Time Lost: Teenage Survivalist II (3 page)

Chapter 5

Fire and Loss

Just as I was beginning to think that Dad and I were going to pull through this crisis, Time decided to rear its spiteful face to play a horrible trick on me. In January it became bitterly cold, and without heat in the apartment, we were miserable, along with everyone else in the city. Try as we might to avoid catching any diseases, Dad and I came down with the flu. While mine just made me tired and achy, Dad’s became much worse, with fever, chills and raspy breathing. I wondered if the possible broken ribs from the riot at the water tanker weeks before might have allowed pneumonia to settle in his lungs. I did what I could to help ease his pain. Dad didn’t want me going alone to get our water and grain ration, so we tried to get by without it. But by the end of the week, Dad was becoming so dehydrated, I knew I had to go. I slipped out of the apartment while he was asleep.

I knew that Dad hadn’t been eating as much as me—he would always take a few bites then say he was full and push the rest toward me—but I was shocked with how much weight he had lost in the last month. Since it had been so cold, we’d been wearing several layers of clothes to keep warm. It wasn’t until Dad pulled off his layers of sweatshirts in one of his feverish fits, that I saw that he had been reduced to skin and bones, almost literally. I wanted to take him to the hospital, but after what he had seen there when he took old Mr. Westcott, he begged me to promise that I wouldn’t take him.

—
They have nothing to help me there, son. No medicine, no sanitation, no power. The hospitals have become morgues. I’ll be okay; I just need some sleep. I’m so tired…

I promised, but I vowed to go back on it if he got much worse. At least I could go and try to find a doctor to come help him.

The day I left him alone at home to get our water and grain ration from the military truck, it was colder and grayer than ever, with the wind howling around every corner of the buildings downtown. Flurries started to fall and quickly developed into sleet. I thought about turning back and just letting my bucket fill with snow, which I could melt for water over our homemade oil lamp, but after seeing how thin Dad had become, I decided that he needed the grain to survive. So I stood, along with about a hundred other starving, freezing people in line for two or three hours. When I was nearing the front of the line, I started smelling smoke. At first, it was a pleasant smell, bringing back memories of roasting marshmallows around the little metal fire pit in our backyard at home when I was a kid. Even as I tried to push those treasured memories back down inside, the smell of the fire became stronger and more acrid. Because I was between tall buildings, I couldn’t see where it was coming from, but the smoke was now curling around the buildings on both sides of me. I decided to stay to get the rations since I was so close to getting it, but after I got it, I hurried back toward our apartment.

About three blocks away, I couldn’t even see anything anymore, the smoke was so thick. It was choking me and panic was quickly rising in my chest—not just because I couldn’t breathe, but because I knew Dad was lying helpless back there in one of those buildings. It was almost certain that even if our building weren’t the one on fire now, it would be by the time it was all over. I dropped my rations and ran around the buildings the other way, trying to come from the opposite direction so I could get into our building to get Dad out. People were swarming from the direction of the fire, covered in black soot, choking and coughing. I tried to stop some of the people I recognized from my building, asking them if they’d seen Dad, but they just shook their heads and struggled on.

I could only get within two blocks of the building before the smoke overcame me. I’m not sure whom, but someone dragged me out by my arm into the clear air and then ran on without a word. I was crying by then; I didn’t care who saw me. When I finally caught my breath, I tried to beg bystanders to help me go in to get dad, but they all said it was impossible. I’d never felt so helpless and furious in my life. Just because I had left Dad to get the food and water he needed to survive, just at that precise moment in time, just in the amount of time I stood in that line—all those things Time used against me to take away the most important person in my life. I cried and yelled but my voice was only one of the many, crying out over the loss of home, worldly goods, and loved ones.

At one point, I found Officer Ortiz helping an older woman who was sitting on the curb get to her feet so she could move on to safety. I pestered him about going in to try to save my dad until he just came out and told me the unavoidable, crushing truth.

—
Kid, I’m sorry. If he got out you might find him wandering around, but if he’s not out by now, he ain’t comin’ out.

Officer Ortiz looked at me with sadness and pity in his eyes. He started to say something else, then changed his mind and told me I’d better find someplace to spend the night because it looked like this snowstorm was going to get worse. I spent the rest of the afternoon there anyway, looking through the throngs of people for Dad. Mobs of people were standing as close to the fire as they could without being choked by the smoke, because at least it was warm. We kept having to move back as the fire spread from building to building, devouring whole blocks as it went. It was incredible that it could still be burning so ferociously with all the snow that was falling.

As I was standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about the nightmare I had had about the sun burning my skin and wondered if that was how it had been for Dad. Even though a tiny place in me still held out hope that he got out somehow, I knew he wasn’t strong enough to even yell at anyone to come help him, let alone get out of bed. I couldn’t get the image of Dad’s skin on fire out of my head and that spurred me to keep looking for him.

When darkness began to fall and it was too dark to clearly see the faces of the people around me, I dazedly followed some people I had been standing next to as they wandered away from downtown. I was numb by that time, numb with cold and numb with emptiness. Somehow we wound up at the old Union Station building and found a place that had been broken into, where hundreds of people were setting up for the night. It was apparent that some of the people had been there for a while, but most of them were newcomers displaced by the fire. Everyone was exhausted, cold, hungry, and depressed. Desperation showed in their eyes, even though we were all too tired to do anything about it. There were a few children among us, though not as many as I would have thought—a depressing thought in itself—and they were crying quietly or just staring listlessly with big, round eyes. It was as if the life inside of all of us had died in that fire.

I slept fitfully that night on the cold marble floor, and kept waking up with a start to the sound of people screaming or crying out in their sleep. Other times I’d dream I was suffocating and I’d wake up crying, agonized about the thought of Dad gasping for air. Even though the pain of my loss was unimaginably immense, I knew that everyone else was feeling the same way, and that was oddly comforting.

In the morning, the snow had finally stopped blowing and some of us trekked through the shin-deep snow back downtown. From quite a distance, we could see huge plumes of billowing smoke, but no flames. We could also see two of the tallest buildings, one of which was where Dad used to work, were still standing, although covered in black soot almost to the top. When we got closer, we could see that many of the buildings that made up downtown had been burned, some to the ground. Those that were left had heavy smoke damage and some were still smoldering. It reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of Hiroshima after it was nuked in World War II.

A nice woman next to me asked me what I planned to do now, and I just looked at her vacantly for a minute. I knew that I had to move on, to figure out some kind of plan, but I couldn’t make my mind work just yet.

—
Don’t you have any family or friends you can go to?

It took me several more seconds to think of Mom; I’m not sure why. I think my mind was just numb and I didn’t want to associate the horror of what I had gone through with her. I think I was also a little scared that if I thought about her, I might lose her, too, so I shook my head at the lady. She smiled and gently took my hand.

—
You come with me then. I have a brother that lives just across the river. I’m sure he’d let you stay for a while until you find someplace.

The lady tried to talk to me at first, told me her name was Lydia, but I just walked on in silence. I think she probably realized that I was in shock, or maybe she thought I was mute, but in either case, she quit trying and we just walked on through the dirty, soot-covered snow.

I followed the lady, making a wide arc around the burned out section of downtown and across one of the bridges over the Missouri river. I remember looking down at that river as we crossed, noticing how peacefully it was flowing, even with the thick blanket of snow covering its banks, and thinking that it had no clue about the suffering that was happening all across the land that it flowed through. I kept thinking that if I could just float down that river, eventually I’d find a warm place that was unaffected by all this despair. It was so tempting to just let myself fall in and be taken by the river, but something stirred inside me—life, I guess—and I kept on following the lady, who didn’t even know my name.

Chapter 6

Water and Warmth

When we were nearing Lydia’s brother’s house, I started smelling burning wood, but it didn’t register in my thick, clouded mind until I saw several thin, wispy columns of smoke rising in the distance. I stopped in my tracks and stared, fearing another huge inferno ahead. Lydia must have noticed the fear in my eyes, because she stopped and said gently,

—
It’s okay; most of the homes in this neighborhood have fireplaces.

It took a few seconds for that to sink in, but when it did, I started walking again with in-creased urgency to get there. It was late afternoon now and bitterly cold. I couldn’t feel my feet or my face, and I knew that Lydia must have been freezing, too. As terrified as I now was of fire, the thought of a chance to get warm overwhelmed my fear, and now I couldn’t wait to get there.

The neighborhood was quiet and clean, unlike downtown. In the twilight it looked like it was out of a fairytale, untouched by the events of the last few months. It was only as we got closer that I noticed the many tree stumps in the yards—ornamental trees that had been cut down for fuel. The few trees that were left in the yards and a nearby park were huge old-growth trees, whose lower branches had all been hacked off, their ragged stumps protruding from the trunk like amputations gone wrong. Nevertheless, the neighborhood seemed magical to me and in my overtired, overwrought, starved and dehydrated brain I started to believe that I might be in heaven.

When we got to the house, Lydia’s brother was ecstatic to see her. It was obvious that he hadn’t heard from her for a while and feared for her safety when downtown was burning. He looked at me a little warily, but invited me in anyway, apparently trusting his sister’s instincts. Lydia introduced her brother as Roger, his wife as Silvia, and their daughter, who seemed to be about nine or ten years old, as Whitley. I was able to choke out my name through my cracked, frozen lips and parched throat. Roger led Lydia and me into the living room where the fireplace was sending out rays of wonderful heat, then handed us large cups of clear, warm water. I gulped it down, marveling that they had so much water to drink. After the cup was empty, he filled it again and I gulped it down, as well. After the third cup, Roger told me I should slow down or I would get sick. He said that since it had snowed, they had plenty of water that they could melt over the fireplace. They didn’t have any food they could offer, though, and that was fine by me. I wasn’t hungry anymore, now that my belly was full of water. I managed to squeak out a reply.

—
Thanks, I’m good now.

After I warmed up a bit, I took a look around at the family. Lydia was talking softly with her brother and his wife, while their daughter was sitting on the floor across the room staring at me with her huge dark eyes. I noticed that like everyone else I’d seen lately, this family was skinny and their faces had a sickly, grayish tint surrounding eyes that appeared larger than normal and sunken into their heads. It reminded me of some of the people in anime movies, the really sad ones like
Grave of the Fireflies
. I knew then that I wasn’t in heaven and that these people were suffering, too, although they seemed to have it a little better than the people in the downtown area had. At least they had some heat and now water to drink. The little girl motioned me over to her and I decided to go since I felt a little awkward just standing there by the fire.

Another thing I noticed, as I sat on the floor by Whitley, was the absence of much furniture. There was a sofa, on which was seated Roger and Lydia, and a recliner that Sylvia was sitting in. Other than that, there was not another chair, no end tables, bookcases, or any other piece of furniture that you’d expect to see in a house such as this. Lamps and a few knickknacks were placed on the floor near the walls and there was a big pile of blankets on the floor behind the sofa. Whitley tentatively began a conversation.

—
Your name’s Ben, right?

I nodded.

—
  I’m Whitley.

—
That’s an unusual name. Where’d you get it?

I knew my reply had sounded lame, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

—
My mom’s middle name is Whitney and my dad’s middle name is Lee.

When I still looked perplexed, she continued.

—
You know, Whit Lee.

—
Oh, I get it.

—
Who are you named for?

—
My dad named me after Benjamin Franklin, I guess. He admired him.

My voice cracked at the mention of my dad and I looked down quickly to hide the tears that threatened to spring to my eyes. While I was struggling to take control of my tingling eyes, I focused on my name and why I was named that. I know Dad was a fan of Benjamin Franklin, but I wasn’t sure if it was the man he loved or the $100 bill that bore his portrait. As for my middle name, Matthew, I didn’t know where that came from, but then out of the blue, I remembered that Mom’s maiden name was Matthews and all of a sudden I had an immense yearning to see her again and to be held in her arms. I knew then that I had subconsciously been following Lydia because she was heading north, the direction of Mom’s house. Somehow the thought of being halfway to Mom’s cheered me and I was able to answer when Whitley asked me,

—
How old are you?

—
I’ll be fifteen in April. How about you?

—
I’m almost thirteen. In May.

That surprised me. I didn’t think she was older than ten, but I realized it was probably because of her emaciated condition. I probably looked a lot younger than I was, as well. She sounded sad when she spoke next.

—
I don’t think my dad will let you stay. We don’t have enough food for us as it is, and now with Aunt Lydia…

She shook her head apologetically.

—
That’s ok. I’m headed to my mom’s house up north.

I smiled to show her that I understood her family’s predicament.

—
You want to know what I miss most?

She sounded wistful and young. I figured she was going to say that she missed going to school, seeing friends, texting on her cell phone, or something like that, but she surprised me.

—
I miss reading before I go to sleep. I always used to read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Now it’s too dark and I just lie there in the dark, not able to go to sleep.

—
Don’t you have any candles that you could read by?

—
Oh, no. Those we burned in the first month. And the flashlight batteries gave out the first week.

—
I can show you how to make a lamp out of cooking oil if you have some.

Whitley’s eyes grew bright even in the dim light of the fireplace.

—
I think we have some in the pantry! Let’s go see.

Whitley jumped up and grabbed a small piece of wood stacked on the floor beside the fireplace. It appeared to be the leg off some piece of furniture and it dawned on me why the house was so empty. They were forced to burn pieces of their wood furniture to keep warm. Whitley held the end of the piece of wood in the fire until it lit, then led me through the kitchen to the pantry. The fire from the stick was dim but we could see the few items left on the pantry shelves, mostly non-food items like trash bags and dishwashing liquid. There was no cooking oil, however, there was a big can of Crisco.  She held it out to me.

—
Will this work?

—
I don’t know why we couldn’t try it and see.

It took Whitley a little time to talk her dad into letting us use it. He thought they might have to eat it to stay alive, but finally decided that if they were reduced to eating shortening, they wouldn’t live long after that anyway, so he let her have it. She gave him a big hug with tears in her eyes and I could tell that he was happy to see her smile for once. We found some string and a small stick, which I used to poke a hole down the middle of the shortening. Then I pushed one end of the string down into it, leaving about a half an inch sticking out the top. Whitley used the lit piece of wood to light the end of the wick. It flickered at first, then began to burn brightly after the shortening around it melted a little. It was amazing how much light it put off and soon the rest of the family was gathered around it, marveling at my ingenuity.

Later that night, Whitley happily read herself to sleep wrapped in blankets on the floor behind the sofa with the Crisco lamp burning brightly. While Lydia slept on the sofa, I was ecstatic to be able to sleep in front of the fireplace, my yearning for warmth winning out over my fear of fire. Sylvia smiled at me gratefully as she blew out the wick on her way to bed.

In the morning, Roger showed me the traps that he and his neighbors had devised for trapping small animals, like squirrels and rabbits, in the neighborhood. He told me that at first they were successful, but now there weren’t many animals left in the neighborhood. He said that he now spent a good portion of each day walking the three miles or so down to the banks of the Missouri River to set traps for birds, rats, squirrels, or any other animal he was lucky enough to catch. He had to stay to guard them, though, or someone else would steal the trapped animal and often the trap itself. Most days he came home empty handed, but sometimes he would get lucky and catch two or three animals.

Roger reluctantly told me I could stay with them, as long as I caught my own food. He made it clear that although they were willing to share their house, there wasn’t enough food to go around and I could tell it was hard for him to say it, both because he didn’t want to feel obligated to share and because he felt bad about turning a needy kid away. I didn’t mind, though. I knew they had to take care of family first and they had absolutely no reason to open their home to me, a stranger. I assured him that I wouldn’t be staying much longer. As soon as the weather warmed up a little I was going to head out for my mom’s house up north.