduous species were the first to succumb. At the bases of these, decaying logs littered the ground, wrapped in thick moss and furry fungi. He stepped around them.

At least it’s green, he thought despairingly. The forests back home had gone gray and brittle. He pushed through the rotting debris at his feet, while searching for a place to hide the bikes.

Behind him, Sam, marked her passage with the snapping of twigs and hollow branches. “So,” she asked him again. “Why Carp? Did it taste good or something?”

She sounded short of breath so he reflexively slowed his pace. “Don’t know, actually. I never tasted carp, though once I was lucky enough to try a piece of smoked salmon.”

“Smoked salmon? That sounds disgusting.”

“It was. But it was all we had. Smoked or dried was all that was left. I was lucky. Most people never tried fish at all. My father saved a packet just for me.”

As were most days he had spent with his father, Jeremy recalled that day fondly. They’d been sitting on the deck of their cabin in the woods, overlooking the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, and enjoying the spectacular view in silence. He remembered—even then—that the air had been thin.

“We’ve got to eat it now,” his father had said, pulling a knife from his pocket and snapping open the blade. He slipped it between the folds of plastic. “If we don’t, it’s gonna go bad.” The package had opened with a tiny popping sound, and a curious tangy smell had lifted from within.

“Smells funny,” Jeremy had said, pinching his nose.

“Not funny, Jeremy. Fishy. Go get an encyclopedia from the house—the one with the ‘S’ on the spine, if you would. Go on. Off you go.”

Jeremy remembered running to their family’s small library and pulling the heavy tome from the shelves. He loved to hear his father tell stories about fish. To be fair, he loved hearing his father tell stories about anything, really, but tales of the once-glorious oceans were his favorite. Sliding from his chair, his father crossed his legs on the deck’s smooth planking, and with the tome in his lap, sifted through the yellowing pages.

“There,” he pointed out. “That’s what it looked like.”

Eyes narrowed, Jeremy peered at the strange but beautiful creature on the page. “I thought fish were supposed to be small. That one’s big.”

“Salmon were fairly big,” said his father. “At least they were back then. In the 1980’s, they were actually quite large.”

Jeremy traced the oblong silhouette. It was beautiful and majestic, covered with silvery scales. His father handed him a piece of pale orange meat, which he warily tasted before spitting onto the deck.

“Ick. It’s gross. It tastes like smoke.”

His father’s laugh had been warm and hearty. “It’s an acquired taste, I suppose. Though it’s one you’ll never develop, I’m afraid.”

Jeremy nearly tripped over a fallen log, and turning, peered over his shoulder at Sam. “This is as far as we can get with the bikes. Let’s leave ’em here. We’ll camp close by. It’s getting too thick up ahead.”

She nodded then pointed toward a pile of branches, still thick with the remains of decaying leaves. It was as good a place as any, he supposed, and the two of them worked in a companionable silence. Jeremy had always found the tending of repetitive tasks peaceful. And repetitive was an apt description of their lives. Diligently following a routine was important. They had to remain maniacal about it, deliberate in every facet of their lives. Survival meant a deep commitment. There were many dangerous gangs wandering the streets, and if he or Sam—or their supplies, for that matter—were found, they’d be killed or robbed. Or left to suffer the elements without supplies, which was often the same as being killed, he supposed. It was a dangerous scenario for anyone, though for Sam, it would be a death sentence.

Having shrouded the vehicles beneath a mound of dead foliage, they moved through the thick underbrush to the edge of the river, where they wordlessly stared and scrunched their noses. The sight sickened Jeremy. He suppressed a gag, wondering again why she’d wanted to come down here. Though it wasn’t as damaged as some other bodies of water he had seen, it wasn’t a place you’d want to bathe or take a drink. And though the water ran relatively clear in this spot, the smell was truly revolting. Along the bank, algae bloomed in fingerlike patterns: reds and greens like long twisting ribbons. He could detect an unnatural sheen to its surface, a rainbow brilliance of oil and chemicals, like a layer of rotting skin across a wound.

Behind him, Sam was clearing the forest floor, settling their tarp on a blanket of dead leaves. “What should we eat?” she asked, her voice light, as if this were a Sunday picnic.

He dropped to his knees, shrugged the pack from his shoulder, and from it, selected a box of whole grain crackers and an old can of beans.

Smiling, she pulled a small lighter from her pocket and ignited the collection of wood at the edge of their camp. “I like the beans. They’re sweet. But you know I like them best when they’re hot.”

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet, returned to the bikes to retrieve their small cooking pot. When he returned, she was flat on her belly, on the tarp, gnawing on crackers and pointing to their map, drawing a line across the page with a purple marker.

“So, Chattanooga you say? Right here?”

“That’s right.”

“Huntsville’s next,” she said, “It’s not far. Barely over a hundred miles from here. By my estimate, we can make it in less than two days.” She lifted her head. “Where to after that?”

Jeremy worked the rusted opener around the can. “Southwest toward Mississippi, then on to Arkansas.”

“Can we follow the Mississippi river?” she asked excitedly.

“Hell no we can’t. Absolutely not. We’ll have to cross it, but we’re sticking to the roads and the bridges. Far away. We’re not getting anywhere near that dump.”

He could sense her disappointment and see it on her face, but he didn’t anticipate the words that came next. Sometimes she was like that. She kept him on his toes. And sometimes, she took him off-guard completely.

“I wish Mom were here. Things would be better.”

“Yeah. So do I. I know what you mean.”

Eyes downcast, she swirled the beans with a smooth stick. “What name do you think she would have chosen for herself?”

“Mom? Hmm. That’s a tough one. Maybe Angler? Guppy? Or Perch?”

She shook her head. “You’re terrible at this.” Biting her lip, she stirred the pot. “Starfish or Minnow. Either one would have worked.”

It broke his heart to see her like this, and to hear her speak of her mother in the past tense.

“Searobin,” he suggested.

She smiled. “Searobin. It’s beautiful—beautiful and perfect, like she was.” She met his gaze and nodded her approval. “Not bad, Carp. You usually suck at this.”

Shifting on the tarp, he did his best to lighten the conversation. This particular subject led to nothing but despair. “Will you read to me tonight?”

“Not tonight.” She pursed her lips. “I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“Okay.” And with that he knew she’d fallen into a mood, and once she had, there was little he could say or do to lift her out of it. She was a girl who had recently lost her mother. He was a man who had recently lost his wife. She deserved her moods, and then some. He let her be.

They ate in silence, an unnatural silence, something that was freakish for this part of the country. She’d been right, he remarked. The purling water was calming. But the absence of ambient sound still bothered him. Jeremy remembered his childhood and the cabin, the woods, and their shelter in the mountains of Sevierville, Tennessee. They would sit on the deck, late into the evening, surrounded by the sounds of an animate forest. Back then a rich diversity of species still existed. Well, he corrected himself, not rich. Just more. More than existed today. And there’d been insects, too, a chorus of voices: singing cicadas and chirping crickets, the occasional croaking forest toad, none of which existed today, of course. Or if they did, they could rarely be heard.

This riverbank seemed devoid of life entirely. What was the thing people used to say? Something about insects inheriting the earth? Not so, after all. Not even close. Insects—like everything else—died with the oceans.

“I wish we were still back at home,” Sam said.

“Yeah. Me too.” He scrutinized her shadowed face in the dark, and the outline of her body, set aglow by their small cook fire. “Sam, we don’t have to sleep outside, you know. How many empty homes did we pass along the way? How many side streets and private cul-de-sacs? How many large houses with white picket fences? It was your idea to sleep out here. We can leave if you want, find something better. To be honest, that’s probably a good idea. It’s not safe out here. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Just one more night,” she said softly, a plea. “I swear, after that, I’m done. I’m finished with the river, with all of it, now. I just wanted to see it one time, is all.”

Pushing her bowl aside, she curled on the blanket. When she slept, she would always put her back against his, because she said it made her feel safe and protected. He could see she was tired—physically and mentally, and for the thousandth time, their changed lives amazed him. Things had gone sour in such a short amount of time. When the three of them were a family, they would stay up late. Jeremy and Susan would drink wine from the ark, while Sam would read to them from Harry Potter books. Or the three would play cards or Monopoly by candlelight. They’d lived in a perfect sanctuary, on a mountain. But that was gone, now, and they were constantly moving. Rest and peace were remembered possessions. Life had turned upside down. Jeremy had always considered himself a night owl. He’d always gone to bed late, and risen even later. But things were different now. He was different. His body was different. He matched nature’s circadian rhythm. The rising and setting of the sun was his alarm clock. In truth—though he was loath to admit it—he slept more soundly than he had in years.

He settled on his back, made a trough of the leaves, and peered into the star-speckled sky. “So,” he asked her. “What’s the verdict? Now that you’ve seen the river, what do you make of it?”

She murmured her reply in a sleepy voice. “It’s lovely, really. It’s peaceful. I’m trying to imagine the way it was before.”

The silence was complete until her voice cleaved it. “I’d like to know where we’re going, Carp. You know I don’t care for surprises anymore.”

“Give me your number first.”

She answered with a groan, but raised herself on an elbow and held her arm before the light of the fire. “One hundred seven,” she called out irritably.

Instantly at ease, he smothered their fire, while she settled back onto the tarp. It was never a good idea to sleep beside a fire. A fire was a beacon to those who roamed the night. It broadcasted latitude and longitude to dangerous people, drawing miscreant travelers from their various tortured paths.

“I’m waiting,” she whispered. “Where are we going?”

“To San Diego, Sam.”

He felt her flinch. “To the ocean?”

“Yep. It’s what you said you wanted.”

He wouldn’t tell her the real reason they were going, or that her life depended on him getting her there. And he definitely wouldn’t tell her the truth: that they were running out of time, and quickly. He would keep that information to himself a while longer.

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s what I said I wanted. I’m just surprised is all, surprised you’d take me there.” Suddenly pensive, she let the silence stretch between them. “Is it really dead though? I mean, really? How can something so big actually die? Weren’t there millions of fish in the sea?”

“Not millions, Sam. Trillions of fish. Hundreds of trillions. Trillions upon trillions of trillions. Such a large number you couldn’t imagine it.”

“And you’re certain all of it’s dead?”

“Afraid so.”

“San Diego’s a long way, Carp.”

She was right. Nodding to the face of the moon, he answered, “Yep. It is. But we can make it. Slowly but surely, we’ll make our way there. Fifty miles a day. That has to be our goal.”

“Has to be our goal?”

She didn’t miss a beat, though he chose not to answer that particular question. He knew she’d work out his plan eventually. Sooner or later, she’d discover his motives. As her breathing evened, he held his own, but just when he thought she’d finally dropped off to sleep, she spoke.

“We’re running out of disks, aren’t we, Carp? Tell me the truth.”

“Yes, Sam. We’re running out of disks.”

“It’s Pike.”

“Yes, Pike. We’re running out of disks.”

She said nothing in response and his heart skipped a beat. He worried at the boldness of the harsh revelation. With so many miles yet to travel, it was much too soon for her to panic. Peering at her through the dark, his throat suddenly tightened. She deserved more than this, more than he was giving her. But wasn’t that the goal of this journey? He felt her move.

“Was the ocean beautiful when you saw it?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “It was terrifying. It was dark, lonely, barren, desolate.”

“Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll go with you, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, Sam.”