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Retreating to our cubicle with the sky darkening as cloud cover thickens, hail tapping on the tarp, the storm soon to follow. Outside, the temperature is dropping. Inside, we hold ropes attached to our makeshift ceiling; the wind tugging at our lives. The storms can last minutes, the rain for hours. If lucky, the wind will quickly subside. Rainwater collected, but often toxic, filled with “forever chemicals” called perfuloroalkyl and polyfluoroalky, considered by scientists as unsafe for long-term consumption, ‘treatable’ with considerable effort. These chemicals in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the rain that falls on our community, and now found in our blood.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Addison asks.
“Nothing.”
“Lier.”
Pause, “the past..., the present..., what’s next for us?”
“And?” she asks.
“I need to concede, deal with Sandra and her animosity. She will keep coming until achieving her mission. My presence endangers everyone,” Jesse whispers. “Either I move on or confront her.”
“We move on, you mean, run away?”
“Call it what you will.”
Silence as Addison pulls closer. I feel a sadness, a desperation at what she perceives I might do next. But, for a moment, only quiet, then... Lightning strikes close, a flash one-one-thousandths, a clap of thunder echoing. You feel the blast. We flinch and instinctively hunch down, pulling closer together.
The wind now howling, the polyethylene snapping, we each hold fast to the tarp, a thin membrane separating us from the downpour. Minutes tick by. The center of the storm moves on, still the rain plummets our shelter, the water below our pallets seeking to escape through narrow slits in the wall’s bottom, not quickly enough as water rises, covering our floor, soaking our wood and belongings, and soon our improvised surface. We wait, we watch. In our laps, the essentials sleeping bag held high, weapons, timber and burnable scrapes. Each time we think the rain is slowing, mother nature responses and returns.
Outside rivulets fill, streams rise, washes overflow, somewhere down stream flood consuming anything in its way. Mrs. Bishop will be at work, waiting for workers to appear. The night shift. Rain or not, people will expect a meal to be ready.
“I need to go now.”
Leaving her with her thoughts, I exit, dash across the roof, dodging raindrops. In the kitchen, as expected, Mrs. Bishop directing her staff. Food in short supply. No one happy, the preparers, the eaters. Grumblers all. Poor nutrition, toxic air, viruses doing well, mask worn. Even now, in the dark, lines form at the front gate, seekers seeking entrance, denied. Set-up make-do shelters waiting for sunrise. Only to be denied again.
Spirit crushed, “Mrs. Bishop, I fear I need to give notice.” I heard the words, they seemed stupid. In my mind, I hear her words echo. Hoping to hear a spot of encouragement, hoping she would seem to care.
Without looking up, “You do what you have to do.”
That was it? A few workers quickly glance up, then return to their task. I slowly back away, turn, and exit. Walk to the “urgent care” facility to see Diana and share my decision and wish her well. Stopping at her door, where I hear familiar voices. Frank? I slowly back away. I wander under the cover of the night, feeling abandoned. Waiting for morning. Seeking a dry spot to huddle, wondering if the world would be, or will be, a better place should humankind become extinct. Sunrise. Back to the serving line, for the last time.
After breakfast served, waiting at our table, look around, this morning gray and gloomy, the air thick and damp, staring into space considering my plight.
Demand exceeding supply. One by one, the Scout Team members arrive, all looking frayed having seen better days. What do I know about these men? I search my memory and find only bits and pieces and speculations. For now, they have united in thought and purpose, ready to plan together and execute those plans for the betterment of the unit. Since the ultimatum, no one dares leave the Well. Even the Scout team members struggle. Looking around now, avoid making eye contact.
Brett arrives first, once an investigator, late forties, six-two, with a ready smile, able to interact with others. An investigator having worked as a PI, looking for the missing, the lawbreaker, the runner, by nature a rule follower. A believer there is good in most, he listens, quickly picking up clues others may miss, able to build trust but equally talented to see lies and BS, while smiling. Quick to build friendships, Susan for one, a father figure. A role I seem unlikely to play, at least soon. Neither looking for nor running from peril. Seeking stability, not necessarily a permanent abode. Next...
Joshua, tough as a kid, his special talent was trouble. In his early years hooked up with shady characters, often finding himself one step ahead of the law. Parents had dropped him off to be raised by an aunt and an uncle, both of questionable character. The rumor was his uncle killed in some misunderstanding and aunt, a smooth con artist, eventually conned the wrong person. Meanwhile, Joshua was out and about making friends and living on the wild side of the street, like mom a hustler. Mom taught him well, handy with a gun, and a skilled gambler, often in the mix on nights scamming our visitors. Unlike Brett, not fond of rules. Tired of running from the law recently heading toward Mexico? Hiding here for the moment.
Wanted poster placed his age at mid-thirties. No formal education, self-taught, a reader with social skills and street smarts. Eye for detail and finally figuring out the difference between bad-trouble and good-trouble ended up at the Well in security with Mr. Maddox.
Frank, the youngest, was the looker in the group. Carefree with an eye for mischief, his capacity to overplay his hand had a definite downside. Great talker and the ladies, well, he attracted them, again had a definite downside. He was everyone’s friend, chatty. Well, education apparently raised in money. Claims his parents, tired of his expedient lifestyle and buying him out of difficulties. Knew how to interject himself in the social scene, with ease. Age, would guess, early twenties.
Cord looks young but claims he served in the U.S. Army for twenty-fives year in reconnaissance/undercover assignments and as a scout. Again, if you believe his story late forties. Skilled horseman, accomplished marksman, wants to stay in the background, never one to overstate his position or talents, and loyal to a fault. Running from his past and nightmares that now haunt him.
Addison arrives, completing the team, six in all. Blonde, blue eyes, well educated, and lethal. Speaks what is on her mind and decisive in all situations. A daddies’ girl raised to be self-sufficient socially, academically and, as her now deceased uncle found out, deadly.
My age, thirties. A growing relationship, I fear, will not end well. Something we were not seeking. It just happens. I had promised myself it would not.
Addison looks around at us. “Well guys, what’d I miss?”
We have spent a bit more than a year together facing multiple challenges, trusting each other. What next? A year sitting around this table in the rain, blazing heat, struggling against an invisible foe, nature, humanity determined to self-destruct. Continually blaming the others. Surrounded by packs of survivors. All fearful, lacking in... a tangible future, hope. Doing what needed to be accomplished in the moment to reach the next moment, hour, day.
“Mr. Eldridge has gotta know,” Jesse said.
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