the front door.
Finegan and the traveler are shoulder to shoulder, with Joey facing
backwards, at their back, his knife drawn and turned upward in front of
his chest. They move as a tight group toward the front door.
The zombies are gently knocked aside as Finegan and the traveler come
out the front door, pushing steadily but gently. When the way seems
clear, they pick up the pace, Finegan with his spare hand on the scuff
of Joey’s neck, making sure he is not left behind. Joey is almost glued
to their backs, walking backwards, his eyes moving from side to side,
scanning for danger.
When they seem clear by a couple feet, they all bolt in the direction
of the canoe, running.
OK. Run for it!
The zombies are following them, staggering along wordlessly, too
malnourished to break into a run but clearly intending to follow.
______________________________
The threesome are running back to where the canoe is pulled ashore and
clamor into it, the traveler pushing the canoe out into the water and
stepping in at the last minute. He and Finegan push away from the
shore, and paddle upstream energetically. The zombies are approaching
the shore, still following them. The traveler says,
Lord! No wonder my mother left. Were we
supposed to be supper?
Finegan replies,
Not sure, but I think they were just curious. I
think they eat rats, stuff like that. Mostly,
they’ve just been starving. Waiting to be
rescued. Probably near brain dead too, from
starvation.
Finegan and Joey have been glancing over their shoulder. Finegan says,
I think we’re pulling away, but I want to put
some miles between us. I’ll give you a good
breakfast in the morning if you’ll help me get
upstream tonight.
The traveler says,
Deal. I owe you that.
______________________________
42
The houseboat is moored at a small island in the center of the river,
tied to a tree. Finegan has just finished tying the knots, and returns
to pick up where he left off the day before – making a meal. He is
pulling some potatoes from a bin, and taking some fish out of the
wooden box he uses as a cooler. He sniffs the fish and determines they
are not yet spoiled. Finegan fires the coals and puts a blackened pot
of coffee on the grill, then pulls a pan out and slices potatoes and an
onion into it.
Joey and Barney were asleep on the deck, as usual, but stir due to all
the commotion. The Traveler is asleep on the house roof, hat over his
face, and snoring. Finegan glances at the traveler and says,
We’ve been taking shifts all night. I recon
he’s played out.
Finegan scans the shore in the direction of Millstown, several miles
downstream.
I recon we shook the shufflers. Joey, after we
eat, I’m crashing. You stand watch, eh?
At the smell of frying fish and potatoes and onions in a pan, the
traveler awakes, raising first one knee and then rolling over onto his
side, hand under his chin and hat pushed back on his head.
Boy that smells good . .
Energized, he rolls onto his butt and scuffs on his butt over to the
edge of the roof, climbing down using pile of boxes as stairs.
I’m going upstream a’ways and then overland to
Atlanta. . . Not sure what I’ll find.
Finegan is dishing out the pan-fry onto three plates, and hands one to
the traveler, then pours mugs of coffee. Finegan casts a glance at the
traveler’s shoes, soft sole for comfort while canoeing.
You’ll need some walking boots. What’er you
goin to do with the canoe? Carry is overland? .
. I’ve got some boots in a box. They might fit.
Joey gets his clue and puts his plate down, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand. He goes into the house and starts searching for the
box labeled “boots”. Finegan is also rummaging around in the laundry
pile, and pulls out a red bandana. He holds it up.
Tie this on a tree where you stash the canoe. .
. Even trade. . . You goin to need some socks?
43
The Castle
The houseboat is approaching a broken concrete dam, shattered by the
earthquakes. The floodwaters have raised the water level to the top of
the former dam, but there is not enough clearance to go over without
scraping the bottom of the houseboat, potentially getting caught and
stranded.
There are flooded trees but mostly the banks are clear and steep.
Finegan selects a sturdy tree as his anchor and ties up. The canoe is
tied firmly to the side of the houseboat, the paddles laid in the
bottom. Not a soul is in sight.
Finegan is pulling a tub out from the clutter, and sorting laundry,
preparing to finally have laundry day. Joey emerges from the house
holding an old Tide box.
This?
Finegan glances up.
No, that’s salt. It’s a brown box. Slivered bar
soap.
The camping grill is at the side, heating a pot of water, which can be
seen steaming. Finegan takes a couple pails of river water, pouring it
into the tub. He examines the box Joey brought from the house and
shakes some of this into the tub, then immediately pours boiling water
on top of the flakes. He then grabs a washing board nearby and starts
scrubbing shirts, wringing them out, and throwing them to the side to
be rinsed later.
Finegan stands straight, sweating a bit, to catch his breath. Looking
to the side, up along the shore, he sees a fisherman.
Company . .
The fisherman is quiet and dressed in earth tones, had been there all
along, not noticed. He nods in Finegan’s direction and recasts his
bamboo pole and line into the river. He does not have expensive fishing
gear, but rather a pole with a line tied to the end, primitive.
Finegan returns to scrubbing his laundry, seeing that his activity is
downriver from the fisherman’s spot, and that they are not interfering
with each other. Joey is picking up the washed items and rinsing them
in the river.
______________________________
44
The houseboat is now covered with drying laundry. All lines from the
corner posts are full, the laundry attached to the lines by anything
but laundry pins. Some shirts are attached by the arms of the shirt
knotted loosely around the line, as though the shirt itself were
holding onto the line. Heavy pants such as jeans are attached with
tools – clamps or pliers. The roof of the house is covered with small
items such as underwear and t-shirts.
The Fisherman is making his way down along the steep bank toward where
the houseboat is moored, a string of fish in one hand, his pole in the
other. He raises the hand that holds the string of fish.
Howdy. Be happy to share the fish and some
news.
Finegan has been sipping a mug of coffee, the pot still on the grill,
staying warm. He puts his mug down and rises to move toward the canoe,
tied to the side of the houseboat.
Let me bring you over . .
______________________________
The houseboat crew and their guest are seated on the clutter at the
front of the houseboat, framed by flapping laundry hung on the corner-
post lines. The laundry tub has been emptied into the river and is
turned upside down. Finegan is seated on this as a chair. They are all
finishing fried fish and potatoes, putting their plates aside and
sipping coffee. Time now to finish catching up on whatever news they
have to share. The fisherman says, with a deep sigh,
So the fire took it all . . gutted the place .
. people keep showing up, looking for the
stash, so we let the char heap say it all. . .
No need to explain.
Finegan asks,
Those armed guards, they gone too?
And the fisherman responds,
Them that didn’t kill each other off during the
shootout, yeah. They took their guns and went
off to Atlanta.
Finegan asks,
Just you and your family here?
And the fisherman relays,
Those that come looking to loot, they don’t
stay. They move on. . . We try to stay out of
sight.
45
Finegan sets his mug down and rises to pick up a pumpkin and holds it
high.
For the fish. Would you mind taking me back to
the castle? What looters want is not always
what’s valuable. I’d like to sort through.
Joey is watching Finegan’s face but they both are arriving at the same
conclusion, having learned to almost read each other’s minds. Joey will
bring the canoe back and stay with the boat, in case looters arrive.
______________________________
Finegan and the Fisherman are walking up a barren hill, no trees or
shrubbery on the hill. Near the top of the hill, not at the crest but
to the side of the crest nestled against a rock outcropping, is the
charred remains of a large house. The spiked metal fence that
surrounded the house is still intact, though the gates are hanging
open. Some sheep are seen on the hillside in the distance, grazing. The
two are seen walking through the gate.
The fisherman is pointing toward a corner pinnacle.
There they had the lookout. Had one atop the
hill too in a concrete bunker. Then the goods
they had in a basement bunker, huge. The guards
blasted that open to get at ‘em. Heard the
blast from miles away. This was after they kilt
Mr. Anderson. He’d hid the key and was holding
out, ya’know. He was real tight fisted . .
always was. Acted like he owned everybody. Got
him kilt, I recon. We ain’t seed him since.
The twosome continue walking toward what was the front door of the
enclave. The monstrous double front doors are hanging open, still
standing though one is hanging a bit off its hinges. The doors are
charred but still entact, as they were solid wood on top of metal
centers, designed to be impermeable. The twosome slide between the open
doors, stepping gingerly through the trash. The main room of the house
has been burned to the extent that there is no roof and the floorboards
have been consumed. Only an occasional floor beam is in place. Finegan
points to the side, where the fire was less intense in the wings of the
house.
Lets try that route.
Finegan and the fisherman punch out the remains of a window glass, and
climb through the open window frams. The room they are entering has a
46
solid floor, though the drapes and furniture have been consumed by the
fire. The fire raged upward in the drafts, not downward.
There is a bar on the far end of the room, farthest from the main room
inferno. Finegan heads over there, poking around behind the bar, but
nothing seems to have been left by the looters. He pulls at some
plumbing used to pipe carbonated water, and detaches a carbonating
device under the counter to take along.
He is still looking around, determined to find some booze. He is
pulling out half melted soda bottles, littering the floor with them.
Toward the back of this stash he finds what he is looking for, a half-
filled soda bottle that has a tape tag on it. The soda bottles toward
the back had not melted as much as those exposed to the air of the
room, and this bottle is intact.
Aha!
Finegan opens the cap and sniffs with satisfaction, taking a swing.
As tight as he was, the help had to hide any
booze they were stealing. . . Probably measured
the bottles daily.
Finegan holds the bottle high, sloshing it, smiling.
This is how they got around him. The whole
bottle went missing.
Suddenly he realizes there may be more, and drops down to dig around in
the soda bottle cabinet.
Finegan and the fisherman are going down some concrete stairs into the
basement of the castle hulk – an external entry to the basement. The
door to the basement has been blown open, the doors in fragments
pointing inward. There is some standing water on one side of the
basement floor, from rain and damaged drains and the fact that the
cataclysms tilted the house on its foundation. The walls are severely
cracked.
To one side of the basement, in one wall, is the entry to the food
stash, the entry now one big hole due to the explosion that set the
house afire. Various pieces of cardboard are littered here and there,
some floating in the flooded basement corner, as the supply depot has
been sifted through repeatedly by looters. Finegan is going to have a
look, and starts walking toward the blast hole.
Maybe they left some soap.
47
The shelves in the center of the bunker are knocked over and somewhat
charred. All the shelves of the bunker appear to be empty, though some
items have been thrown to the floor, discarded. As Finegan suspected,
these include boxes of soap powder and packages of bar soap. He goes
over to start stacking them in a pile. A voice growls out of the
corner.
That’s mine.
Finegan jerks his head up to look in one corner of the bunker, and sees
a shell of an old man, huddled behind some broken and empty cardboard
boxes. His clothing is matted with dirt, his hair long and stringy and
also matted, his beard thin and long, and his face wrinkly and with a
perpetual sneer plastered across his face. It is clear he has been
using a spot nearby for a toilet, as a pile of dung and yellow pool of
water attests. Finegan says,
Make you a trade! How about some roasted
pumpkin and pecans, eh? Something to eat.
The owner was not expecting to be fed or treated fairly, and looks
puzzled, unable to answer. Finegan takes the initiative. He pats the
pile of powdered soapboxes and bar soap packages.
I’ll leave these here, and be back in an hour
or so.
Finegan steps toward the exit, holding his soda bottle half full of
boo
ze to his far side so the owner cannot see this. He moves lively,
before the owner can speak, the astonished fisherman at his heels. When
they are clear of the room and on their way up the concrete steps, the
fisherman says in a loud whisper.
I thought he was dead! . . Huh . . Maybe he had
a bunker within the bunker. . . What’s he been
eating?
______________________________
Finegan and the curious fisherman are returning down the concrete
steps, holding a couple plastic buckets. One is filled with roasted
pumpkin pieces, skin still on and browned at the edges, and the other
is partially filed with shelled pecans. They make their way into the
bunker and look expectantly into the corner of the bunker where the
snarling owner was last seen. There is no one there.
Then they see the owner seated on the pile of powerdered soapboxes and
bar soap packages, glowering and sneering.
It’s mine!
48
Finegan calls the owner’s bluff, knowing he is not interested in soap
and has probably run through any secret food cache he had hidden in a
bunker within the bunker. Finegan turns to leave.
Suit yourself.
The owner snarls,
Wait!
Looking like a trapped, mean spirited animal, eyes shifting in every
direction and the sneer ever returning to his, the owner motions to his
side.
Bring that stuff over here and set it down.
Finegan sets his plastic buckets to the side of the soap pile, but far
enough way that the owner must actually rise from the pile to reach the
food. Finegan steps back. The owner lunges for the food, shuffling to
his corner of the bunker with it, hugging the buckets to his chest. He
starts stuffing the roasted pumpkin into his mouth like a famished