He looked around for Moxey, and found her curled up and sleeping on a stack of wet, empty burlap sacks. He ran his hand over her damp fur. He tried to remember the last time either of them had been dry, and couldn’t. His heart broke all over again as he felt her ribs sticking out beneath her parchment-thin skin. Moxey had been the proverbial fat cat at one time. She’d had no fixed meal time, and Henry had always made sure there was food in her dish, so that she could eat whenever she wanted. Now, there wasn’t much meat on her at all. Just skin and bones and wet fur. Her thighs still had some thickness, like chicken legs, but that was all.
Chicken legs… I could cook her up right here. I’ve got a cigarette lighter.
Henry’s stomach grumbled. His throat burned. He wondered how much meat there actually was on Moxey. If he ate everything—skin, organs, and the rest—that might quiet the pain in his abdomen…
“No!”
Horrified, Henry jerked his hand away from his long-time companion. His cry woke the cat. She looked up at him with adoration, stretched, and then began to purr.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know what…”
It was happening again. Just like the last time his hunger had been so severe, his thoughts had turned to his cat. He reached out with one timid hand and patted her head. Moxey licked his fingers. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, but he noticed that it was pale, rather than its normal pink hue. Her gums were beginning to recede, revealing black around the bases of her teeth.
“I’ve got to quit falling asleep on watch. Got to find you some food, soon. Find some for both of us. Because if I don’t…”
He wondered if it was too late for her, anyway. Moxey had been drinking less water than normal, and she was lethargic throughout most of the day. Maybe it was crueler to let her starve to death. Maybe the kind thing to do was to put her out of her misery—stop her suffering before it progressed any further. He could do it while she slept. And then, when it was over, he could…
Henry stood up quickly, startling the cat. The plank boards thrummed beneath his boots as he strode back over to the open door. Gripping the rifle in both hands, he stood there with his eyes closed and let the cool breeze blow across his face. He had to stop thinking such terrible thoughts. He could no more eat Moxey than he could eat his parents or friends—had they still been alive. And besides, even if he tried, there was no realistic way to cook her. Sure, he had a cigarette lighter, but all of the combustible material inside the silo was damp, and there was no safe place to build a fire. If there had been, then he and Moxey wouldn’t be so cold and wet all the time.
What they needed to do was escape from here—make it to dry land. He eyed the mountainside again, and once more, his thoughts turned to Mr. Garnett. So close and yet so far. Henry shook his head in frustration. If he did find a way to traverse the water, what then? Where would he and Moxey go? Mr. Garnett might indeed still be alive, but reaching his house was an impossibility. Many of the trees were leaning over or had already toppled, their roots unable to find purchase in the mud. From what he could tell, the road looked washed out in places. Even if he were able to find a vehicle and get it running, they wouldn’t get far. And going on foot was an even less desirable option. Squinting, Henry spotted something out there, crawling sluggishly back and forth on the hillside, big enough that he could see its shape through the haze. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t a bear or a deer. At times, he’d seen more than one. Sometimes he thought they might be the worms from his dream, but that was just silly. Still, whatever they were, he had a sense that they were dangerous. There was no way he and the cat could make it past them, especially on foot.
Their options remained the same. Stay here and drown once the water reached the top of the silo. Stay here and starve. Or make it to land and face whatever was out there crawling around.
His stomach growled again. To keep his mind off it, Henry tried to think about something else. Unfortunately, his thoughts turned to his favorite foods, and how much he missed them. Chili dogs and root beer. Cornbread and beans. A giant meatball sub with pickles and tomatoes washed down with a cold ginger ale. His mother’s blueberry pie, baked with a recipe passed down from his grandmother and great-grandmother.
Sighing, he sat down again, dangling his feet over the edge. Henry scanned the water, trying to remember where the submerged buildings had been before the flood. It was disconcerting. He’d known this town like the back of his hand, but now that everything was gone, it was hard to get his bearings. His gaze turned to the steeple of the Presbyterian Church, sticking out of the water like a finger pointing skyward. Rain streamed down the white vinyl siding. The bell-tower was hidden in shadow. Henry was just about to glance away when he saw a flash of movement inside.
He sat up straight, peering intently. If it was a bird, and it flew close enough, maybe he could shoot it down and drag it into the silo. He slowly slid the rifle into the crook of his shoulder, eased off the safety, and peered through the scope. He saw it again, a flicker of motion from deep inside the open bell-tower. Too big to be a bird, but the mist prevented him from discerning any more. He adjusted the scope, silently cursing himself for knocking it loose earlier. Then he looked again, and gasped.
There was a figure inside the bell-tower. A human figure. He couldn’t make out their features, or if they were a man or a woman, but the shape was definitely humanoid. Someone was alive over there—but how? He and Moxey were barely making it, and they were inside the grain silo. How had somebody survived being exposed to the elements like that? The steeple offered no real shelter—just a roof over their head. No walls or protection from the rain and cold.
“Does it matter how they survived? Jesus, Henry, get your head out of your ass. You’re not alone.”
Moxey stirred at the sound of his voice. She meowed once, pitifully, and then went back to sleep.
Henry wondered who it could be over there. Reverend Smith, maybe? Or the church caretaker, Mr. Bare? He peered through the scope again, hoping for a better look, but the figure remained hidden. He sat the rifle down beside him and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Hey over there in the church! This is Henry Garrett. Are you okay?”
There was no answer. He tried again, unsuccessfully. Cursing, he picked the rifle up again and fired one shot into the air, trying to get the survivor’s attention. Moxey jumped up, startled by the blast, and fled behind a plastic five-gallon bucket of roof tar. When the ringing in his ears stopped, Henry listened for a reply, but there was none forthcoming. He looked through the scope again. They were still there. Maybe they couldn’t answer him. Maybe they were hurt, or sick. Maybe the rain and fog were muting his shouts. But even if they couldn’t holler back, wouldn’t they have heard the gunshot? Wouldn’t they have at least waved or signaled him somehow?
Something else occurred to him. If the person in the steeple had managed to stay alive so long under such poor conditions, then they probably had something that he and Moxey didn’t have.
Food.
Glancing around the silo, Henry began to formulate a plan. For the first time in weeks, his headache was gone and his stomach didn’t hurt. He had hope.
He clung to that hope like it was a lifeboat, preventing him from sinking down below the surface.
CHAPTER 11
Henry paced around inside the grain silo, trying to formulate a plan to reach the church steeple. Moxey watched him with droopy-lidded eyes, curled up on her burlap sacks and trying to stay warm. Henry’s wet boots sloshed with each step. When he coughed, it echoed around the wooden platform. He leaned against the iron handrail, stared down into the flooded depths in the silo’s center, and frowned in concentration. Even without the revelation that there was somebody else alive, they needed to get out of here. The water had risen even higher. Just a few more days and it would probably overrun the platform. Then, he and Moxey would have no choice but to leave.
He needed to reach the steeple, find out who was there and what kind of shape they were in. Then he needed to get himself, Moxey, and the mysterious stranger over to the mountainside. Granted, there were probably untold dangers there, as well, but at least they could take shelter on the last bit of dry land.
But how?
He couldn’t swim across. The water was a toxic stew—full of oil, chemicals, gasoline, dead bodies and debris, not to mention water moccasins and other critters. He didn’t have a boat. He’d seen some float by—small bass boats and rubber dinghies—but they’d been too far away to capture.
