Barren Waters - The Complete Novel: (A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival) Read online

  He pushed through the debris, hoping at least to negotiate the bikes as close to the riverbank as possible. The snapping of hollow branches marked Sam’s close passage behind him. “So why ‘Carp’? Did it taste good or something?”

  She sounded a bit out of breath and he reflexively slowed his pace.

  “I don’t know actually. Never tried carp, though I was lucky enough to try a piece of smoked salmon once.”

  “Smoked salmon? Sounds disgusting.”

  “Smoked or dried was the only thing left. My father had saved a few packets so I could try it.”

  As were most days he’d spent with his father, Jeremy recalled that day fondly. They’d sat on the back deck of the cabin, far above the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, and enjoyed the spectacular view, though he remembered even then that the air had begun to thin.

  “We’ve got to eat it now or it’s going to go bad,” his father said as he pulled the knife from his pocket and slipped the blade between the folds of plastic. The package opened with a tiny pop and a curious tangy smell lifted from its contents.

  “Smells funny,” Jeremy said as he pinched his small nose.

  “Not funny,” his dad laughed. “Fishy. Go get the encyclopedia from the house. The volume with the ‘S’ on it.”

  He remembered running to their family library and pulling the heavy volume from the shelves. He loved to hear stories about the fish, loved to hear his father talk about anything, really, but tales of the once-glorious oceans were his favorite. His father slid off the chair and crossed his legs on the smooth wood planking, and with the tome spread across his lap, sifted through the pages and settled the book open with a small creaking of binding.

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

  Jeremy narrowed his eyes and peered at the strange creature. “I thought fish were supposed to be small, but it’s big.”

  “They were big,” his father acknowledged. “Back in the 1900’s they were quite large indeed.”

  Jeremy traced his finger along its oblong silhouette. It was beautiful, its scales a shining silver that gleamed with pearl-like opalescence. His father handed him a piece of the pale orange meat and he tasted it warily and then spit it onto the deck.

  “Ick. It tastes like smoke.”

  His father’s laugh had always been hearty and warm.

  “It’s an acquired taste I suppose, though one I’m afraid you’ll never have the opportunity to develop.”

  Jeremy nearly tripped ever a fallen log, and then peered over his shoulder at Sam. “This is as far as we can get with the bikes. It’s getting too thick up here. We need to find a place to hide them for the night.”

  She pointed toward a mound of fallen branches, still thick with decaying leaves, and the two worked in a companionable silence. Jeremy had always found tranquility in the tending of simple and repetitive tasks. And repetitive was a rather apt description of their existence now. They had to be diligent in their routine, maniacally so. Their survival depended on it. If any of the gangs that wandered the streets found them or their supplies, they’d be robbed and killed, or left to suffer the elements, which was often the same thing as dead. That was a dangerous predicament for most anyone, but it was a death sentence for Sam.

  Having shrouded the vehicles beneath an abundant supply of dead foliage, they moved through the thick underbrush to the edge of the river. Wordlessly they stared at it. The sight always sickened Jeremy and again he wondered why she liked to come down here. Perhaps it was because the damage wasn’t all that visible here. The water still ran relatively clear in this spot, but the smell was revolting. Algae clustered and bloomed in thick reds and greens that stretched along the shallower edges in long ribbons, and he could detect a slight sheen to the surface of the water, a rainbow brilliance that bespoke of oil and chemicals that gathered like a poisonous layer of skin.

  He heard Sam clearing the forest floor of sticks and debris, and settling their tarp upon the dead leaves. “What should we eat?” she asked him as though this were a normal Sunday picnic.

  He dropped to his knees and shrugged the pack from his shoulder. From their baskets he’d selected whole grain crackers and a few pieces of dried meat along with a can of baked beans.

  She smiled, pulled a lighter from her pocket, and lit the small mound of wood she’d stacked at the edge of their camp. “I like the beans. They’re sweet. But I want them hot.”

  He sighed and pushed himself to his feet to return to the bikes for a pot to heat them in. When he returned she’d spread their map across the tarp and was gnawing on dried crackers as she examined the purple line she’d drawn to mark their path.

  “So, Chattanooga you say?”

  He nodded and watched as she marked their passage on the tattered paper.

  “Huntsville is about a hundred miles from here so we can make it there in two days time by my estimate. Where to after that?”

  Jeremy worked the slightly rusted opener along the top of the beans and dumped the contents into the pot.

  “Southwest toward Mississippi and Arkansas.”

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

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

  He could sense her disappointment, but didn’t foresee her next words. She took him off-guard.

  “I wish Mom were here.”

  Jeremy released a pent breath. “I know. So do I.”

  Leaning forward, she swirled their beans around the pot to even out the heat, took care to keep her eyes downcast. “What name do you think she would’ve liked?”

  “For Mom?” he asked. “Hmm. ‘Angler’? Maybe ‘Perch’?”

  She discarded both with a frown. “Terrible ideas. I think she would’ve liked ‘Starfish’ or ‘Minnow.’”

  It still broke his heart to hear her speak of her mother in the past tense.

  “Searobin,” he suggested quietly.

  She met his gaze and nodded approvingly. “It’s beautiful. And perfect. Like she was.” She lifted her brow with mock approval. “Not bad, Carp.”

  He had to make an attempt to lighten the topic of conversation. This subject matter could lead nowhere fast.

  “Will you read to me tonight?”

  Her lips were pursed. “I’m not in the mood. Not tonight.”

  With that, he knew she’d settled into one of her moods and once she had there was nothing he could do or say to lift her out of it. She was a girl who’d recently lost her mother and he was a man who’d recently lost his wife. She deserved her moods and then some.

  They ate in silence. A silence that was unnatural and rather freakish in this part of the country. He had to admit that she was right; the gentle purling of the water was rather calming. But it was the absence of sound that still bothered him so. Jeremy remembered his childhood and their cabin in the mountains of Sevierville. They would sit on the deck late into the evening, surrounded by the sounds of an animate forest. There was a richer diversity of species back then. Well, not rich, he corrected, just more, and insects, too, singing cicadas and chirping crickets, and the occasional croaking of a forest toad. None of which existed anymore, or if they did, their numbers had dwindled so much that their voices could no longer be heard. But this riverbank was seemingly devoid of life. What was that old saying? That insects would inherit the earth? Not so as it turned out. Even they had fallen victim to the death of the oceans.

  Sam’s voice cut through the silence. “I wish we were back home.”

  He scrutinized her shadowed face and the outline of her body, set aglow by the small fire. “You know, we don’t have to sleep outside. How many empty homes did we pass on the way here? How many side streets with large brick houses and white picket fences? Hundreds? This was your choice to stay out here, Sam. Not mine. Frankly its not really safe out here.”

  “Just one more night,” she offered
. “Then I think I’m done with the river. I just wanted to see it is all.”

  She pushed her bowl aside and curled herself on her blanket. She always faced away from him when she slept, said she liked to know he had her back. He knew she was tired—physically and mentally—and again it amazed him how much their lives had changed in such a short amount of time. When they were a family, the three of them would stay awake late into the night. Jeremy and Susan would drink glass after glass of Cabernet from the ark while Sam would read to them from her Harry Potter books. Or the three would play cards or Monopoly by the soft light of candles. It was perfect. It was a private sanctuary on the side of a mountain and it belonged only to them.

  Jeremy had always been a night owl, had always gone to bed late and risen later. How odd it was that he and Sam had reached a natural circadian rhythm that matched the rising and setting of the sun. He supposed he slept more soundly now than he had in years. He settled onto his back and peered into the starry sky.

  “So what’s the verdict? Now that you’ve seen the river up close, what do you think of it?”

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

  Silence stretched between them until her soft voice punctuated it. “I’d like to know where we’re going, Carp. I don’t care much for surprises anymore.”

  “Give me your number first.”

  She groaned, yet raised herself on her elbow and held her arm out to the light of the fire. “One hundred seven,” she called out irritably.

  “Perfect.”

  He moved toward the fire and smothered it while she lay back down. It was never a good idea to sleep beside a fire. It was like a beacon to those roaming the night, a signal or lighthouse that could broadcast latitude and longitude to a dangerously diminished populace. It was a flare that marked the presence of life to any miscreant who traveled this tortured countryside.

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

  “We’re going to San Diego, Sam.”

  He saw her flinch. “You’re taking me to see the ocean?”

  “Yup,” he replied. “It’s what you said you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  He wouldn’t tell her the other reason he’d chosen it as their destination, wouldn’t tell her that her life all but depended on his ability to get them there, wouldn’t tell her the truth—that they were running out of time. Not yet. He needed to keep that to himself. Just a little longer.

  “Yes. It’s what I said I wanted. I’m just surprised is all. Surprised you’d take me there.” Pensively she let the silence stretch then added, “Is it really dead? I mean really? How can something that large die completely? Weren’t there millions of fish?”

  “Not millions,” he corrected. “Trillions. Hundreds of trillions. Trillions upon trillions of trillions. Such a large number that you couldn’t even imagine it if you tried.”

  “All of that and its all gone?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “San Diego’s a long way, Carp.”

  He nodded to the face of the moon. “That it is. But we can make it. Fifty miles a day. That has to be our goal.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Has to be?”

  He didn’t answer. She was smart. He knew she’d work out the answer eventually, knew that she’d figure out his motives sooner or later. He held his breath as her breathing deepened and became even, and just when he thought she’d finally fallen asleep she murmured once more into the darkness.

  “Carp, we’re running out of disks aren’t we?”

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

  “Pike,” she corrected.

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

  She said nothing for a time, and he worried at the boldness of the revelation. With so many miles left to travel, it was much too soon to create a panic. He peered at her and felt his throat tighten, thought perhaps she’d finally drifted off, but she had one more question left to ask.

  “Was the ocean beautiful when you saw it?”

  “No,” he replied absently. “It was terrifying.”

  “Okay. I love you Dad.”

  “I love you too Sam.”

  But in a way you can say that after leaving the sea, after all those millions of years of living inside of the sea, we took the ocean with us. When a woman makes a baby, she gives it water, inside her body, to grow in. That water inside her body is almost exactly the same as the water of the sea. It is salty, by just the same amount. She makes a little ocean, in her body. And not only this. Our blood and our sweating, they are both salty, almost exactly like the water from the sea is salty. We carry oceans inside of us, in our blood and our sweat. And we are crying the oceans, in our tears.

  —Gregory David Roberts

  Chapter 2

  July 16th, 2121

  The mouth of the Mississippi River

  Gulf of Mexico

  She slipped her hand into his and grasped it firmly. “Olivia Abner. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Liam Colt. So this is your boat?”

  Her eyes roamed the vast silhouette of the Goblin with unconcealed fondness. For a support ship, she was impressive indeed, a sleek catamaran with an aluminum hull and wave-piercing bow. Olivia pointed toward the center of the stern where a large crane was suspended over a hangar. A heavy winch and thick steel hook attached to a length of steel cable, was securely latched to a two-man submersible.

  “Nope. Not mine I’m afraid. She’s a loaner from the institute. She’ll take us to the drop point, and from there we’ll board the Savior III and descend about ninety feet.”

  She saw his throat work as he nervously fumbled the files clutched tight beneath his arm. “Ninety feet. Okay.”

  His hand moved to the back of his neck. If he’d been holding a kerchief, she was certain he’d have pressed it to his flush skin like a preacher behind the pulpit on a hot summer day. Smiling, she touched his arm.

  “That’s right. I forgot. You’re the lab geek. Ever been in a submersible before?”

  “Yes, back in college. Older models though. Nothing as agile as this one appears to be. Though, I like to think of myself as one of the cool geeks, thank you very much.” He seemed to relax a bit as he looked toward the calm expanse of sun-glistened water. “I typically work the sidelines and crunch the numbers, but I suppose one should try and check as many things off his bucket list as possible these days.”

  She nodded but didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Okay cool geek, let’s board and talk schematics.” She turned and urged him to cross the gangplank onto the Goblin’s wide transom.

  His eyes widened as he circled the deep-water craft secured to the crane.

  “Beautiful vessel.”

  “She’s that—light too. She’ll take us down swiftly, but we’ll be topside again before you know it. I can assure you that the Savior was actually designed for far more robust missions than this one. At much greater depths, mind you, so she’ll have no problem with the two of us.” Olivia turned toward a deeply tanned man in white linen pants and a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt. “I’d like you to meet our captain for the day. Liam Colt, meet Captain Steve Pryon.”

  She watched the chemical oceanographer shake the captain’s hand and let her eyes travel over his inappropriate clothing. He was certainly not a seaman. He’d worn jeans for one. Olivia hated jeans. What horribly constricting garments they were, little more than attractively cut straight jackets for the legs that pinched at the waist and strangled the calves. She preferred cotton khakis or loose, billowy linens. He’d also worn flip-flops, she noticed with a frown. An experienced seaman would never wear flip-flops. Sneakers were better. Bare feet were best.

  Other than that, she supposed he was quite handsome. He was pale and perhaps a little stiff, his arms clasped rigidly around his files, but his eyes were a warm brown and his hair…well, suffice it to say she might have dared to call him uptight
were it not for the small ponytail at the top of his head. Her lips curved into a smile. Perhaps not such a geek after all.

  She watched him pluck a Dramamine from his pocket and slip it into his mouth. Great, she sighed. This should be good. She turned toward the captain.

  “Steve, we’ll go sit at the bow.” Discretely she nodded toward the scientist and gave the captain a knowing look. “I think the two of us’ll stay topside. Out in the breeze.”

  “Aye-aye. We shove off in ten minutes.”

  She led the scientist toward the bow and sat opposite him on the leather sofa-style seating. “So. I understand you’ve commissioned this vessel to take samples of the dead zone.”

  He laid his files across his lap and visibly tried to calm himself. Clearly he wasn’t comfortable at sea.

  “Well, I haven’t commissioned it per se. My employer has. I’m here at the behest of Washington D.C., the D.C. Institute of Marine Sciences to be exact.”

  “You’re a government employee?” she asked incredulously. With a raised brow she examined him anew, the way his hair was pulled from his face and gathered in a sleek knot at the top of his head, and the smattering of tiny rips and snags that ran the length of his jeans. He certainly didn’t look like a government agent.

  With a casual flip of his hand he clarified, “No, I’m here at their behest, but I’m not officially on the payroll. They’ve sent me to obtain water samples at various depths, and then to test and share my findings. Typically a dead zone collects at coastal areas, at the mouths of rivers or other waterways. They’re caused by runoffs carrying fertilizer, sewage, and other industrial pollutants into the area. These, in turn, cause phytoplankton blooms which use up all the available oxygen and create a dead zone for all wildlife–“

  “I know what they are, Liam,” she interrupted smoothly.