Claire Holroyde - The Effort

Weber looked to the rope and then up at the stranger.

“If that’s really your Coast Guard uniform, you’ll know how,” the man explained. “If not, then you probably stole those clothes and gear, and I’ll have to waste a bullet.”

Weber picked up the rope and tied a bowline knot with shaking hands.

“Good. And no hard feelings. Can’t have people killing and impersonating an officer. Against the rules of war, right?”

Weber tied a reef knot and then a sheepshank for good measure.

“Now you’re just showing off,” the stranger muttered. “Get in.”

Weber stood and fainted. When he regained consciousness, the stranger had him by the crook of his arm. No doubt Weber weighed less than a scarecrow.

“I gotcha,” the other man said. “Just a few more steps.”

He helped Weber into the passenger seat and went back for his duffel bag. It was much lighter than the day he disembarked Healy . All that was left was a canteen half-full of lake water, a compass, a first aid kit, a spare set of wool socks, a sparker fire starter, a rain poncho, and a knife. Weber started out with a flashlight that allowed him to travel at night and hide in daylight hours. The small device was undoubtedly a lifesaver before it ran out of batteries.

The stranger sat in the driver’s seat and leaned over with his eyes trained on Weber. His left hand squeezed into a tight fist. Weber held his breath. The other man’s nose had large pores and hairy nostrils that flared with Weber’s stench. The truck’s glove compartment popped open. When the stranger leaned back, Weber felt something land in his lap. It was a granola bar.

Weber fumbled quickly but couldn’t open the flashy foil packaging. The stranger had to snatch it out of Weber’s hands and rip into the foil with his teeth before tossing it back. Weber ate the bar in two bites, barely chewing. He licked his fingers as he shed silent tears, because of the nourishment, and because there wasn’t enough of it.

The truck’s engine revved. Its windshield wipers made slow arcs to clear the drizzle. Weber likewise swiped at his damp, bearded cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Thanks for the food. Name’s Weber,” he added, because it was all he had to offer in return.

The stranger’s hawkish eyes darted between the forest in front and the passenger to his right. They caught the silver eagles on Weber’s collar tips.

“Nobody cares about names anymore, Captain.”

He looked over at Weber’s chiseled face. Beneath the dirt and desperation, he must have seen the ghost of a dignified figure.

“My father would’ve liked you. You are what he wanted to be. Or, does that mean he would have hated you? Who knows?”

The stranger had a northern, rural accent and stressed o vowels like a Canadian. Whooo knooows.

“What I do know, Captain, is that you should’ve stayed on your ship.”

Weber’s lips moved without sound to form Healy . The name of his ship was US Coast Guard Cutter Healy . His days on polar expeditions seemed like quiet, ice-filled dreams. All days before the comet and its deflection seemed like dreams in the new reality.

It was the dead of winter when Weber’s ship anchored. The crewmembers and scientists all banded together in small groups that headed for Joint Base Lewis-McChord while Weber struck out on his own. He couldn’t see far in such thick fog, but he heard a woman screaming in the distance. Instead of running toward her, he ran in the opposite direction. In a time of war, Weber wouldn’t think to abandon his own crew. But this wasn’t war. This was survival in the face of an apocalypse, a face that wasn’t human.

The truck descended slowly by zigzagging around trees and crushing saplings under its monster tires. Lake Chelan came into view through the treetops, pearlescent with morning fog. Growing up, Weber used to camp in the valley and swim in the lake. In good weather, its surface was a clear reflection of the sky. “God’s Country” is what his father called the North Cascades National Park—but it wasn’t now.

Weber spoke up when they reached the smooth road running parallel to Lake Chelan’s southwestern shore. Roads meant people, and people meant danger. He had tripped over too many bodies hidden under the snow. Weber figured there had to be a reason this well-fed man ventured out into danger alone. Even armed to the teeth, he was taking grave risk.

“Where were you headed?” Weber asked.

“Such a nice day, I was on the winery tour.”

Weber hiccupped a small laugh, surprising them both. The stranger returned a sideways grin. They passed an abandoned Buick along the side of the road with its gas cap left open.

“Are you looking for loved ones?” Weber pressed. “Like I am?”

The other man didn’t answer right away. His mouth twitched as he started and abruptly stopped after two words. Maybe he was trying to think up another joke, or a lie.

“I was looking for a woman,” he finally admitted, with a shrug. “Until I saw your uniform in the trees and got curious. Survivors come to the lake when they run out of water. I got plenty of supplies so… figured I’d have more luck in the love department than I have in the past. I’m the new Brad Pitt, don’t yah know.”

Weber couldn’t help thinking of his wife, Karen. She was in her late forties, but still attractive. At summer picnics, she turned the heads of much younger men with her long, tanned legs. He tried to empty those thoughts from his mind.

“May I try the radio,” Weber asked, changing the subject.

“You won’t get a signal. Hasn’t been jack shit in nearly a year. No radio, no TV, no internet. All dark.”

“But that’s how it could happen, right? How survivors, the decent ones, could communicate and find one another?”

“I dunno. You tell me.”

“Okay, then, I’m telling you. Radio waves could be the way.”

That had been Weber’s hope since he saw the dazzling meteor shower in the summer sky—fiery streaks of ice, dust, and rock blown from the body of a giant comet—which meant that there could be hope for all of God’s creatures once more. Weber asked if the man believed that things could still go back to the way they were before UD3 had come and gone. The stranger shrugged.

“I’m not sure things are much different. We’ve stopped pretending to be civilized, that’s all. We’ve lost our polite manners and our electronic gadgets and showed the animals we always were under it all. We were still competing with one another to survive—just with a more complex and subtle set of rules. I mean, I didn’t kill anyone before UD3, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

Weber said nothing. He wondered if things shouldn’t go back to the way they were after all. Perhaps things should be altogether different? Better? Or wiser, at least? He stared at the road ahead and saw what looked like an eviscerated human torso, a rib cage and trailing spinal column. It still saddened Weber that none of the victims would receive a proper burial.

“We’re going south,” Weber said. “But I was headed to North Cascades.”

“You were headed nowhere fast, is more like it. I’m bringing you back home with me. You could use a hot meal. And a good wash. You reek.”

His face went suddenly serious.

“Buckle your seat belt,” he ordered.

A group of haggard men was walking beside the road. They carried heavy plastic bottles of water that they dropped in surprise. One stepped to the middle of the road and waved his hands above his head. His shouts, the red fabric of his down jacket, his frantic movements all said Stop! But the truck leapt forward, accelerating above ninety miles per hour. The stranger’s jaw was set, his mind made up.