Barren Waters, A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival
Chapter 18

“There are times to stay put, and what you want will come to you, and there are times to go out into the world and find such a thing for yourself.”

― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish

Chapter 18

1 Year Prior

“Sam. Wake up.”

He roused her gently, his eyes nervously skipping across the room, from shadow to rounded shadow. A slim crescent moon provided little light, but it was enough to do what they needed to do. Leaning closer, he whispered into her ear. “Sam, we have to go. Get up.”

Eyes fluttering open, she propped herself up on an elbow, and seemingly confused, glanced about the room. Her eyes found his and she opened her mouth.

“No,” he whispered, laying a finger across her lips. “Don’t wake the others. You and I going out. It’ll be just us. Let’s go.”

As he knew it would, curiosity got the best of her. She arose slowly and followed him to the hall, padding across the floor on cat’s paws. They’d been using the bathroom as a changing area, and a place to wash clothes, and hang them to dry. The plumbing didn’t work, but the drain still emptied. She slipped into the room and closed the door.

Jeremy peered out the windows as he waited. Though he was charged with energy, his nerves were somewhat frayed. Was he really doing this? Was he leaving this house behind?

San Diego, he marveled to himself: the headquarters of Bigeye Pharmaceuticals.

Over the past few weeks, he’d been chanting the words as if they were a healing mantra. His mind had whispered them over and over, until they became something of an obsession. The whispering in his head soon became a deafening scream, and it was one he couldn’t ignore.

His plan had slowly unfurled in his mind as he weighed the significant pros against the cons. He’d unfolded the maps and measured the distance, whistling under his breath at the scope of the endeavor. He’d considered which routes would be faster versus smarter, which would present the least number of obstacles, and which would avoid the largest of cities. He’d begun to equate time with distance and effort, as he estimated the number of miles they would walk. Could they cross the length of the United States on foot? Indecision had plagued him for weeks. It was an aggressive plan, but was it foolhardy? Would it be a death sentence for Sam?

Leaving the safety of this house was yet another mental struggle to deal with, but as time passed, the idea gained appeal. This, he figured, was the only way to bring Sam the long-lasting stability she needed. Despite the risks and potential perils of the journey, it was the only way to give her a chance. Besides, he wondered, weren’t the things worth fighting for the hardest to achieve? The last time he checked patience was still considered a virtue.

As he waited for her, he reflected on the last few torturous nights. His mind had traveled in endless circles, and he’d spent the majority of his time alone, staring at the Tennessee plains from the porch, the soft sounds of his surrogate family filtering to his perch from the big picture window. Would Bigeye Pharmaceuticals contain insulin disks? They were made there, he reasoned. Why wouldn’t it? Was the idea so absurd or outlandish? They were produced there in quantity, packaged, and shipped. From that location they were studied and perfected, experimented with, and manufactured in bulk. If ever there were a more sensible idea, he didn’t think he’d yet heard it. It was almost too easy, too simple, too obvious. Well, he thought, frowning, perhaps not easy. Easy was a bit overstated. The journey itself would be perilous and long. Their supplies would only last for so long. But it felt good to have a plan, to be moving his feet. Executing a plan was better than sitting still, and infinitely better than waiting for fate. And though the journey would be difficult, it might also be rewarding, and the prize at the end could be priceless.

And San Diego? He smiled. Of all the places. San Diego was built on arable land. The soil was rich. The weather was temperate. It was almost too good to be true.

He ran his thumb across the lettering on the disk. The empty case had become a talisman. It was never too far from his reach. He kept it in his pocket, twirled it in his fingers. When he touched the plastic, his plan felt real. And the weather, he’d noticed, was beginning to cool. With the searing heat of summer finally behind them, travel would prove much easier. It was now or never. He couldn’t shake the feeling. Time was pressing him with insistent fingers. It bullied him with taunts and frightening dreams, and quickened anxiety deep in his belly. It’s persistence left him breathless.

He considered, for a moment, what they’d built in this house. They had safe shelter here, and the beginnings of a life. They’d planted and grown a sustainable garden. The area was rural enough to be safe, yet close enough to roadways to permit easy travel. They’d created a system of survival inside this house, with assigned duties and a division of labor, and thus had created a civilized life. They wore clean clothes and ate with cutlery. Jeremy shared life’s burdens with a like-minded and capable adult who reflected on his ideas and provided feedback. He and Meghan were friends and allies who advised and respected one another. It was a support system he refused to take lightly.

The only problem was, it was based on lies. It was as if the foundation of this well-appointed home had sprung cracks that—given time—would bring the entire structure tumbling down.

How long before Meghan felt the need to hoard pills? How long before fear got the better of her? When would she stake out clever hiding places to stockpile pills for her boy? How long before Jeremy did the same? He never divulged how many disks he had left, but a day would surely come when she’d grow tired of guessing. His relationship with Meghan was as genuine and true as the precarious health of their children. Life, in these times, was about survival, protecting one’s own to the detriment of others. His friendship with Meghan was never meant to last—not that he didn’t still care about her; he cared about her and Peter.

Peter was an amazing boy. Jeremy often wondered what he’d been like before illness had claimed his leg. He couldn’t run or play anymore, but amazingly, that didn’t cripple his zest for life. Though confined to a chair, he showed interest in the world. He was curious, engaged. He wanted to contribute.

But wanting and doing were two very different things, and though Jeremy cursed himself for thinking the thoughts, Peter was a significant liability in their lives. Though Meghan refused to face the truth, Peter would never heal from his affliction. His path was a slow and agonizing one, a steady decline into pain and madness. He’d never regain his mobility, nor share the workload, nor contribute to the group.

Jeremy pursed his lips. The leg needed to come off. It was poisoning him. And since Meghan refused to see it done, they helplessly watched it corrupt his body. It was a train wreck they couldn’t bring themselves to turn from. It disgusted Jeremy. It ruled his thoughts.

But it also set his wheels in motion.

What, he asked himself, were they doing in this house? What events or circumstances were they waiting for? The inevitable to happen? The clock to run out? How long would that take? A year? Maybe two? And in a year’s time, if he gave it that long, how many pills would Peter have consumed, only to die anyway? Sam’s disks would eventually run dry, and when they did, how many pills would Peter have wasted? How many did it take to stay the wraithlike fingers of a death that had already begun to claim him?

Jeremy disgusted himself with these thoughts. But such is the dichotomy of being human, he reasoned. We think certain thoughts that we consider monstrous, and then hate ourselves for having thought them, when the truth of the matter, in simple terms, is this: life can be ugly, truth can be unpleasant, but difficult decisions have to be made. Jeremy wanted to slap himself for thinking such abominable thoughts about Peter. But he was also human, with instincts and fears. Humans always protect their young. Jeremy could no more suppress that instinct than Meghan would be able to suppress hers. And if their positions were reversed, if Sam was like Peter—a sickly child consuming pills to stay alive—Jeremy would probably act similarly to Meghan. So they must leave this house, he’d concluded weeks ago. Staying wasn’t a viable solution. This house, its gardens and beautiful appointments were parts of a false paradise. It wouldn’t last. It was never meant to, and delaying their departure only made that more difficult.

So he’d made the decision and picked out a date, and once he had, things were suddenly easier. Making plans and preparations had made him feel industrious. He’d arisen earlier than the rest of the house, planned the route, and prepared the cart for departure. Only a few months prior, he’d unpacked its contents. He and Meghan had done it together, smiling as they outfitted the pantry, as if they’d purchased this new home together, consciously, as if this were a life they’d chosen for themselves.

The supplies from the cart were the remnants of the ark, and thus were many and bountiful. There were bags of rice, lentils, oats, cans of beans, sweet yams, and corn. There were soups, stale crackers, a variety of medicines, bottle after bottle of potable water.

Their passage across the United States would be slow and tedious. Jeremy wouldn’t delude himself. And they would have to push the cart as they traveled. They would travel at night, sleep by day. Supplies as rich and abundant as theirs would be taken from them if they weren’t careful. But they could make it, would make it. Jeremy felt it in his bones. The plan had sparked renewed energy within him. He imagined the places he and Sam would pass along the way, the sights they would see, the supplies they would find. He thought of the caches of pills they’d discover, which would sustain her when the disks ran out. They would make do. They would live off the land. Like it or not, this was a viable plan, and it made more sense than staying put and doing nothing. It was something Jeremy could feel good about. He had never been a victim, never let life happen, wasn’t comfortable letting fate take the wheel. He was an active participant in life, and proud of it. He was a doer, a creator, a designer, an architect. His father had taught him by example.

So he’d re-stocked the cart in the early morning hours, selecting items at will like a bandit. He held each item in his hands and pondered it, wondering how to split it into halves. How much would he take? What would he leave behind? Meghan would be devastated when she discovered him gone, and though he was abandoning her, he wouldn’t leave her impoverished. He would be equitable with his provisions. He’d be fair. He would leave her in comfort for as long as he was able. He’d be charitable, yes, though not overly so.

His mind strayed to his first memory of her. She’d been thin and exhausted, at the end of her rope. She’d been dirty and beaten, stretched to the limits of human endurance. But she’d healed since then and grown stronger. She’d learned methods of making life easier, despite her undesirable circumstances. Jeremy hoped the lessons he’d taught her were enough to prevent her from treading the same patterns as before. She and Peter would likely stay in this house. And they should, Jeremy thought. He was leaving it to them. It was his way of rationalizing the things he was doing. The two of them could live a good life in this house. Meghan could tend their fledgling garden, and Jeremy would leave them with ample supplies.

Sam opened the bathroom door, pulling Jeremy back the present. She stepped into the silvery moonlight, crossed the room, and with an arched brow, watched him pocket the disks. He avoided her gaze as they tiptoed past the living room, but couldn’t keep himself from peering inside it. Similarly to when he and Sam were alone, the foursome had chosen to sleep together, huddled in this room, yet rolled in separate blankets.

He regarded Meghan’s feminine silhouette. She would wake up that morning and find herself alone. Some day after that—probably soon—Peter would die. For a fleeting moment, Jeremy questioned himself. Maybe he should leave her a note, he thought, just a small slip of paper with two words written across it. SAN DIEGO, their final destination. Perhaps he should share that information with her, give her something to cling to when her heart broke in two, some glimmer of hope for when the times became tough.

Though the thought plagued him, in the end, he moved on. This part of his life was done and over with. He’d likely never see Meghan again.

His eyes found Peter, curled tight beneath the sheets. His leg—as ever—was propped atop several thick blankets. It was bad. Horrendous. It would be the death of him. Meghan could call it anything she liked. She could fool herself until the day he died. She could lie to herself, say dry rot was better, but like it or not, rot was rot. Death was death. Gangrene was gangrene. Jeremy shook his head woefully. Leaving her behind was for the best. He couldn’t allow her to follow him, nor permit her to drag Peter along.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Sam’s inquisitive gaze, and for a moment, indecision plagued him. He stood, frozen, legs shoulder-width apart, his left arm braced against the wall. It was time. They were leaving. He was making his vision a reality, for there was no turning back once he made this decision.

Before he was able to stop himself, he crept into the dark room and crouched in front of Peter. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. What was he doing? They needed to leave. He was stalling and knew it, and the thought engendered panic. Was he chickening out? After all of his planning? Was he doubting a decision he knew to be right? Life was easier inside of this house. Was he a fool to chance the unknown? His heart went out to Peter. Life had dealt him a piss-poor deck. None of this ever should have happened to him. It wasn’t his fault. He was innocent, angelic. Had Jeremy met Meghan sooner, he mused, this probably wouldn’t have happened to Peter. Jeremy wouldn’t have allowed it to happen. But it was too late now. The damage was done.

Jeremy reached for Peter’s keychain, which was lying on the blanket. It was a small teddy bear with a bow around its neck. He palmed it, lifted it, brought it to the light. It was old and musty. The fur was matted. The coal-black nose hung loose by ragged threads. He tucked the blankets beneath Peter’s chin, while an uncomfortable knot slowly coiled in his belly.

“I’m sorry little one,” he murmured quietly. “You’ll never know how sorry I am.”

Sorry for what? the little voice hissed in his head. For abandoning a defenseless little boy? For leaving a woman who depends on you? Or for putting your own child’s needs above another’s?

Yes, he thought. Correct on all accounts. He was ashamed of these things, and of course, of many more. He was ashamed of himself for running away, for refusing to stay and find solutions. He was embracing cowardice, deserting people in need. He was ashamed of himself for all of his choices.

As he looked around the room, his eyes fell on Peter’s last bottle of pills, and though he felt the weight of the disks in his pocket, there wouldn’t be enough to make the journey. The disks wouldn’t stretch all the way to San Diego. He’d need the pills, just to bridge the gap. He’d need them to see her over the finish line.

The bottle tantalized him. He wanted it. His jaw tightened. His palms slicked with sweat. It was Meghan’s last bottle. She’d spoken of it, just last night. In fact, they’d argued about it. She’d wanted to revisit the hospital in town, but Jeremy had said it was a waste of time. He’d finally convinced her to try Knoxville.

Unable to catch his breath, he moved for the pills. His fingers trembled as they hovered over the bottle. He glanced at Sam and instantly regretted it. Her forehead was creased, a question dangling on her lips. Meeting his eyes, she cocked her head inquisitively. He could practically hear her prickly words.

With sudden decisiveness, he pushed himself to his feet, blocked Peter from her sight, as well as the bottle, and with the sleight-of-hand of an expert magician, palmed the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. Was it his imagination, or had Sam just trembled? Had she heard the pills fall to the bottom of his pocket?

Jesus. What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t the action of a sane man. This wasn’t the man he wanted to be. Sam didn’t need the pills. Peter did. So why was he acting so selfishly? As he scrutinized his precious daughter’s face, his conscience waged war within him. Dear God. His breath caught. Her beautiful face, the face that so reminded him of Susan. He would probably do anything for her. No. Correction. He was doing anything for her—right now. He was killing a defenseless child for her. Not by his own hands, of course, but indirectly. He wasn’t choking Peter or pushing him off a cliff, but he was killing him. That couldn’t be denied. The method didn’t matter. In truth, Jeremy’s was worse. Peter’s death would be slow and agonizing. Meghan would awaken in a panic. She’d be forced to go out and search for pills immediately. Would the leg go first, or would it be his sight? Would he drop into a coma, or stay conscious enough to bear the pain and tough it out?

Meghan would be horrified by Jeremy’s last act. He couldn’t help but see the bitter symmetry of it. She would have circled back to her first intuition—women’s intuition, she would probably call it. She’d curse him bitterly, say she’d always known, likely punish herself for ignoring her instincts. Her initial hunch, after all, had been right. She’d started their relationship with a gun to his head. She’d undoubtedly wish she could end it there, as well.

But Peter still had half a bottle of pills, right? Enough to last until Meghan found more? She kept a bottle hidden beneath the couch in the living room, though she didn’t think Jeremy knew about that. Perhaps, he told himself, she kept others hidden, too. Perhaps there were secret locations all over this house. Maybe she’d never trusted Jeremy at all. Maybe she’d feigned her attachment to him, used it as a tactic to get what she wanted, or as a clever deception to get what she needed.

But even as his mind tried to accept the false narrative, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He was trying to rationalize the worst thing he’d ever done, though he didn’t deserve such pardons. He deserved far less, to ponder this last vicious act for what remained of his pathetic, forgettable, and dismal life. It should haunt him by night and plague him by day. He was acting passive-aggressively, dishonorably, and with cowardice. This was a turning point for he and Sam because today he was killing an innocent person. How might karma repay him for that? In what ways would it make him suffer? Would he be the one to ultimately settle this debt? Or would the fates call upon Sam? The thought nearly caused him to fall to his knees. He almost turned back, but didn’t. Couldn’t. Lifting his shoulders, he tried to exude a sense of confidence he didn’t feel inside. Crossing the room in three long strides, he clasped her hand and pulled her toward the door. She came willingly, though woodenly, and together—for better or worse—they stepped into the night and the bitter unknown.

Sam was silent as they walked down the road. Eyes forward, and hands held stiff at her sides, she focused on their path, saying nothing to Jeremy. If she suspected him of something, she didn’t give it voice, though she didn’t yet know the full extent of his plan. Before he’d awakened her, he’d slipped behind the house and added a few last items to the cart. He’d pushed it down the road, hidden it behind a barn, and she flinched as they approached its familiar shape. Thought her mouth was grim, she still pressed on.

The morning breeze lifted the ends of her hair. The day was tranquil, the sounds soothing: the scraping of tires and boots against gravel, the soft exhalations of her rhythmic breathing. Together they walked as the sun climbed the mountains. Before long, it splashed warmth across their backs. As they continued westward, Jeremy felt transformed. Somewhere in the distance, in the direction he was facing, past the highways, fields, streams, and rivers, San Diego waited with open arms. Somewhere in front of them, the Pacific Ocean gleamed and glittered, as it sent its lifeless waves crashing against the shoreline. They’d make it, he told himself. They would. They must.

He and Sam walked for hours. She didn’t say much when they stopped to rest, and nothing when he smoothed their map across the rocky payment. But he knew she’d figured out his plan soon enough. She’d probably reckoned the generalities of it—it was only the specifics she lacked.

She broke the silence only once that day, when she pointed to Neyland Drive, asking simply that they follow it.

“It hugs the curves of the Tennessee River. I’d like to see water, I think,” she said.

With a nod, he altered their course. At least she was speaking again. That was something. For that much, at least, he was grateful.

The weeks that followed were much the same. She rarely spoke, if ever, and never unless he had spoken to her first. And she didn’t ask questions, as she was prone to do. It was as if her childlike curiosity had died. They traveled at night, and slept in vacant homes, and a few blocks back, he’d smelled water. It was sour and sharp. The river, he surmised.

She finally broke the silence, which startled him. “Wouldn’t we find bikes at a university?”

So immersed he was in his own private musings that he hadn’t noticed her stop in front of a group of large buildings. Nor had he seen the broken sign on the lawn. It was a school with sweeping grounds, a university. There were bike racks in the front and a bank of seven doors. It was The University of Tennessee, Knoxville.

“Probably rusted heaps of twisted metal by now.”

She 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. Don’t you think?”

Raising her face, she squinted into the sun. She drew a breath several times as if she meant to say something to him, but in the end, closed her mouth, reconsidering it. They shared an uncomfortable silence as he waited. He owed her his patience, and probably more.

“Pike,” she said finally.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Pike?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Pike. From now on, call me Pike. Pike is a species of fish.”

He nodded. “Pike was a species of fish. And why— might I ask—do you want me to call you Pike? Why call you by the name of a long-extinct fish?”

She shrugged, her eyes focused on the road in front of them. “It’s my new gang name. You should choose one too.”

She closed her eyes and basked in the sun, then lowered her face to meet his gaze. “If we’re planning to act like a heartless gang, we should choose gang names. It just makes sense.”

With that, she turned, and walked away from him, and with razor-sharp talons, guilt clawed at his gut. Like a child who’d been scolded and rebuked by a parent, Jeremy dropped his head and followed close at her heels. He knew what she meant. It wasn’t hard to grasp her meaning. It was the closest she’d come to making a formal accusation, and though she hadn’t said the words, he knew what she meant. The disapproval in her eyes ran him through like a sword. Like a knife, it sliced his heart in two.

But people, he had learned, were never one thing. Was Jeremy a good man? Yeah. Of course. Was he a bad one, too? Oh, yes. That, too. One did what one needed to do to survive. Peter wasn’t the first person Jeremy had killed, nor would he likely be the last.

Slowly but surely, they’d make it to San Diego. He’d push them. Hard. Probably harder than he should. Perhaps, like she said, they’d find bikes at the University, and if they did, he’d push them even harder.

Perhaps they’d get as far as Huntsville by tonight.

Perhaps they’d even cross a state line.

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