FORSAKEN: THE SYSTEMIC SERIES (18 page)

I can’t say I completely understood Joanna’s decision, but I did my best to support it.  I was sad to see her go, but kind of relieved at the same time.  With her departure that strange feeling of tension that existed inside me whenever Claire, Joanna and I were all together also left.  I could see something change in Claire too.  It was as though a weight had been lifted from her.  Her spirits picked up noticeably and she just seemed altogether happier.  I don’t think it was noticeable to the rest of the group, but it certainly was to me.  At night she’d snuggle just a little closer or she’d touch me lightly on the arm or chest.  During the day, she’d look at me and smile or I’d catch her watching me while I worked.  They were small, almost indiscernible things, but I noticed them and could read them like a secret code that was indecipherable to the rest of the world.

It took a few days to get used to Joanna and Shane not being around, and we tried to remove any reminders of their presence, not out of disrespect but to help us move along with the healing process. 

In the meantime, we were still waiting for rain.  I found myself constantly looking up at the sky throughout the day in hopes of seeing some dark clouds approaching on the horizon.  Most of the time though I was met with a bright blue sky adorned with an occasional puffy white cotton-ball cloud.

The pond – our reserve water supply that had now become our
only
water supply – had shrunk significantly.  I estimated it now to be about a third the size of when we’d arrived to Olsten.  I’d stopped using my wood stake to try to gauge just how much the pond was decreasing in volume each day as it was plain enough to see that that without rain, it wouldn’t be there much longer. 

I was extremely worried regarding our ability to remain in Olsten now, but I tried not to show my concern to the rest of the group.  I knew it had to rain
sometime
, and I was just hoping we could make it through the summer as I had great confidence that early fall would bring precipitation with it, although I recognized that my confidence could be sorely misplaced.  Plus, once summer was over, our crops would be grown and harvested and the drain upon our water resources would be substantially reduced.

Due to the water situation at the pond, I had begun making my regular water re-supply trips entirely on my own.  I did so to alleviate any stress among the others.  We’d all done enough worrying for a lifetime over the past year.  I felt that the rest of the group should have a much deserved break from some of the anxiety of this extremely stressful world in which we now lived. 

There were just so many damn concerns.  A continued food supply was a constant concern.  Safety was a constant concern.  Health, dietary, and sanitary conditions were constant concerns.  Pam’s pregnancy was a concern.  Claire’s diabetes and her stock of supplies were concerns.  And now our water supply was a concern; and it was one I just didn’t want to add to everyone else’s list too. 

Joanna had been the only other person who knew about the mysterious tracks I saw at the pond the day we’d traveled there together, and we’d agreed not to say anything to the others.  And with Joanna’s departure, I remained the sole barer of this worrisome revelation.  

During my water collection excursions, I continued to find the occasional tire track or foot print that I knew was definitely not mine.  While I didn’t particularly like the fact that someone else was sucking precious water from our pond, I also recognized that it wasn’t exactly
our
pond.  It was just a pond, in a field, out in the middle of nowhere.  For all I knew, it could very well be
their
– whoever “their” was – pond just as much or more so than ours.  More than anything, I was curious about who was visiting the pond, where they lived, and more importantly, whether they could pose a threat.  But I figured that as long as our paths didn’t cross, hopefully we could share the pond amicably and without dispute.

So when the 4
th
of July rolled around, I did my best to set my troubles aside and enjoy myself for a day. 

We’d been planning something special for the holiday since before Joanna and Shane had left, and we did our best to convince them not to depart until after the celebration.  We told them to wait another week as the festivities just wouldn’t be the same without them.  But once Joanna had made up her mind to go, she was antsy to be on her way. 

We began our Independence Day celebration at noon.  It was kind of weird.  It was our first such celebration since the flu had ravaged America and destroyed our nation as we once knew it.  Were it not for the holiday’s ingrained presence in our being, we really wouldn’t have had much of a reason to celebrate it.  The United States, as it once was, no longer existed.  We were now all on our own.  States were only represented on old maps or in name only.  But in a way, the flu had made our independence complete.  We as a people were no longer reliant upon governmental services at any level.  There was no longer a centralized banking system.  There was no standard health care.  There was no IRS or income taxes to be paid.  Heck, there weren’t even incomes.  As far as we knew, each man, woman, and child who remained in the confines of what was once considered a land of states united by a common government, common society, and common vision for life and living, was now solely responsible for his or her own care, well-being, and actions.  Talk about a true Independence Day.  I thought about moving the holiday’s date to the first known reported case of the flu for next year’s celebration.  But upon further consideration, I decided that while more fitting, it would also be a somewhat macabre reminder of those we’d lost, and might be better fit to a new Memorial Day rather than a new Independence Day.  

If nothing else, the date of July 4
th
now represented an opportunity to take a break from our normal routines, relax, and enjoy one another’s company while celebrating our common pasts and shared memories formed in a land once known as the United States of America.

We therefore began our celebration with noontime beers.  Actually, we made our drinking into a kind of game…a modified “century club” in which we took a shot of beer every five minutes – rather than every one minute as the standard game dictated – for a period of 100 minutes.  We hoped that this would slow our drinking and allow us to make each shot count and better stretch our beer supply throughout the day.

Even at our reduced rate of consumption though, with our tolerances greatly diminished, after about a dozen shots or so, we were feeling the effects of the beer.  Each small shot came with a brief toast made by someone in the group, either to a person or an event, past, present or future.  Ray and Pam’s brewing baby was toasted.  My mother was toasted.  Claire’s father and brother were toasted.  Janet was toasted.  Our new home in Olsten was toasted.  Joanna and Shane were toasted.  Our future – as unclear it was – was toasted.  As we got further into our drinking, I made a toast to old Poobah, the horse I’d been forced to put down back at Jonah and Wilma’s farm.  Claire toasted Bessie the cow for the meat (the very last bits of Bessie) she’d provided us for our celebration.  Everyone raised their shot glass to that one except for Sharron.  Even Cashmere the cat was toasted.  And by two o’clock, all the adults in the group were pretty well toasted too. 

It was a searing-hot afternoon, and between our lowered tolerances and dehydration from the amount of moisture our depleted bodies were losing to sweat, we were feeling the alcohol’s full effects – and it felt good.

Even
I
was able to forget my troubles for a while and lose myself in just enjoying good drinks, good family, good friends, and good food.

Speaking of food, we had a lovely spread from which to choose when it came time to eat.  Will and I worked the grill, cooking up the last of Bessie for our burgers.  Meanwhile, for an appetizer, Sharron brought out fresh-baked bread.  She served it warm and with apple butter that she made with apples gathered from several trees on the outskirts of town.  It was delicious.

“I wanted to make corn-fritters in the shape of hot dogs for everyone, but our corn isn’t ready yet,” she sighed.

She was right.  While the corn was certainly coming along, and was well past the “knee high” level on today’s benchmark, it still had a ways to go.

Along with her bread and apple butter, Sharron also made rice balls that she rolled in a salt and powdered parmesan cheese blend and that we dunked in a marinara sauce made from our own homegrown tomatoes.  These items hit the spot and were extremely filling.  They probably could have been a meal in themselves, but it was a party, and the rest of us were ready for meat. 

Besides Sharron, everyone had Bessie burgers.  These delectable treats were served with pasta salad that included some of our own garden’s fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, as well as olives from Mary’s diner.  There was an array of salad dressings from which to choose.  Sharron begrudgingly allowed us servings of her bread to use as buns for our burgers after buttering her up by telling her how awesome it tasted and how “it would just
make
our burgers.”  We used tomatoes, pickles, olives, and salad dressing to top our delicious meat treats.

While the adults continued their beer binge, going for an extended version of our drinking game, the kids were allowed to indulge in any type of soda they desired. 

Sweet Paul, not wanting to leave Cashmere out of the celebration, presented our dear kitty with a live mouse, much to his mother’s distaste.  Sharron gave him a good scolding for allowing the cat to “torture the poor thing” but looked the other way nonetheless.  Meanwhile, Cashmere was in heaven, playing with her new toy.  Later that afternoon, I caught her sitting on the front porch, a tail protruding from one side of her mouth.

“You’re one sick puppy,” I smiled at her.

She just gazed at me with contentedly.  It almost looked as though she were grinning.  I figured she probably had the whole damn mouse in her mouth.

“Happy Fourth of July,” I bent, scratching her between the ears.  She toppled over on the porch, rolling back and forth in the sun.

For dessert, Sharron broke out surprise peach and apple pies as well as an oatmeal apple cobbler that was to die for.  We found ourselves salivating at the mere sight of them and found that they tasted even better than they looked.  We thanked her profusely for her efforts and ensured that she remained in steady supply of pumpkin ale – her drink of choice – for the remainder of the evening.

After dinner and dessert, we sent the kids to burn off some calories playing hide-and-seek while the adults waddled to the front porch and collapsed into our chairs to digest. 

“Man, I could really use another beer to keep this booze buzz I’ve got going,” said Ray.

“Me too,” said Will.  “What about it, bro?” he looked over at me.

I thought about it for a minute.

“Come on,” moaned Claire.  “It’s the Fourth of July.  Let’s celebrate.”

“Yeah,” Sharron cajoled.  “Stop being such a stick in the mud.  You can stop worrying about conserving supplies for
one
day.”

The others watched me with little hope of me giving in.

Finally I said, “Fuck it.  Let’s drink!”

“
What?
” cried Will in disbelief.  “You’re giving in?”  He looked around wide-eyed at the others.  “I can’t believe it!  My brother…the planner, the preparer, the organizer, the rational rationer?  Amazing!  Absolutely amazing!  I guess he’s just given us the go ahead to really open this party up!” he laughed to the others.

And so we did.

The next hour or so we spent comfortably drinking on the front porch.  We chatted, told stories, laughed, reminisced, and drank more than we should have.  It felt good to finally throw caution to the wind a little bit and let my guard down.  Did I think about all the beers that we were consuming too fast and how they could be extremely difficult to replace?  Yes.  But did it feel fantastic just to try to focus 100 percent – or at least 95 percent – on relaxing, having fun, and enjoying life for a few hours? 
Hell
yes! 

As the beer intake grew, my worries faded until they eventually disappeared completely.  And with the setting sun came the cool of the evening which helped us rouse ourselves from our languid lounging on the front porch to amble down and join the kids who were still frolicking out in the street and doing laps around the store. 

I felt kind of bad for Jason.  He lagged so far behind the older children.  But he didn’t seem to mind, and as I watched him forge ahead, I was glad to see that he was pushing himself extremely hard to keep up.  I reasoned that this sort of drive and motivation would likely be just the kind of thing he needed to succeed in our harsh new world.

We watched as the kids finally began to slow, tired by their rambunctious rampaging.  Eventually they stopped – panting and out of breath – by the front porch where they fished cans of soda from the ice-filled cooler in which we’d placed our assortment of beverages.

“Make sure you’re getting soda out of there,” Sharron chided.  “I don’t want any drunk children on my hands this evening,” she muttered.

“A little beer might do them some good,” Will said.  “Give us a little privacy later tonight,” he gave his wife a double-eyebrow raise and a sly grin.

“Keep dreaming,” she gave him little encouragement with a narrow-eyed stare in return.