Drag. Push. Rest. Hallucinate. Repeat.
Derek’s knees bled, his elbows bled, his cheek bled. He pushed the can of V8 inexorably forward, not spilling a drop, dragging his body toward its goal.
The pump house.
His hand shook every time he held the V8. If he spilled it, the world died. He rested far away from it, his hand at least inches away, not wanting to knock it over in his sleep.
Drag. Push. Rest. Hallucinate.
Repeat.
Miraculously, his hand touched the concrete of the pump house while it was still light. He managed to set the open can of V8 on the firm foundation of the building that would save him. Would save the private. Would save the world.
Rest first.
Sun still provided some light through the clouds when he awoke, but it was considerably darker than when he had fallen asleep. He needed to prime the pump. He needed the unlimited water it would provide.
Three minutes without oxygen. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. The Boy Scout law of survival.
It had been at least three days.
Could he hold his breath for three days?
He couldn’t pull himself up onto the concrete foundation. He tried and tried but his body was too heavy, the water in it having all evaporated away leaving behind dense sediment and sludge.
He couldn’t get the sludge to move.
Every drill sergeant he’d ever met screamed at him. His father and brothers yelled at him. His older brother called him things like wuss and coward and sissy and so he ran away and joined the marines to prove he wasn’t weak.
His mother cried.
Her crying motivated him more than the yelling and somehow he was up on the concrete base of the pump house, the open door in front of him.
He moved the V8 a foot closer to its goal.
Drag. Push. Rest. Hallucinate. Repeat.
Derek woke up and the can of V8 rested with him, next to the pump shaft. He hadn’t spilled any. He’d done it.
Now what?
It took a few minutes of trying to remember, but he finally recalled the sheet of instructions. He used the pump to pull himself up to the laminated paper he could no longer read. But there was a picture.
He used his fingers to find the place you poured the water (water! not V8!) into the pump to prime it, then you pumped. If it didn’t work the first time, you got more water and tried again.
He laughed.
If it didn’t work the first time, the world died.
And his skeleton would be found in the pump house.
He reached down, tried not to tip over, and couldn’t stop himself. He fell to his knees, holding onto the pump.
Now or never, Corporal, the sergeant yelled.
He picked up the can and began pouring into the hole the instructions indicated. Some spilled. The rest went in.
He worked the handle. No water came.
He pulled on it again, pumping up and down. Down and up. How long did it take?
The handle suddenly became heavier and he pumped it again. He heard a gurgle and he pumped and pumped and water gurgled up and spat out of the spout. He pumped again and water flowed and he put his face in front of it and it stopped, remnants dripping out of the spout. He let the drops flow onto his swollen tongue and he lived.
Water was life. Life was water.
The difficulty at first in getting water turned out to be a blessing in disguise. After so long without the lifesaving fluid, he needed to take it in small quantities, first drops, then swallows. He drank a little, rested, drank more. He blocked the drain with his shirt and lapped up the puddle.
Pump. Drink. Rest. Repeat.
The hallucinations slowed down.
It took all night.
Derek knew he wasn’t better. He knew he had probably done some permanent damage. But he thought he could walk. He had to get water to the private.
He stumbled back to the house. It took minutes, not hours! He found a pitcher and a plastic cup in the kitchen. Back out to the pump house. Still minutes, not hours. He drank from the cup and drank more and drank and told himself to stop. It took a while for the body to recover.
He filled the pitcher and headed for the gate.
He debated how to get over it when he saw the latch. A simple flip and slide and the gate swung open, gravity doing all the heavy lifting.
It amazed him how close the private lay on the highway to the gate. It had seemed like miles, an eternity, yesterday, and now it took him just seconds.
The man wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive.
Derek dribbled water on his tongue, his lips, but he didn’t respond. Derek put his finger, his smelly, salty, nasty finger, into the water and rubbed it on the man’s lips. He tried to hold the private’s head up a little and pour water into his mouth, but the man choked and coughed on it. At least a reaction.
He tried to get more water into him, but it seemed hopeless.
Another thought overwhelmed Derek.
Food.
He had to have food.
Now!
“C’mon, buddy,” he urged, and the private seemed to drink a little, unconsciously. He poured water on the private’s face, but he only twitched.
Food! Now!
Derek left the pitcher and the cup and made his way back to the pump house, drinking more water.
He found no food in the kitchen but he found another pitcher and went back to the pump house and filled it up. He carried it around with him as he searched the rest of the house.
Nothing upstairs. Not even a stash of candy bars under someone’s bed.
Down the stairs and into the well appointed basement with a wet bar and a pool table. Storage behind the laundry room, the door locked. He broke it open and there was food. Cans and cans and cans of food.
Two cans of peaches, he could carry no more with the pitcher, and back upstairs to a can opener.
He couldn’t find it fast enough, he couldn’t open them fast enough, couldn’t eat the contents, drinking the juice and swallowing the peaches without chewing, fast enough. He brought the can opener with him and went back to the basement.
He threw up after the fifth can.
He had to eat slower. He grabbed several more cans and headed back up the stairs, away from the stench of the bile and partially digested peaches. He set the cans on the counter and rinsed his mouth out with water from the pitcher. He spat into the sink.
Derek opened one can. One. He ate its contents greedily and wanted more, but wisely gave his stomach time to digest. He drank more water and the pitcher was empty.
Back to the pump house.
He dropped the pitcher when he got outside the house.
A zombie shuffled toward him.
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