Chapter 17
Nurse Patrick never woke us for our shift.
He looks exhausted, but I’m grateful for the rest. We decide not to waste a moment of daylight.
We load the rest of our gear into the boat and file in, trying to distribute our weight evenly, but it’s crowded and uncomfortable anyway.
Nurse Patrick gives the boat a hard shove, and it begins to glide across the muddy bank and into the water.
Once we’re afloat, he jumps into the seat at the back of the canoe.
The boat rocks from side to side, but we stay upright and move into the middle of the river.
The river’s current does most of the work for us, but Nurse Patrick uses a paddle to steer and keep us moving at a decent clip.
The sun is just barely over the horizon, and I can already tell it’s going to be hot today, but the river feels peaceful, and the birds overhead are putting on a show.
Hawks cruise the nearby fields, and black birds with red-tipped wings sing from the trees lining the shore.
From the corner of my eye, I see a bald eagle fly overhead, and my jaw drops.
Bald eagles have always felt mythical, and seeing one in real life out in the wild feels strange.
I nudge Keisha and point toward the eagle, and she smiles.
Nurse Patrick sees us and looks up. “Ah, an eagle! Beautiful birds. Used to be pretty rare, but somehow they’ve been able to survive.
They were on the endangered species list for years, but they’ve been removed just in the last twenty years or so.
Got to admire an animal that survives at any cost.” He gives me a hesitant smile.
At any cost. That’s exactly how I feel about all this.
That’s why Ginger and Mr. Josh are dead right now. This new world isn’t easy, but I was made to survive it, no matter what. I look back over my shoulder at Nurse Patrick. The smile still hangs on his lips.
I try to make myself as comfortable as possible as I watch the world go by.
The hours pass slowly though, and soon we’re all sunburned, sweat-soaked, and itching from last night’s mosquito bites.
I vow to find a hat or at least a bottle of sunscreen the next time we stop at a town.
As uncomfortable as we are, I’m grateful for the river and the safety it gives us, but we can’t stay in the boat forever.
“Nurse Patrick, I have to pee,” January says.
“Me too,” echoes Lucia.
“We should stop,” I agree.
“I’ll look for a spot,” Nurse Patrick says.
* * *
Two days pass like that on the river. We paddle.
We take bathroom breaks. We boil water. We sleep in shifts.
We even kill the occasional carrier. The river water keeps us hydrated, cool, and relatively clean, but life in a canoe leaves us all aching and longing for a few days of real rest. Not only that, but our food supply is getting disturbingly low.
We pass by a couple of small towns built up along the river, but the sight of roaming carriers and the sounds of distant screams keep us in the boat, moving farther and farther south.
About halfway through our fourth day in the boat, the scenery changes. The river starts to turn, and its edges transform from small cliffs to softer slopes. Downstream, a building appears, just off the water.
“What’s that?” I ask, squinting my eyes.
“Hard to say from here. Maybe a grain elevator?” Nurse Patrick wonders aloud. “The Illinois River has lots of barges that haul grain down south. Or it could be the edge of a small town?”
As we move closer, I keep my eyes on the structure and start to feel excitement build.
It’s the only building I can see from the water.
There are no houses and no other buildings in sight.
It feels strange that a single building would be standing in the middle of nowhere along the river. Finally, a sign comes into view.
“Boatel,” I read aloud. “What’s a boatel?”
“I think it’s like a riverside hotel. Looks like this one has been turned into some kind of bar or restaurant. We should keep going. There’s really no telling what’s inside,” Nurse Patrick says skeptically.
“No, let’s pull over,” I insist. “It looks pretty isolated. There’s got to be supplies in there.
Who knows when we’ll find another spot like this?
Plus, if we get into trouble, we have a quick getaway with the canoe.
If we’re lucky, maybe we can even get a good night’s sleep here. Let’s check it out.”
Nurse Patrick is hesitant, but he gives in when Keisha and Lucia agree with me.
He steers the canoe toward a tiny wooden dock along the shore.
We tie up the boat and walk up to the building cautiously.
Nurse Patrick is right; whatever this boatel used to be, it’s a restaurant now.
Rows of tables and chairs line an outdoor wooden deck.
A set of grand doors with a handwritten sign welcomes guests to try the Sunday Special, catfish fritters.
From the outside, it looks untouched by the carrier outbreak.
We make a complete loop around the building to check for any signs of people or wandering carriers.
In the parking lot, four cars sit undisturbed, but the thin layer of dust on each vehicle’s windshield suggests they haven’t been moved recently.
When we round the east side of the building, a dumpster is heaped with rotting food, making breathing uncomfortable, but nothing seems out of place.
“Let’s go inside and check it out,” I whisper.
We keep our weapons ready. I reach for the doorknob and turn, but it doesn’t budge.
“It’s locked?” Jan says a little too loud.
“Shh. Let’s try the doors on the patio,” Keisha suggests.
We walk around to the side of the building and climb the wooden stairs. The sliding glass door is open just a crack. I push it to the left and peer into a dark dining room.
I breathe in and nearly gag. Jan coughs twice before Nurse Patrick is able to cover her mouth with his sleeve, shushing her. We all go still and silent, waiting, but nothing comes to life.
The dining room is in disarray. Tables lie on their sides. Chairs with broken legs sit at awkward angles. Food rots on plates.
“Can we go to the bathroom?” Jan whispers, squirming.
I scan the room for a sign that will lead us to the bathrooms and find one in the shadows to our left.
I nod at Jan and point to it with my machete, then give her a stern look with a finger over my lips.
She gulps audibly. We tiptoe through the mess toward the bathroom.
When we arrive, I press my ear to the door, listening for any movement.
When I hear nothing, I inch it open. The room is nearly pitch dark.
I feel for a switch on the wall, but the lights don’t come on.
Looks like the woman on the news was right.
The power grid has failed. I find myself missing the flashlights we lost when we left the truck behind.
Instead, I flick the lighter in my pocket.
It gives us a tiny cone of light—just enough to see the bathroom is empty.
I wave January and Lucia inside to take the first turn and stand guard with Keisha and Nurse Patrick outside. When they finish, Keisha and I take our turn, followed by Nurse Patrick.
When he comes out, he’s carrying a bottle of hand soap, a stack of paper towels, and a few rolls of toilet paper, smiling like he just won a prize. I guess the looting has begun.
Behind the bar, we find a trash bag and toss in the supplies from the bathroom. I throw in a stack of tablecloths and once again mourn the loss of our sleeping bags back at the campground.
When we enter the kitchen, it’s even harder to breathe.
The air feels thick and hot and the smell is so heavy I can almost taste it.
There’s smeared blood on the floors, but no sign of a body.
It seems like whatever caused the overturned tables in the dining room ended here.
The fact that there is no body left behind bothers me, sticking in the back of my mind like an unreachable itch.
Despite the scene, we move forward.
Food rots on every surface. I wonder if we’ll even find anything edible. We almost give up, but Lucia grabs my arm and points at a small door that can only be a pantry nearly hidden by stacks of pots and pans all the way at the back of the kitchen.
I wave the others over. Nurse Patrick listens carefully with his ear pressed to the pantry door, hoping for silence on the other side. He nods, satisfied. Slowly, he puts his hand on the doorknob and turns.
“DON’T!” a strange voice calls out desperately from behind us.
I whip around and see a man in head-to-toe camouflage with a hunting knife in hand charging toward us.
I pull out my machete, stopping him in his tracks.
He puts his hands up in surrender. I pull back my machete, ready to swing, but the man’s not even looking at me.
He’s looking over my shoulder, his face a mask of fear.
That’s when I realize he isn’t the current danger. The biggest threat is behind me.
I hear Nurse Patrick yelling before I’m able to turn back toward the pantry door.
What I see makes my heart sink. A blackened claw grips Nurse Patrick’s bloody forearm from a gap in the door.
Sharp fingernails have carved deep lines in his flesh, and thick black liquid mixes with red blood as it drips to the floor.