Chapter 9
NINE
We all sit around the campfire, sipping catnip tea, waiting for William Stratton to speak, like children waiting for a ghost story, anticipating the delightful chill of terror, and yet it’s real.
“As far as I can tell,” William begins in his stentorian voice, seeming to enjoy having the spotlight, a man who is clearly used to it and expects it, “things have…died down a little, since the first bombs hit. That was when the military and government more or less collapsed…it was pretty chaotic. A lot of gangs, violence?—”
“That has certainly been our experience,” I can’t help but interject. William Stratton isn’t telling us anything we don’t already know, haven’t lived ourselves. It’s less than a week since the cottage burned down.
William nods, understanding, accepting. “It’s probably a little different up here,” he agrees, his gaze on me. He has very clear gray eyes and a square jaw. He reminds me of that old TV commercial: I may not be a doctor, but I play one on TV…
“Why?” I sound petulant, even aggressive, and I don’t mean to be. “All the services have been disrupted up here too,” I explain in a more moderate voice. “Electricity, internet. There’s no government or military up here, either, at least not that I’ve seen.” Now I sound almost accusing. My emotions are too unruly, impossible to manage; I feel like I have to yank them all back, bottle them up.
“No…” William agrees slowly, like he’s making a concession. “But it’s the radiation that’s the real problem.”
A silence greets this explanation, akin to a thunderclap. We all gape at him. “We thought…” I begin, feeling strangely foolish, because I already know that I have no idea what I’m talking about. “We thought the radiation was…you know, fairly localized. And would have…dissipated by now.”
“I’m no expert in these matters,” William replies, sounding like he thinks he is, “but you’re right, in terms of the immediate fallout. According to some estimates we heard through the satellite system, about fifteen percent of the U.S. population died in those first nine blasts from that fallout and its resulting movement downwind. And then, around another twenty-five percent died in the following twenty or so blasts.” He dismisses forty percent of the population with barely a wave of his hand. “And since then I’ve heard another fifteen percent died from various causes, minimum, and more are dying every day.”
“That’s over half of the U.S. population,” Sam whispers, sounding awed.
William gives him a somber look. “That’s not all, though. The contamination from long-life radioactive isotopes like strontium-90 or cesium-137, through the food chain and into the body, is more severe than anticipated, and can last for up to five years.”
“What does that even mean ?” Mattie cries. Phoebe burrows into her lap, alarmed by the outburst, and Mattie hugs her tightly.
“It means that the contamination continues after the initial blasts,” he explains. “You’re not going to die immediately, or even notice, but over months and years it will become apparent…and it already has.”
“How?” This from Daniel, like a demand. His brows are drawn together, his forehead furrowed, his expression fierce.
William shrugs. “All sorts of ways. This is just hearsay, mind. We didn’t have any of it in the bunker, of course. But…cancer, tumors, genetic modification, infertility…I mean, obviously none of that has manifested itself yet, but it’s coming. And, of course, it’s not just the radiation. It’s the lack of medical care, of medicine and treatment…a lot of people didn’t make it through the winter, due to starvation.” He speaks so unemotionally that it feels as if we could be talking about cockroaches, not human beings. Millions and millions of human beings who died over a cold, stark winter. I think of mothers cradling babies, children wasting away, families huddled together, eating their last meal as the cold steals in.
“Estimates are,” he finishes, “that at least eighty percent of the USA’s population has died, and more are likely to.”
Eighty percent . For a long time, I haven’t let myself think about my wider family very much—my brother, my sister. Some stubborn part of myself, I know, has been imagining them all alive, struggling along as we were. But they didn’t have the luxury of a cottage deep in the woods to hide away in, fresh water, and game to trap. I’m reminded of how fortunate, despite our hardships, we truly have been. And yet…all those people. All those people whom I’ve loved .
For a long time no one speaks.
“Still,” Mattie says eventually, her tone sober but also thoughtful. “That means almost a hundred million people are still alive…right?”
“Sixty million if it’s eighty percent,” Sam chimes in. He’s always been good at arithmetic.
“More than the population of a lot of countries,” I add. “Where is the government in all this? The military?” Seven months on, why hasn’t the United States of America, if it’s not standing tall again, gotten back on its knees, at least? Or maybe it has, and we just haven’t heard about it yet.
William shrugs. “Maybe that many, maybe not. There are most likely more deaths every single day. People are getting sicker, hungrier. When we drove here, we hardly saw anyone at all.”
I glance at Daniel, whose expression is shuttered. Has so much changed in the three weeks since he returned? He talked of roving gangs, homegrown militias, similar to what we saw up here. Are they still out there? Or has it become a barren wasteland of not just destruction, but death?
“But the government?” I prompt. “The military?”
“I heard they were doing something out in North Dakota,” Nicole says. Her voice is quiet and a little husky, and I realize how little she’s spoken or even moved since we all sat down. She’s seated next to her husband, her knees tucked up to her chest, looking quiet and watchful and withdrawn. “We heard there’s some military complex out there that they’ve made their headquarters, a springboard for whatever is next.”
“Yes, we heard that on the radio,” William agrees. “Something’s happening out in North Dakota, but no one knows for sure what it is. The government and military have pulled out of the whole east coast, though, as far as I know.” His face tightens. “That was part of the reason why we were kicked out, because people were starting to believe that it wasn’t safe above ground anywhere east of Chicago.”
Nicole averts her face, as if she can’t bear to look at any of us, or maybe she doesn’t want us to look at her . My curiosity is piqued, along with my sympathy. Every time her husband talks about what happened in that billionaire’s bunker, Nicole draws a little more into herself, almost as if she’s trying to hide, or even disappear. Does she miss the luxury, or is it something else?
“Surely that’s not true,” I protest, trying to sound reasonable rather than argumentative or what I actually am, which is afraid. Daniel and Sam traveled through upstate New York less than a month ago. Have they been affected by the radiation? I don’t suppose there’s any way to know until we see the effects, but that prospect terrifies me. My husband, my son, withering away, suffering, dying…if that’s what happens from the long-term effects of radiation. I have no idea. I realize how utterly naive and stupid I was, taking what Daniel said at face value, about the troposphere and dilution and the rest of it, assuming that, seven months past the bombs dropping, we were past all that nuclear stuff.
It’s ridiculous, and it makes me angry. I’m not sure I can deal with yet more insurmountable problems.
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not,” William replies, his even tone suggesting he doesn’t appreciate being challenged. “I’m just telling you what we heard from the other bunkers.”
“How many of these bunkers are there?” Mattie asks, and again William hesitates, looks at his wife.
“I’m not exactly sure,” he replies after a pause. “We were in touch with five or six, maybe.”
“And where are you going now?” Daniel asks in a mild tone that still possesses an edge. “I mean, you must have had a plan.”
William gives a shamefaced smile as he spreads his hands wide. “Not really. We just wanted to get as far north as we could, away from…everything.” He glances at his wife, who doesn’t meet his gaze, and then looks around the campsite. “What about you guys?” he asks in the same jocular tone he used when he’d first stepped out of the car. “Are you staying here?”
“We heard about a base in Buffalo that’s offering shelter,” Daniel tells him. “We’re making for there.”
William is already shaking his head. “Fort Sanderson? That place has had it. Everybody moved out a couple of months ago. People had started getting sick. ”
We stare at him, dumbfounded. My fragile, fledgling dream of a safe haven has shriveled to ash in a matter of seconds and now the future looms in front of us, even more uncertain. More terrifying.
“What…? Why? I mean…how?” Mattie asks, a tremor in her voice.
“Too close to the blast centers. Fears of radiation.”
I swallow hard. Sam and Daniel must have been affected, I think, in some way, even if they don’t know or feel it yet. I’d let myself be lulled by Daniel’s reassurances, when they must have been lies. Lies he told to protect me.
So what other lies has he told me?
Nicole stirs then, almost as if she’s coming out of a stupor, and William springs to attention. Ben lifts his head and looks around at everyone blearily. What, I wonder, are we meant to do with these people?
“If you don’t have anywhere to go,” Daniel says, as if he’s read my thoughts and maybe he has, “you’re welcome to stay here with us.”
“Oh, I don’t…” William begins, before trailing off. He glances at his son and wife, neither of whom look at him. “Maybe just for a night,” he relents. “We drove through the night and we’re all a little tired.” He gives us an apologetic grimace before adding, like an afterthought, “thank you.”
Daniel, Sam, and Kyle set up the tents again while Ruby and I make breakfast—cattail porridge, again —and Mattie gets Phoebe dressed, the little girl standing obediently and silently in front of her as she slips on a t-shirt, brushes her hair. Nicole hovers, not close enough for me to actually speak to, but I’m constantly aware of her in my peripheral vision. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such a contained yet prickly person; she seems both glossy and brittle.
After about fifteen minutes, she asks me stiffly, “Is there some place I can wash?”
I glance at her, concerned at how fragile she sounds, like she’s minutes away from—what? Breaking down? Collapsing? I glance at her face and see a spiderweb of fine lines fanning out from her eyes, etching her forehead. Her eyes look tired, the color of faded denim.
“Yes, of course,” I say, as if I’m showing her the guest bathroom of our gracious home. The tap is a little tricky, there are hand towels to the left of the sink . “There’s a stream at the bottom of that hill, through the woods.” I point in the right direction, and she nods and then walks off, her gait as stiff as her voice. I watch her go, and then I turn to Ben, who has also been lurking on the fringes of the campsite, scuffing the ground with his gleamingly white Air Force1 sneakers. “How old are you, Ben?” I ask, hoping I sound friendly. It’s so hard to gauge my tone these days; I feel as if I never have any idea of how I sound.
He gives me something of an incredulous look, that I’m asking such an irrelevant question. “Fifteen.”
“Same as Mattie here.” I nod toward my daughter, who I can tell is silently seething at this blatant bit of parental social engineering. “Are you in ninth grade?”
Another look of total disbelief. “I was .”
“Was there some kind of school, in this bunker?” I press, doing my best to sound friendly and interested, rather than as if I’m grilling him for information.
He shrugs. “Sort of, on computers. They’d downloaded all these classes, but they were all really boring.”
Mattie lets out a soft huff. Her school was learning how to shoot, skin a rabbit, and generally be a badass. I’m pretty sure she’s looking at this pretty boy and thinking how she could take him down in about two seconds.
“Wow,” I say, for lack of any other suitable response. I thought awkward chitchat was a relic of a pre-Armageddon age, but apparently not .
Over the next few hours, we find an uneasy rhythm. The Strattons take one of our tents, at Daniel’s suggestion, seeming to see it as something of their due, and bring several leather Louis Vuitton suitcases out of their car. We leave them to settle in as we go about our usual jobs—Kyle fishes; Daniel and Sam check the snares; Ruby and I gather plants, and Mattie minds the campsite with Phoebe.
We’ve all fallen into these patterns without even realizing it, and they work. How are the Strattons going to upset it all? Upset us ? Already I feel uncomfortably aware of William’s authoritative presence, not quite arrogance, but almost; his wife’s tense quietness that is somehow more oppressive than if she talked all the time. As for Ben…he’s another child I feel responsible for, even if technically I’m not. I doubt either William or Nicole Stratton can provide for their son out here in the woods. I’m resentful that Daniel offered to let this family stay, even as I accept he didn’t have much choice, and it was, of course, the good and right thing to do.
It isn’t until later that I learn my husband’s ulterior motive.
We are lying in our tent—Ruby is sharing with Mattie and Phoebe, and Sam is sleeping in the back of the truck, along with Kyle—our legs tangled together, our faces pressed close, almost as if we are trying to fuse our bodies, but there’s nothing romantic about it. We simply don’t want to be overheard.
“I think they’re hiding something,” Daniel whispers, barely a breath of sound. “And I want to know what it is.”
“Why did they come to Kawartha?” I ask, an agreement. Now that Daniel has said it out loud, I’m almost positive the Strattons are hiding something…but what? “They can’t have just been driving,” I continue. “With no destination in mind.”
He nods slowly, his lips brushing my hair. “I think it was a coincidence that they ended up at our campsite,” he concedes in a soft huff of breath. “An open meadow close to the road…we probably should have been more careful than that. But…I think they’re going somewhere. I think they do have a destination in mind, and they just don’t want to tell us.”
I thread my fingers through his, draw his hand to my heart. I think of what William Stratton said about the radiation, and I want to ask Daniel about it, but I don’t. I know he’ll lie to me, and I’m not ready for that—or the truth. “Another bunker?” I whisper instead, so quietly I’m not sure even Daniel hears me.
He nods again, his lips brushing my ear as he leans close to whisper, “I think so. And we need to make sure we go with them.”