Barren Waters, A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival

Part 4

If you’ve managed to do one good thing,

the ocean doesn’t care.

But when Newton’s apple

fell toward the earth,

the earth, ever so slightly, fell

toward the apple as well.

―Ellen Bass

Chapter 15

Present Day

One moment he was up and the next he wasn’t. It was as quick and as sudden as that. One moment Seth was quietly gliding, the sun glinting off the reflective piping of his backpack. The next he was sprawled across the pavement, bike fallen atop him, saw-toothed edge of the chain mere inches from his inflamed wound. Consciousness had fled him abruptly. His body had folded, collapsed in a heap in the middle of the highway, the screeching of his bike piercing as it skidded across the ground.

Sam screamed.

Jeremy swerved, tottered, and nearly fell.

Dropping his bike in the center lane of westbound I-30, he rushed to Seth’s side in a panic. Sweat bloomed across his forehead, dampened his palms and underarms. He was as furious with Seth as he was frightened for him, but mostly he was furious with himself. Seth had lied to him, earlier that morning, with gentle words and an easy smile. He’d said he was fine, that he could go on. He’d convinced Jeremy that his leg hurt a little, that he was mostly tired from lack of sleep the night before.

Jeremy’s jaw was tight with anger. Lies after lies, on top of more lies. But it wasn’t the lies that angered Jeremy as much as the fact that he had believed them. He was the adult; the responsible member of this expedition, and his failure to heed his intuition had put them in this terrible predicament. Like a fool, he’d miscalculated the severity of Seth’s low-grade fever, which had begun to burn two days earlier. He’d treated the symptom with aspirin from the bottle he’d pilfered at the Walmart Supercenter, but he hadn’t investigated the root cause of it. Not that he had to—he knew the root cause. Seth’s leg was becoming infected.

He should have known it was serious that day, should have demanded that Seth lie down, and rest. No more than twenty-four hours ago, he’d changed the dressing himself. He’d seen it. He’d even remarked at the strange, spider-like webbing of veins in dark blues and reds that sprung from its edges in zigzagging patterns. And the flesh, he remembered, that was a bit too moist, too puffy, and a bit too warm to the touch. He’d cleansed it thoroughly, for what seemed like the fiftieth time that week, but a small amount of puss had oozed from one corner. He’d ignored his fears, pushed them deep inside his belly. Why had he been so naïve? Even the insufficiency of the scab had concerned him. The wound should have closed by then. The wound should have closed, and he should have been smart, should have forced them to stop for a day to monitor it.

But should was a game he always seemed to lose. And now, here they were, in a worse predicament. He could kick himself for being so stupid. He should have been wiser to Seth’s deception, but instead, had trusted a nine-year-old boy to diagnose the severity of a serious wound. He’d depended on a child to make an adult decision and hadn’t factored in the other variables. Well—the other variable, he corrected himself. Sam was the only thing Seth cared about. His every decision always circled back to her, which by far, was Jeremy’s worst oversight.

Ever since Seth had changed Sam’s disk, he’d become obsessed with the countdown of her meter. He’d check it in the morning, at breakfast, at sundown. After she’d eaten. After she’d peed. If she was tired, hungry, sleepy, or groggy. His preoccupation with it was ridiculous. Though Sam, for some reason, was tolerant of it, probably for the same reasons Jeremy was. It meant a lot to Seth. She meant a lot to him. He would scrunch his forehead, purse his lips, and gently lift the corner of her shirt, afraid to glimpse the numbers, yet afraid not to. He’d pace, shake his head, mutter to himself about the passage of time, and about how few miles they’d traveled that day. At first, Jeremy found his fascination endearing, and he figured Sam probably felt the same. Why else would she condone behavior she typically found so intrusive from others? Maybe she knew how badly Seth needed the distraction. Or maybe, like Jeremy, she sensed how frightened he was, how tightly he clung to his newfound family. He was terrified of losing them, of history repeating itself, and fear is the poison of the soul.

Against all odds, a boy who’d lived in a long-deserted convenience store, alone, found a place where he belonged, and people who loved him. In a world ravaged by an extinction level event, he’d reconnected with people, found unity and purpose. This second chance meant everything to him. This surrogate family was his present, and future, and he clung to it with desperate hands.

So day after day, he pretended at health as he watched the percentage on Sam’s meter decline, which Jeremy now regretted having shown him in the first place. It was too big a burden for a young boy to bear, too stressful for one who’d already experienced such losses. This entire situation was Jeremy’s fault, and the guilt was tearing him apart.

Staring at his face, Jeremy gently touched his forehead. Shit. The heat from the fever frightened him. The fever was high, and Seth was so small. Jeremy wasn’t prepared for this—medically, or emotionally. Panic slowly set in. He froze. Fear turned his stomach to acid. Icebound and cemented in place, he dwelled on the severity of the impossible situation. Every second was a small eternity. What would he do? Where would he take them? How would he treat such a life-threatening illness? The fact that Seth had collapsed in the street meant that the infection was coursing through his blood. For all Jeremy knew, it was shutting down his organs, ferrying poison to his heart at that moment. Had Jeremy the resources to deal with this? Had he adequate medicines, supplies, and shelter? His eyes darted to Sam and his mouth went dry. Forget the supplies. Did he even have the time? His gaze fell to the glow at her belly. There were so many miles between them and San Diego and only one more disk with which to cover them.

She met his gaze, hands clenched at her sides. “Carp, what happened? What’s wrong with him?”

Jeremy was aware of pain in his fists, where his fingernails had burrowed into the fleshy parts of his palms. He must act, now, and with conviction of purpose, yet his body was frozen in the middle of the road. He was impotent and paralyzed in a posture of genuflection. He had antibiotics, yes, but how long would they last? Would they be enough? Something this severe could require hundreds of pills, could drain his resources in a matter of days. Was he prepared to give Seth all that what left? What if something happened to Sam? What if something happened and his medicines were gone? He loved Seth, yes; he viewed him as a son. But difficult decisions would have to be made. Would his commitment to Seth overshadow the one he had made to Sam? Was he putting her at risk for a boy he’d just met?

“Dad,” Sam pressed, her voice shaking. “What’s wrong?”

Jeremy’s inner voice began to whisper fervently. It was a familiar voice, a trustworthy one, his father’s voice. Pull the trigger, it whispered.

The trigger?

Yes. The mental trigger. Pull it now.

Jeremy sucked in a breath, having nearly forgotten about that. His father had counseled him, on more than one occasion, to create an image he could call upon at will, something that would elicit an immediate response. A mental trigger could be anything, really: a favorite place, an important object, the image of a person one loved. In life-and-death situations, Liam had said, people often find themselves unable to act or think critically, and for this, one needed a trigger. It was a common practice among the Navy SEALs, something he’d picked up while working for the government. During long excursions across dark barren seas, Liam had studied their survival techniques, and this was one he’d brought home to his family.

Jeremy floundered. His mind wasn’t sharp. What was his trigger? What had it been? Over the years, as things do, it had changed. As a child, for a time, it was his favorite transformer figurine, which he’d clung to during particularly loud thunderstorms. After that, it was a squirrel that lived in an old rotting tree at the edge of their property. But what had it been after that? He couldn’t remember. More importantly, what was it now?

His breath caught. His hands dug into his thighs like claws.

“Carp,” Sam hissed. “What’s wrong with you?” He felt the air move as she dropped down beside him. “Dad,” she said softly, “what’s going on?” She set her cool fingers to his wrist. It calmed him. “You’re scaring me, Dad. Snap out of it. We have to help Seth. What should we do?”

He could hear the rising panic in her voice, yet he was still unable to move. The mission was suddenly insurmountable to him. What had he done? What had he been thinking? Travel by bike across the United States proper? This hair-brained scheme could take their lives. He peered intently at Seth. Hell, it had probably taken one life already.

Sam’s fingers fluttered against his arm.

“Dad, you’re just tired. Your mind is sleepy. You’re fuzzy, like I sometimes get. Just pull the trigger, Dad. That’s all you have to do.” She slapped his arm. “Pull the trigger.”

He flinched from the sting of her slap but didn’t move. He couldn’t remember his trigger anymore. He searched his mind but came up blank. He didn’t have a trigger. That was the issue. He’d stoically held things together for so long that he’d ignored his own feelings and needs. He’d concentrated his efforts on Sam and the disks, on Meghan and Peter, on the path to San Diego. For so many months, he’d put himself last. He’d been strong, lifted others, while ignoring his own fears, which had swelled and were threatening to choke him now. He was losing another person he loved. He’d failed as husband, father, and friend, and now another person he loved would die.

Sam seized his arm and squeezed it painfully. “Carp,” she said. “Remember what you said. You told me we had to persevere.” Her voice cracked and she let loose a sob. “Dad, please. Look at his face. He’s gone gray. You have to tell me what to do. I don’t know what the hell to do.” She slapped his arm and then his face. “Carp! Pull the trigger! Right now!”

Images flashed across his mind like a movie. A trigger: he just needed to find a new one. He’d seen so much violence over the past few months. Hell, over the past few years. First there was the fire, then Seth’s dead mother. There were the men who had murdered his wife. There was Peter’s rotting leg, and Sam’s diabetes, the times she had fainted at the side of the road, dripping in puddles of insulin-induced sweat.

Susan.

He blinked.

And then there was Susan.

Her image rose from the blackness in his mind, the vision finding shape, and brightening. Her face was a ray of sunlight in his mind’s darkness: her smooth blond hair, her gentle smile, her blue eyes, the love that had always shone through them. It was Susan. She was his trigger now. She was the spark that ignited his heart. Hers was the voice that whispered to him. Hers was the counsel he sought. It was her gentle hands that pushed him forward.

He would persevere for Susan, and for the life of their daughter. He’d make Susan proud. He’d never give up. Never would he allow someone he loved to suffer so horribly again. Never would he make the same mistakes. Never would he miscalculate a situation so profoundly.

A shudder ran through him, her face like a warming hearth on a cold winter’s night. Hadn’t her image saved him once before? Hadn’t she been his first trigger? And wasn’t it fitting that she also be his last? He focused on the details of her face: the broad smile that dimpled her cheeks, the smoothness of her lips, the widow’s peak at the top of her forehead that cast her hair around her in perfect falls, the smattering of moles that circled her left eye, which resembled a lop-sided star. His throat pinched. She’d hated those moles, always tried to cover them up. She’d raise a hand to her face, self-consciously, turn her head to the side when meeting new people. Funny, he thought, that she’d considered them flaws, while he’d always found them distinctive and unique. He remembered the first time he’d kissed her, and the day they’d decided they were officially “married”, despite the lack of ceremony and proper paperwork. He recalled the day she gave birth to their child. She’d given him everything he could ever hope for, a reason to live, to persevere and soldier on.

Susan, he thought, with a tearing in his gut.

His mind screamed her name. She triggered him. Like a silent film, the images swept through his mind, warming him, chilling him, cutting him to the bone. His best memories were of times he’d spent with her. He’d loved her since he was just a boy.

Susan.

Her name fractured the ice in his joints, loosened stiff muscles, made his heart beat faster. Awareness of her finally broke his paralysis, and with a snap, he turned to Sam.

“I’m here,” he whispered, and she fell against his shoulder. Once he’d pulled her up, he focused on Seth. The spell broken, he lifted his body off the ground, and running for his bike, called out, over his shoulder, “Follow me, Sam. We have to find shelter.”

He pedaled hard and fast for the nearest exit, Sam hovering close at his rear wheel. They’d made it to Fort Worth, Texas, he realized, and with pride, peered at the top of Seth’s head. Despite Seth’s weakened state, they’d covered many miles in a short amount of time.

Perceptive as a hawk, his eyes scanned the road ahead. There was an Exxon station, with a 7-Eleven store adjoining it, and though the door was shattered and open to the elements, he didn’t have time to be picky. Skidding to the front of the store, he dropped his bike in a heap on the ground, a cloud of dust and sand billowing behind him.

Dry leaves crunched beneath their feet as they entered it. Weeds, grasses, and the familiar fungi had begun their slow invasion of the space. He and Sam moved to the back of the store, where they spread out a blanket and laid Seth atop it. Jeremy regarded his ashen complexion, his slackened jaw, and his sweaty head. Sam was a bundle of nerves. Afraid to even touch him, she rocked on her heels, her nervous hands fluttering at her hips. Her voice was at least an octave to high when she asked, “What should we do?” Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. “Is he going to die? Why didn’t he tell us he was sick?”

“Sam, he’ll be fine.”

“But he’s dying, right? The fever means he’s dying.” Leaning over him, she gently touched his cheek. “We don’t even know what his temperature is. What if he doesn’t wake up? If he’s unconscious, we won’t be able to get him to eat or drink anything. And if he can’t eat or drink, he’ll die.”

Jeremy eyed his daughter’s stricken face. It wasn’t healthy for her to get this worked up. Her eyes were moving rapidly. Her pupils were constricted.

“Sam. You need to calm down,” he said. “Listen to me. He’ll be fine. We just need to—”

“Dad, look at him. He won’t be fine. Do you know what a coma would mean for him?”

“Yes, Sam. I know what a coma would mean.”

“What if he doesn’t wake up for weeks? How will we help him? Have you thought about that? A coma would be a death sentence for him. We don’t have an IV or a feeding tube. We can’t give him intravenous fluids. He’ll starve or dehydrate.” She took a ragged breath. “This could happen to me, you know. What if we can’t wake him up?”

She was beginning to work herself into hysterics, the cadence of her speech as fast as her mind was able to shape the images. The tempo of her rocking increased commensurately. It matched the measure and meter of her tumbling words. Setting Seth’s arm gently to his chest, Jeremy traded it for Sam’s clammy hand.

“Sam, stop.” He brought her hand to his lips.

“But we can’t lose him, Dad. We just can’t. We lost Mom. Then we lost Peter. We can’t lose Seth. We just can’t.”

“Sam, stop. That’s enough.”

He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t working. Her face was red, her hands balled into fists. He needed to refocus her thoughts. Dropping her hand, he seized her shoulders.

“Sam, that’s enough! Look at me. Now!”

He rarely raised his voice to her, and the effect was instantaneous. She met his gaze and held it, chin firm, challenging him before she crumpled in defeat.

“Sam,” he said gently, “if you want to help him, I’ll tell you what to do. Get me a bottle of water from your pack. Pour some of it onto a cloth.”

She moved away quickly, happy to be set to task.

“The water from the Caddie River,” Jeremy clarified, “Not the fresh water. We need that to drink.”

A few days prior, they’d made it to the Caddie River and bathed. The Caddie was a small waterway, fed by smaller tributaries, and the water—when boiled—was clean enough to bath and wash clothes in. Before leaving, they’d refilled their bottles. But they were rationing their drinking water now. And they’d been scouting for additional sources along the way. Jeremy secretly hoped this Exxon would contain a few well-hidden treasures of its own. He could look for bottles that had fallen behind shelves, or for packets of travel-sized medications that had slipped between counters. There were tons of places people forgot to look.

On hands and knees, Sam scooted back to him. Uncapping the bottle, she poured river water onto a semi-clean shirt then stared up at Jeremy, awaiting his next instruction. Reaching toward her, he pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. God, how he hated to see her stressed. She’d experienced too much loss in her life, too much forfeiture of happiness, too much pain. He mustn’t lose Seth. It would be the last straw.

“Thanks, Pike,” he said, patiently. “This is good. The first thing we need to do is bring his temperature down, but we’ll need more rags and water to do it. I’ll take any cloth we have: socks, old rags, old shirts, anything.”

While she rummaged their supplies, he tore the shirt from Seth’s chest. The garment was drenched with sour-smelling sweat, and the smell was rank in the small enclosure. The hemming of the shirt, which was damp and frayed, gave easily to his insistent fingers. He ripped it cleanly from the base to the neck, and then closing his eyes, pressed his hands to Seth’s chest. He was burning up. Sam was right. Without a thermometer, they couldn’t gauge his temperature. But even without one, Jeremy knew it was high. What would he do? What was proper protocol? He was out of his depth, but wouldn’t say so aloud.

Sam pushed pieces of cloth into his hands, and together they soaked them in water. They draped them across Seth’s forehead and eyes, tucked strips beneath his neck and armpits. Sam laid a wet sock along each side of his throat.

“To cool his blood,” she explained, and Jeremy raised a brow. She pointed to his throat. “That’s his carotid artery, right?”

“Yep.” He smiled. “Where do you learn this stuff?” Pausing a moment, he pointed to Seth’s hands. “I think you’re onto something, kid. We should do the same thing to his wrists, don’t you think? To both pulse points, to cool the blood.”

She nodded soberly. “He’s really sick, Dad, isn’t he? It’s infected.”

“Yep. I think it is. And now I need to have a look.” Sitting back on his heels, he took a moment of silence to consider his options. “I think we should try coaxing water into his mouth. We need to cool him down and break the fever. And we have to find a way to get aspirin into him.”

Sam scooted to Jeremy’s pack, where she selected a bottle, and a small wooden bowl. She dropped three aspirin into the bowl, which she crushed beneath the bottom of the bottle. She peered at Jeremy, a question in her eyes. Water was precious. She wanted his approval.

“It’s okay,” he encouraged her. “Do it. Use it all.”

With his permission, she sprinkled the crushed aspirin into the bottle, capped it and shook it till it swirled a cloudy white. They tried their best to rouse Seth and make him drink, but soon, Jeremy knew it wasn’t working. Too much of the precious concoction had dribbled over his lips, onto his chin, and down to the floor.

Some is better than none, he thought.

“Now what?” Sam asked.

Jeremy peered askance at her. Though she’d calmed a little, was she ready for this? This part wouldn’t be pretty.

“Now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “We need to tend the wound, but this is my job. You stay up here; keep refreshing the towels. They’ll warm much quicker than you think.”

He slid to Seth’s feet and removed his shoes, and as he rolled up his cuffs, dread threatened to paralyze him. He was frightened to lay eyes on the wound. What if there was no way to manage the infection? What if it had burrowed too deep? If he couldn’t cleanse it properly, there was little he could do to bring Seth out of this.

The smell hit him first, and he cursed himself. He’d noticed a faint odor several days ago. Why hadn’t he thought to act then? As he weighed his options, he chewed his lip. What could he try that he hadn’t tried already? What could he do with his limited supplies? Sterilizing it with alcohol hadn’t worked. Why did he believe it would work this time?

Swallowing his fear, he carefully pulled the bandage free, and then stifled a gasp when saw it. The flesh was inflamed and warm to the touch, and puss was leaking from a corner. But it was the fine red streaks spidering from its edges that set Jeremy’s hands to trembling.

Septicemia. His heart lurched. Could it be?

“Sam, the first aid kit, please,” he said sternly.

When she brought it to him, she caught sight of the wound, and gasping, dropped to her knees to watch him work. He excreted puss by squeezing the tapered end of the wound, and though some came out, it wasn’t enough. He worried about what might be trapped underneath the thick black scab and swollen skin. What if he tried reopening it? Just a bit, he wondered, just enough to make it bleed. Bleeding was a good thing, right? As far as he knew, blood pushed infections out. Blood cleansed wounds. Blood purified. He wasn’t a doctor, but the notion sounded right.

Sam winced as he cleaned his pocketknife. “What are you doing?” she asked fervently.

Shaking his head, he remembered something he’d once said to Meghan. “Proud flesh,” he murmured. “We need to make it bleed.”

“Proud flesh? What does that mean?”

“It’s something I explained to Meghan once, when I was talking to her about Peter’s leg.” Slipping the blade beneath the firmest edge of the scab, he pried up a corner as gently as he could. “I offended her. She hated the term. She even scolded me for comparing him to a horse. But I was right that day, and I think I’m right now. We have to cut away the infected parts of the wound, squeeze out as much of the infection as we can.”

She didn’t answer him, but as he bled the corner of the wound, she watched. The blood came fast, thick, and dark. Thankfully Seth was unconscious for this. The pain would have been unbearable. Sam winced as Jeremy pushed at the skin, and was forced to look away when he pinched it. He heard her gag when the foulness came forth, and when the blood ran a brighter shade of red, he bathed the entire area in alcohol—the last of the alcohol, he remarked with pursed lips.

Sam caught his sleeve before he applied fresh wrappings. “Maybe we should let the wound breath for a while, let the fresh air get in. It can’t hurt.”

Jeremy sat back on his heels and sighed. “Your guess is definitely as good as mine.” Bending closer, he inspected it, visually and olfactorily. Most of the foulness had dissipated. Good.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll let the air get in, but we can’t let the wound dry out. Let’s give it an hour then bind it in wrappings. We want to keep it covered and protected from dust.”

Mollified by that, she moved back to Seth’s pale face, while Jeremy propped his leg atop a pile of old boxes. Jeremy rolled from his ankles to his rear then crab-walked backward until he felt the cold metal of a shelf against his back. Pushing herself to her feet, Sam joined him. She slid to the floor, set her hands to her knees, and together they watched Seth’s chest rise and fall.

“What happened to you back there?” she whispered. “I thought you’d cracked up or lost it, or something.”

“Cracked up?”

“Unhinged. Gone crazy or something.”

He rolled his head lazily toward her. “Thanks for reminding me about the trigger.”

She shrugged. “It just came to me. It was Grandpa’s thing. Remember?”

He smiled. “I remember it now, thanks to you.” Enjoying a moment of peaceful silence, he let his eyes slowly drift closed. “Do you have a trigger?” he asked sleepily.

“No. I mean, not really, I guess.”

“What do you mean, not really? You either have one or you don’t.”

She picked at mud that had dried to her pants. “I’ve never really given it much thought. I’ve never needed a trigger. I’ve always had you. But if I did have one, I guess it would be Mom. Dad, what are we going to do?”

Jeremy could barely open his eyes, much less think about what they were going to do. “Did you just ask me what we’re going to do?”

“Yeah. What are we going to do? What’s our plan? What are our three? You should tell me, you know. I’m good at making decisions. I’m not a complete moron.”

He smiled in spite of his weariness. ‘The three’, she had said—more Liam-speak. She wanted to know their three courses of action, so she could weigh the best out of three. The worst decision a person can make is no decision at all, Liam had said, and she wanted to make sure Jeremy was making the right one.

“Forget three,” he answered. “Tonight, there’s only one.” As he stretched out his legs, blood rushed to his feet. “What are we going to do?” he repeated. “Right now the only thing to do is wait.”

“Okay. But if we have to wait, let’s make the best of it. Let’s see what we can find in this disgusting store.”

With a nod, he pulled himself up.

“Will he be all right?” she asked, peering down at Seth.

“I don’t know, Sam. We’ll just have to wait and see. But I do know this: we have to find a way to make him drink. He needs lots of fluids, laced with antibiotics and aspirin.” He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “We’ll figure it out. He’s strong. And he’s young. Sleep and fluids are the best things for him now. We’ll arm him with the best tools we’ve got in our arsenal, but I’m sorry to say, the rest is up to him.”

“What did you think of?” she asked him suddenly. “You never answered my question. What was your trigger? What did you imagine?”

“Mom. Same as you. Who else? She was the first trigger I ever had as a boy, and now, as a man, I’ve come full circle.” He set his arm around his daughter’s slim shoulders. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? That I should think of her? After all, when I met her, all those years ago, she was the one who set my feet in motion. It was a night I’ll never forget.”