What’s this? He ignored the pain flaring up in his lower back. He knew full well what he’d found, and it was a hell of a lot better than an empty water bottle or discarded coffee cup. It was a paint can, complete with wire handle. It had been sitting in the corner of the cab for years, collecting smaller mechanical parts and junk—dead spark plugs, screws, bolts, and a hundred other little pieces of farm life—that Jake had fully intended to someday throw out. Today was the day, he figured, turning the pail upside down and giddily letting the accumulation spill over his gut and down into the door frame. It was an odd, surreal feeling; clutching the now empty can against his chest as if it were the most valuable item left in the world, when only hours before it had no meaning in his life whatsoever.
But it was the most precious thing to him at this very moment. It might very well help extend his miserable life. Jake climbed out and jumped to the ground. He found the back of the tractor once again, unhooked the chain, and started coiling it loosely around his shoulders. He stopped after the third loop, the metal already hanging from his body felt impossibly heavy. There was over a hundred pounds more to go. He would never be able to carry that much weight in his condition. He would have to drag it.
Drag it where? He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, how was he expected to find a concrete well-cover fifty feet from where his house once was? Jake took a few deep wheezing breaths and fought the claustrophobic dread away. Use your head. Rationalize.
He was next to the tractor. The tractor had been parked approximately a hundred yards north of the house. Think, Jake, which way was the tractor parked… which direction? It had been punched over onto its side from the shockwave. The nuclear blast had come from the south. That meant the tractor had either been facing west or east. West... I parked it facing west beside the empty gas tanks bordering the northern shelter belt of trees. I always parked it there.
Jake wrapped one end of the chain around his wrist a couple of times and clutched onto the pail handle with his free hand. He leaned against the tractor and moved slowly to his right, rubbing his rear end against the blasted metal until he was certain he was facing south. He made a forty-five degree turn to the left and started walking out. The well would be somewhere out in that south-easterly direction. Fifty feet from the house, three-hundred feet from the tractor.
Or somewhere thereabouts.
Chapter 3
Jake weaved his way back and forth, heading south, and then coming back to the north. He was lost before he had even set out, but the disorientation and numbing confusion became much worse. The tractor was now lost to him forever. All that remained was the sound of his boots dragging in the dry dirt, and the steady, mournful whistle of air in his nostrils. He’d stopped breathing through his mouth; it hurt his throat too much. If he didn’t find that well soon, he’d drop dead.
After another hour or so, Jake didn’t much care if he found the well or not. His thoughts kept returning to his lost family, to what their final moments must have been like. What had Nicholas been doing? Playing with his video console in the living room? Or had he been sitting in the front yard pushing his toy cars around in the dirt? Did he see the blast take place? Had the flash burned his little eyeballs right out of his beautiful little head? Had Mandy been with him?
Had it ended quickly, or did they suffer?
The arm dragging the chain had gone dead. Jake’s fat fingers were tingling from the pressure of the links wrapped around his wrist. He imagined his arm had probably stretched out, and if he dragged the chain along any further, his knuckles would rub against the ground.
Jake gave up and fell to his knees. Fuck it. Not worth the effort… It’s all over.
He rolled over onto his back and stretched out. His foot hit something. Jake squirmed his dying body towards it more out of curiosity than caring. He felt the cold, pitted surface and thought it was a big, flat stone. The edge was rough but gave way to a curved regularity after a few more inches. Jake was back on his knees feeling the flat surface. It was the concrete well cover, or a good chunk of it, blown clear off the top and resting in the dirt. He reached out, feeling at the air, hoping to find the foot-high platform the cover had rested on. Jake found it a few moments later. The other half was still firmly in place with more than enough room open to pass the paint tin through. The shockwave had been incredibly powerful; strong enough to rip the three-inch thick concrete cover in two.
Jake found a few more chunks of smaller concrete and tossed them into the tin for weight. He wrapped one end of the chain around the handle and slowly started to lower his container. He could hear it bonking dully off the inner side of the well shaft. He slowed down even more, fearful the wire handle might detach from one side of the tin. I’ll dive into the water if that happens. If the fall doesn’t kill me, drowning will do the job. One way or another, Jake was going to drink his fill.
The links squirmed through his fingers one after another. Jake was beginning to think he might
