The Rain (10 page)

Chapter 5

The blue tarps spread across the top of the island, which was once a great mountain, but now is just a long slope rising out of the water and I can’t see where it ends. Near the edge of the land, where it glides down into the water, there’s nothing. The tarps are near the top. I think of how warm it must be under them, how dry, and how much food there must be for so many to be living together. We’ve been alone for so many weeks now that the thought of company almost frightens me, and I don’t even know if my muscles will hold out to get us there. Russell is still incapacitated, so I sacrifice my body, because it’s all I can do to get him off this godforsaken boat. I start getting ahead of myself. I think about the tarp dwellers. I’m not sure if we should go right up to the tents—or at least I’m not sure if I should make the call without Russell’s input. But he’s in no condition to advise me. Even though I’ve never heard of face eaters living in organized tarp cities like this one, that doesn’t mean they can’t exist. Communities of death. And there are plenty of non-face eaters who hate strange folks coming on what they consider their own piece of the warm and dry. Russell and I know all too well how thin supplies are, especially in the West. There’s only so much to go around. I debate what to do as I row, digging with the last bits of my strength into the rain sea, pushing us along much slower now, but with the last of my energy making sure we don’t drift past the bank I’ve been eyeing for the last half hour. It’s the only spot where the rise looks gradual enough that I won’t lose the canoe if I try to park it there. Everywhere else it’s like the land rises straight up, like on the mountain there had been a sheer face. As we get very near to the bank where I intend to put us in, I lose sight of the blue tarps. They are only visible from a distance because they’re so high up on the land, along the top ridge. I wish Russell was well enough to help me land the canoe, because I’m no good at it. But I’ve seen him do it enough, and I’m happy to hear the sound of his breathing, which is shallow but steady.

            I stroke in, then push the oar into the water and hold it broadside to try to slow the boat down. Rain punishes the muddy rise that I wedge the canoe into. She sticks into the bank on the first try and I collapse. It’s like I don’t even have the energy to get out of the canoe. I slump down in the seat and take it in—
we’re off the water
. No more swells. No more bailing. At least not for the moment. But the sooner we get onto the land, the sooner we find out if we have to go right back into the sea, and I can’t bring myself to get off yet to find that out. Lying down as best I can I turn to Russell and tell him we made it. He responds by trying to get up. Hold on I tell him, and he obeys. I rest. I need to rest before moving onto the land. I check for my knife, and thankfully, it’s still in my pocket. I have no idea if Russell has his, but it doesn’t matter because he couldn’t use it even if he did. He’s much too weak now. If this is an organized dwelling of cannibals, it’ll be just me to defend us now. And my best defense is pushing out to sea again, as shitty as our boat is. Maybe I can take one face eater, if I sneak up on him. But we can’t take an ambush, and that’s how the face eaters usually operate—surprise attacks from behind rocks, bushes, trees, from anywhere where they have an unfair advantage.

I finally decide we have to get off. I’m tired again. The boat’s sinking. I need to sleep. Russell needs to get out of the rain. Hypothermia is setting in, I’m sure I feel it in my bones. I thought I saw a lot of green near the blue tarps, like there were trees, or some other kind of vegetation. If that’s the case, the tarpers will have some of it, as much of it as possible, under their tarps, dried out. That means there will be fires. The thought of fire pushes my legs down into the floor of the canoe and makes me stand up. I take the nylon rope out of the food sack. I walk up through the shallow water and find a large root slicing through the mud.  It pokes out at just the right spot for me to tie the nylon around it. A root is never as good as a rock, but I don’t care. The canoe seems stable enough. Come on, I call to Russell, as if he’ll just get up and walk off with me. But he’s much too sick now to do that. I take the tent off of him and bring it with the poles up onto the first flat patch of earth I reach. It’s about twenty feet up the bank, but still way down from the tarps, out of sight. I get to work setting up the tent, realizing that this time Russell will have to get in it himself. I can’t pitch the tent over top of him while he’s lying in the boat. The tent is set up in no time, because the thought of being under a roof surges in me. To rest under all its leaky canvas spread like a haven of the dry and the warm.

            We used to carry fuel with us all the time. But we haven’t had any in weeks. There’s not much fuel left in Wyoming it seems. I wonder if they have fuel up in the tarps, and if I could avoid interacting with them at all, and just sneak up later and try to steal some gasoline.

I check the tent poles to be sure they’re in where they won’t slide out while we’re sleeping. They seem sturdy enough. I head back to the canoe. It’s starting to collect too much rain, losing its buoyancy. I step in again and walk up to Russell. I touch his face, but I give up trying to tell if he has a fever or not anymore. His eyes open at my touch. Hey, come on. I can’t get you out of here on my own. You have to help me. He obliges without so much as a groan. He stands up like his bones need oil, and he’s rusted beyond repair. I let him keep his left hand on my shoulder for balance and together we tread the low water up the muddy rise toward the tent. He does pretty good, only stumbling once, but leaning on me to prevent the fall. When we get to the tent flap I pull it open for him and he is really slow to get down on his knees. He gets wet and dirty again moving in, because he’s too spent to move carefully. He drags a long patch of mud and water across the bottom of the tent, but it doesn’t matter too much because cold rain is dripping in from the two holes in the roof anyway. I get in behind him and close the tent flap immediately. I ask if he still has his knife. I think so, he says. Then he curls up in the fetal position and faces the far wall of the tent. The sky is gray, and so gray that I can’t even tell what time of day it is anymore. But the idea of real sleep overtakes all other thoughts. On the sea, sleep was a temporary fantasy, where water would eventually rush in to remind me that I can’t really leave. But now, we’re on solid ground, and the lack of motion, the pure stillness beneath my body, puts me into a trance. It’s almost like I’m done, and I can stop struggling now, and I can finally go away from this all. There won’t be nightmares this time, I know. Just a dream of warmth. I miss having a blanket. But I have hope for the tarps. Even if it’s just stealing some gasoline. At least we’re not on the water, I tell myself. Then I pull my body in close to Russell’s, loop my arms around his chest. I think I feel warmth again coming from him. It’s a sign that he’s getting better I tell myself. We made it, I whisper in his ear. He utters a long
mmmm
, and I think he’s as content as me to be off the water. I pull myself even closer into him, sharing my own heat, pushing us further into the tent wall so we’re not touching the rain that’s pooling in the center of the tent. For a moment, I think the hypothermia is setting in really hard now, and the rubber skin, and everything else, and it’s no time to go to sleep. It’s time to panic. Something screams in me to go get help right now from the tarps, and risk everything for the chance to be saved. But my closed eyes are like an elixir that I can’t escape from, and the blackness pulls me like a vortex into the cusp of the sweetest sleep I have ever known. We breathe in sync, and the sound of the rain on the tent fades away.

I hear really heavy breathing and open my eyes. Something is nudging against the other end of the tent. It’s breathing hard, in bursts. Something wants to get in. I look at the tent wall and see a silhouette moving along the outside of the tent. The floor of the tent is covered in water. I have no idea what time it is or how long we’ve been sleeping. Then the shape moves again, walking close to our heads. It huffs, pushing a long snout into the canvas. It’s a dog.

            “Russell,” I say. “There’s a dog outside the tent.” I shake him a little. It must have wandered down from the tarps. I can’t believe they’ve got a dog living here, and as much as I want to meet it, I’m scared it might want to eat us, or that it might bark and send the tarpers to our tent. Maybe they’re already here, right behind the dog. Watching it investigate us for them. I prod Russell until I get a reaction out of him. Surprisingly, he sits up on his own and looks at the dog.

            “I’ll be damned,” he says. It’s like he’s feeling all better until he coughs. The dog jumps back and barks once. Russell responds by heading to the tent flap, opening it and poking his head out.

            “What are you doing?” I ask him, questioning his sanity. But he shushes the dog, calling it to him. I don’t want it to attract attention, he says. How do you know people aren’t with it already? I ask. I don’t, he says. Then the dog pokes its head into the tent. It’s a dirty blond mutt. Its fur is soaked through but it doesn’t look cold. It starts to wag its tail now that it’s pushed itself into the tent some, and before Russell can calm it further it starts to lick him. Good boy, Russell says. He’s smiling, like he hasn’t done in days. He’s getting better. The antibiotics must be working. The dog pushes its wet body past Russell as soon as it gets in far enough to see me. A giant tongue lolls out and slides across my cheek, then my nose, and then my mouth. I back up and spit for a second, but he’s persistent and pushes in again, happy for some reason to meet me.

            “Alright, let’s go boy, out,” Russell says, tugging the dog’s chest a bit, trying to point it around, back out into the rain. It doesn’t seem to want to go and Russell doesn’t have the strength to make it. I can’t believe this creature. Everything around us is awful, bitter cold, gray, desperate, and this dog is in ecstasy at meeting two strangers who, as likely as not, would eat him for food before pet him. But he stays with us, wagging his tail, expecting something like love. And I think of the veneer, almost enough to ask Russell about it, but he’s just getting better, and it’s too soon. But I really want to ask because I think of something—the dog seems to have it. Love. So what could the veneer be then, if it’s supposed to be a creation of humanity and yet animals have part of it in them? Maybe it’s a lot simpler than that. Or maybe love isn’t even a part of the veneer like Russell says it is. Maybe it transcends the veneer. Maybe things will work out in the end. I almost trick myself into thinking we’re in Leadville. And then I hear the shout.

            It comes from up the hill, a distance away, but clear as day even despite the smacking of the rain on the roof of our tent. The dog jerks his head at the shout. “Marvolo!” it comes again. The dog looks confused, unsure whether he really wants to leave so soon after meeting us. The call comes for the third time, this time, “Voley!” The dog darts out through the tent flap. Through the canvas I watch his silhouette bound up the ridge and well out of sight, and then I hear talking. It’s his master, asking him what he’s found. I turn to Russell, wondering if he’s well enough to fight if we have to. Have your knife? I ask him again. He starts looking in his pocket but can’t find it. I remember now. Shit, it’s in the guy, isn’t it? I say. Stuck in his chest, floating somewhere out on the canvas brown. There’s only mine now. I almost give it to him, but he doesn’t look like he’d be any good with it. He’s just strong enough to sit up and talk, but not to fight anyone off.

            “He’s coming,” I say as the silhouette of a person appears, coming down the ridge the way the dog left.

            Russell tries to move to the edge of the tent, but he does it so slowly and awkwardly that he slips on the rain that’s pooled on the canvas floor. “Shit.” He asks me what the island looked like, where I think we are. I tell him I have no idea, but I describe the blue tarps, all connected at the top of the island’s highest ridge, like one of the tarp cities we saw in Sioux Falls. How big is the island? he asks. I tell him I have no idea because I’ve only seen it from the front. But it looked pretty big. And the tarps stretched on and on. That’s a good thing, right? Means it can’t be face eaters, I say. Right, he says. But he’s not convincing. Give me your knife, he says. I tell him no.

            “Who’s in there?” calls the dog’s master from a safe distance in case we’re maniacs. But we’re not, and he might be the maniac. Stay, says Russell. Give me the knife. You stay, I tell him. I’ve kept him alive for two days, and I can’t bring myself to let him risk his life now, after coming through all that. I stand a better chance of protecting us now and he knows it. All I can think as I step out of the tent, knife in my hand, is that this person might have fire to share. That thought alone bears me out into the rain, and I stand up and turn, looking up the hill. The soaked dog is wagging its tail next to a man holding a gun. He’s young, but I can’t tell how young, because he’s in a full plastic suit, one much better than mine. He’s pointing a rifle right at me, unconcerned with the rain that’s hitting it, waiting for me to say something—to identify myself. He asks again who we are. Don’t move and tell me who you are.

            “We’re friendly, not face eaters. Heading to Colorado and got lost coming out of the Bighorns.”

            “You came all the way down from the Bighorns in that?” he says, his face half concealed under the plastic hood he’s wearing, once bright green, but now dirtied to a brownish tint. He’s looking at the canoe at the end of the nylon rope. The sea is attempting to bury it.

            “Yea,” I say. Russell coughs violently in the tent. After he’s finished coughing, the man, unmoving and keeping the gun trained on me, his dog still obediently at his side, says “Who’s
we
?”

            “Me and Russell. My name’s Tanner. He’s really sick. We have some antibiotics and food if you have fire.”