The Second Intelligent Species: The Cyclical Earth (25 page)

I rebaited the hooks with the head and moved on to my next trap. Marcos was happy to carry the fifteen-pound plus turtle. One wasn’t enough to feed everyone, but it would make the rations go further. She was a big female and might have eggs in her.

The rest of the traps were empty. No big surprise. I picked up some wood for the fire and dragged it back to the shelter. Marcos was having all he could do to carry the turtle.

The light of the fire led us home. Beth’s somber face was the first thing we saw. The freckles said, “redhead,” even though her hair hadn’t since it grew back.

Marcos dangled the turtle in the air while he ran the last few yards, as if he had won some award. “Look, look what we got. I found it, Nick walked right by it.”

She tried to eke out a smile, and finally did, but I knew it wasn’t for the turtle. Usually she would praise us for our success. Something else was bothering her.

Chapter 37

Grit

The two days went by fast. “Nick, Nick,” I heard him calling. I could see his smile long before I could understand his shouts. Jorge returned with a surprise: another person.

From a distance the stranger reminded me of that Tex fellow, though I had taken care of him permanently. I immediately went on the defensive, as did Pete.

We’d ditched the gun long ago. Looking for ammunition was the problem. Gunpowder and fire didn’t mix. I wasn’t too worried with Pete here. Even though our diet had been far less calorie intake than I’m sure Pete was used to, he was still a big man, with a fist about the size of a softball.

We were both scoping out the newcomer. At first glance the stranger looked larger than Jorge, but several layers of clothing gave the illusion of bulk. Once we saw his hands and face it was clear he was thinner than Jorge who went one hundred fifty when his belly was full.

“Nick, Nick… look I found somebody alive.” Jorge looked happy, but then he always did. “Nick,
this is Grit. I found him while I was at our new spot. Grit hasn’t even been trapping, just looking in cellars.” Jorge was so proud of himself.

“Hi, Grit.” I waited for a response, but the toothpick of a man remained silent. “Tell us about yourself and what you’ve been eating and what you’ve seen. My name’s Nick and this is Pete, obviously you’ve met Jorge. We don’t have much food to offer you but we will have some soup ready soon. Keep ya’ going for a couple of days.” I felt like Mick, now rationing out the food, with those in our party coming first.

Jorge said, “He’s been living off canned food that he found in cellars, and that’s all. All he has is a knife, a spoon, and a can opener. Can you believe that?”

“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” I wanted to feel this guy out.

“Hey…, they call me Grit. I come from Louisiana. It’s all gone.”

I shook his hand, wiped his sweat on my pant leg, and asked, “Are you all alone?”

“I’ve always been alone.”

“Well come eat and we can talk.” Our last two additions had contributed to our group, and I could see no reason why another mouth to feed would hamper our progress. It would lessen the workload on the rest of us.

We offered him the broth and a couple pieces of jerky; we could spare no more.

He ate without speaking. He tilted the bowl and drank without using the spoon. The soup was very hot. His first mouthful spilled out from his lips. He continued to chug, spilling half. The noises he made resembled a dog eating.

When he finished, I asked again, “So how have you been living all alone?”

“House to house. There’s always some cans if you look hard enough.” His beard held another five percent of his supper. “I found a turtle once; fucker bit me so I smashed it on the road till I killed it.” With nothing more to eat, our guest began surveying the surroundings. He looked around in jerky movements. Staring at each of us individually, making everyone equally nervous.

Grit began glaring at the women. “Who’s this?” he asked, putting me back on full alert. Although leery of his inquisitiveness, I began to introduce everyone, pointing to each. “This is my wife Beth, and Tara. This is Sarah and Eve. This is Maria and Emanuel. This is Marcos,” I said as I rubbed the young boy’s head. “You’ve already met Jorge and Pete.” I changed the subject to distract him from the women. “Have you seen any area that hasn’t been burned, or maybe burned less?”

“No,” he said. “No…” He started to choke and gasp for air. This went on for a minute or so
before he could answer clearly. “No, it’s all the same everywhere. What wasn’t flooded in Louisiana burned.” Grit was looking at one of the torches we’d made, as he continued to cough and hack, spitting repeatedly. “This is the first light I’ve seen except for the few times that the sun came out, or lightning.”

“You mean you haven’t even been keeping fires? How did you stay warm when it was cold?” Sarah asked.

“I’ve been cold a lot!” he said. “I stayed in a big boat about five miles from the ocean. Again he coughed and spit up a disgusting bunch of bile. “I stayed there for about six months. I still feel like I’m walking sideways.”

“Is there any organization at all anywhere?” Beth asked.

“Every time I went into a city, they tried to kill me. People from small towns moved to the cities. The food ran out early. Every city I’ve been to has animals there now, and I don‘t mean the ones with four legs. You can’t deal with ’em. All they want to do is boss you around, threaten you. Don’t care what you think ’bout your life. You mean food to them. Lotta killin’, lotta just plain dying. These houses in the country haven’t been picked over.” He picked his nose. “Where can I get some sleep?”

Surprised at his abruptness I answered, “Yea…um… you can sleep over there next to the wall, near that old tank, if you want to.

He shuffled over to the tank, cleaned a clear spot on the blackened cement and, without something to soften his bed, or for under his head, he lay down, not to speak again.

Chapter 38

Wrong Turns

While he was sleeping we discussed whether we should accept another into our group. We all felt that we must. Though strange, Grit was a human too, and he could contribute his share of work.

In the morning we woke to a sky brighter than any so far, though still darker than twilight. Grit was slow to get moving, but eventually followed us. Jorge took the lead to the new shelter he’d found. Soon it was obvious that he was lost. In the excitement of finding Grit, he failed to mark his back trail. Grit was no help at all. His suggestions only made Jorge more confused.

Now we were scouting as we went. Jorge’s two days of preparation might as well not have happened. The five traps he set in the new location were lost.

We all walked along a riverbank, taking breaks when feeder streams would appear. The group would sit and wait for one of the men to explore the narrow waterway. That was where the swamps would be found. The whole exploratory
process usually took an hour or so. If there was nothing promising found, then we’d move up river a little farther.

This waiting time was usually spent building a fire, and supper would be ready for the return of the scout. Only this time we didn’t have anything to eat.

It was Pete’s turn to take the long walk upstream.

Marcos and I were looking for crayfish under rocks in the river to no avail. We finally conceded and started looking for turtles on the banks, with the same results.

The wait for Pete’s return this time was longer than usual. We started to worry about him. Pete was no wimp; he could take care of himself. Something must have happened. Did he fall and break a leg, have a heart attack, or become the victim of some unimaginable fate? We decided to wait a little longer, and if there was still no sign, then Jorge and I would venture off to find him. It would be easy to track him along the water’s edge amidst the muddy banks.

I was very apprehensive about leaving Grit alone with the rest. I hadn’t had much chance to get to know him. He was very quiet, and hadn’t given much in the way of anything, including his share of the work. He was content to sit by the
fire and watch everyone else give more than their share.

I needed Jorge. We knew how the other worked. We could search two directions at the same time, and if we lost the trail we could find each other again. Marcos wouldn’t have been much help if we had to carry Pete back. He was still just a kid.

I kissed Beth. “Wait here until we come back. We’ll be back with him. I guarantee it,” I assured Sarah.

Beth’s grasp on my arm tightened. “I should be going with you, Nick. What if he needs medical attention?”

She was right. And one more to carry him would be better.

“Grit, we’re going to find Pete,” I said. “You stay here with everyone else and don’t do anything!”

Beth mumbled under breath, “That’s what he’s good at.”

“Don’t bother looking for food or anything, just keep the group together right here. Especially Marcos, he’ll want to wander off and look for tracks. We’ll be back before you know it.”

The features in Grit’s face became clearer and more pockmarked than I had imagined. The sun had come out.

All talking ceased and we just stared at the sun, shielding our eyes from its beautiful brilliance. It stayed out for about a minute. Its brief but powerful performances were always announced by a standing ovation accompanied with generous amounts of cheering and clapping. Then it would go in again. Only to be followed by immediate silence and depression.

Once the show was over, it was as if it never happened. “Well let’s go get him,” I said.

Walking upstream, Marcos met me to say good-bye. I whispered, “Watch that Grit guy. Keep everyone safe. And don’t wander off. Keep in sight, okay? We’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, Nick. Can I get a torch and look for tracks?” he asked with hope in his voice.

“No, I told you to keep close to the others and watch the new guy.”

“Okay, Nick.” I could tell he was bored already, but I felt that I could count on him more than Grit.

Beth, Jorge and I left our group with a great deal of apprehension.

Following Pete’s tracks could have been accomplished by Marcos with one eye shut. He left a deep track.

Walking became effortless when the river bottom turned to flat rock. Unfortunately this
ease of walking was the reason that Pete took the same route. We had lost his track.

Jorge and I searched each side of the river. Beth walked down the middle with the torch. Neither I, nor Jorge could see well enough to be sure we hadn’t missed a footprint.

“How much farther are we going to go? We could have walked by him.” Beth was worried about him being injured.

“We’re going to keep going upstream as long as this rock continues. When we get to the end of it we should find his tracks where he climbed out of the water.” I wasn’t so sure that we would find his track again. He could have turned off anywhere, and we could have missed it.

We continued upstream until we came upon another stream feeding the one we were in. We searched around the sandy bank for his prints but came up empty. We moved on upstream to another brook, not five hundred yards past the first.

“There!” We all said simultaneously. The indentations made by his enormous heel were unmistakable.

We followed his tracks for what seemed miles. His strides were two of mine and three of Beth’s. We persevered, when suddenly it appeared that Pete headed off into the woods, or what was left of it.

His tracks were again simple to follow. The ground had nothing but a crusty layer of burnt dead moss.

I couldn’t understand why Pete would leave the water. It was the only way back to our party since we didn’t have a compass, and there were no road signs to point the way.

Our torch was getting low and we hadn’t brought material to make another.

Finally we came back to the river where the water passed over the flat rock.

“He’s headed back home, he’s okay.” We were overjoyed at the discovery. We hastened our pace, still being as cautious as possible. We didn’t need to have Pete carry one of us out on a rescue mission.

We finally reached the main river and immediately headed over to the fire.