Fresh Water From Ben Gile Pond

A Lucky Bat Book

Fresh Water from Ben Gile Pond

Copyright 2015 Michael Wilford

Cover Design: Brandon Swann

All rights reserved.

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In a world where a simple drink of water can kill you . . .

When governments collide and the world finds itself in flames on Christmas Eve, only the strong and resourceful survive. For thirty years, the tainted water kills humans and animals alike. Only plants can drink without purifying the poisonous fluid so essential to life.

During those thirty years, the Richmond family ekes out an existence in the backwoods of Maine, keeping to themselves and avoiding all contact with strangers, while miles away, the Perkins family claw their way through town after town, determined to escape the dominating militias and stake out a claim of their own. Neither family knows of the other’s existence. Neither family cares.

Until a crowing rooster sets events in motion that will send the two families on a collision course so violent only one family can survive.

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For Ryan

Black Christmas

One

BAMPY HAD ALWAYS told Carl not to drink the rainwater, that whatever had infected it would eat him apart from the inside until he was violently defecating and vomiting blood. Bampy wasn’t entirely right though. He had been too cautious because he could remember how things were in Maine before it all happened, before the water became unsafe for all living creatures except for the plants.

He had still been attached to a time when hope was a real thing, not something out of a fable long abandoned by people who didn’t bother to learn how to read anymore.

Those who had been born after the change knew better. The rainwater was perfectly safe to drink, it just couldn’t be allowed to touch the soil. If it was captured in a clean container, it was just fine. But people of Bampy’s generation didn’t trust it. In fact, they didn’t trust anything.

So, in a way it was both poetic and tragic how Bampy’s decision to show trust in a human being outside of their group for the first time in more than thirty years would ultimately lead to his death. That a single moment of compassion and caring in a world far removed from such odd and precarious behavior would see him gunned down and the rest of them forced out of their home into the wilderness.

Come along, Carl, Zoey urged.

Carl turned back toward the group, watching as his sister jiggled her overburdened backpack around on her shoulders. With an exasperated sigh, she reached under the pack and yanked down on her gray thermal, straightening the wrinkles he could see bunched up on her shoulders. His mother and father moved slowly up the trail, neither of them looking back.

He started after them, his steps slowing as he paused once again for another look back at the only home he had ever known. He gazed at the still water of Dodge Pond. At the far end stood the old Rangeley House. Their home.

Just one last look. That was all he wanted. The problem was that he had taken several last looks, and not a single one of them had brought about the feelings he sought. He wanted closure, some kind of overwhelming confirmation that what they were doing was the right thing.

"Carl! Zoey growled. We don’t have time for this!"

With a frustrated sigh, he turned his back on Dodge Pond for the last time and hurried after his family. All he could do was hope that things might somehow sort themselves out in his mind as he and the others walked toward whatever awaited them in the backwoods of Maine.

You’re not even the smallest bit upset that we have to go? he asked, catching up with his older sister. The trail, frequented by snowmobiles and various other all-terrain vehicles back in the days when gasoline was still obtainable, was just wide enough to accommodate two people walking side by side. Mom and Dad, as equally loaded up with gear as he and Zoey, walked some fifteen feet ahead with their black-and-white terrier/border collie mix, Tripp, taking the lead. The dog operated well enough off leash, sticking close by with frequent backward glances to make sure that his pack was still with him.

Have you been drinking from the pond? she said, using one of Bampy’s favorite phrases, a phrase that loosely meant are you nuts? We have no other choice.

That doesn’t mean you have to be okay with it.

Carl, Zoey, Dad said, his voice low and firm, keep it down. Ahead, Tripp stopped with one of his front paws curled up. He looked inquisitively back at them before trotting on down the trail.

That was the end of the conversation for a while, and Carl was perfectly okay with it. He had gotten the last word in, and judging by the look on Zoey’s face, his point had stuck. At any other time this would have brought a smile to his face, but he was far too upset to bask in his victory. They lumbered along the overgrown trail, pushing aside branches from the ambitious evergreens that had retaken the pathway here and there.

It wasn’t long before he was hit with the guilt of what he had just done. What, exactly, had he been looking to accomplish? He studied the look of despair on her face. Her brown eyes stayed on the ground as they walked through the yellow October grasses, their boots crackling through the autumn leaves carpeting the ground. The earthy, spiced scents of slow decay representative of the season rose up around them. Carl suddenly realized his sister had repressed all thoughts of the home they’d been forced at gunpoint to abandon, whereas he couldn’t keep his mind off the place. Too much. Too soon.

And he had pushed her down into that hole.

I’m sorry, he whispered, laying his arm over her shoulders as best he could. His fingers caught momentarily in her snarly, black ponytail before he managed to work his arm into the space between her neck and her backpack. As they walked he used his free hand to shove aside more branches. It was awkward to maintain the contact, but he was able to make it work long enough that she finally reached up and patted his forearm.

Me, too, she said, blinking. A few tears trickled down her dirty cheeks.

Carl had no doubt that the tears were for Bampy and not the house. He thought for a moment about helping her work through it, but quickly decided against it. He’d caused enough problems already. Mom would probably put together some kind of memorial as soon as they stopped for the night (she was good with those kinds of things), but for the time being it was important that they keep their attention on getting out of Rangeley.

Tripp stopped dead in his tracks, prompting the rest of them to do the same. As a family dog he had a lot of great uses when it came to keeping morale high, but he was also a working dog, and the thing he did best was let them know when danger was near. Not that they had ever strayed very far from the Rangeley House.

It was incredibly rare to encounter anything wandering about on hooves or paws anymore. The animals didn’t seem to understand that the water wasn’t safe for consumption unless it was first boiled. Add to that the fact that different water sources were affected in different ways, and you came to understand why people fought so dearly to remain where they were once roots were put down in places like Dodge Pond. As far as the Richmond family knew, all major sources of water, regardless of their levels of contamination, were fought over. There were even stories in the early years of independent militias springing up around major lakes and rivers, taking control, and limiting the amount of water local residents could take home to boil.

Oddly enough, trees and other plants were not affected by the tainted water. In fact, they seemed to have flourished since Black Christmas when it all started.

Dad dropped to one knee, pulling his Remington .308 from where he had it slung over his shoulder. Taking the rifle in hand, he pulled back on the bolt, then slid a round into the chamber. His gaze stayed on Tripp the entire time as the fur on the dog’s back lifted and his lips curled in a snarl.

Not one of them said a thing to the dog. No one wanted to excite him to the point where he started barking.

The trail ahead curled up the side of a mountain. Carl studied the pathway in the dull afternoon light that filtered through the gray clouds, watching for the briefest flicker of movement. He held his breath and listened, though not a single sound could be heard in the still forest. There wasn’t even a light breeze to ruffle the leaves on the ground.

He glanced at Zoey, who had come out of her despair, at least for the moment. Though he was certain she noticed him looking at her, her gaze stayed fixed on Tripp.

Carl glanced back over his shoulder at the tiny bits of Dodge Pond that could still be seen through slits in the trees. With a deep breath he turned back to the trail, resting his attention on the dog. Tripp started to relax a bit, the hair settling down on his back and his body loosening up. Tripp yawned and turned to Dad, looking to see what was expected of him now that he was satisfied that whatever he had heard was gone—or more realistically—had never existed at all.

Dad slowly unlocked the bolt on the rifle and slid it backward. He caught the shell as it was expelled from the chamber. Leaving the chamber open, he pocketed the shell, engaged the safety, and slung the rifle back over his shoulder. He moved slowly to his feet. Carl released his breath in a loud exhale as Tripp trotted on down the trail. Carl followed his family at a slower pace, his mind once again pondering the circumstances that had set their feet on this path . . .

. . . The Rangeley House had been Bampy’s old camp, his vacation cabin in the backwoods of Maine. When Black Christmas hit he packed up his family and took them there, figuring it was the most remote location he was familiar with. It didn’t hurt that he owned the property, too. It was right on a body of water that would remain less contested than most of the more notable lakes and ponds around the state. Dad was Carl’s age at the time. Though he rarely spoke of it, it wasn’t entirely impossible for him to open up about Black Christmas.

For some reason, fate would have it that he’d been speaking of Black Christmas the very day their life in the Rangeley House came to an end.

They were arranged in their usual spots—Dad sitting in his corner chair beside the brick fireplace with a kettle of boiling water suspended on a spit over an open flame; Mom in the kitchen at the back in her tattered, white apron, putting some rice and Brussels sprouts together for supper; and Bampy sitting on the worn old couch with Carl and Zoey, stretched out and relaxed, his long, white hair untamed and wild. It had been a good year for their vegetable harvest. Most of the harvest had been pickled using the cider vinegar that Mom put up the previous fall. Given the camp’s place in the woods, far off what remained of the highway, their gardens and small orchard remained relatively untouched. As a precaution they kept as much of the area enshrouded in camouflage netting as possible to avoid drawing the attention of any wandering vagrants. The gardens were their main source of food, producing an abundance of fruit and vegetables—much more so than gardens had produced prior to Black Christmas. The plants seemed to love the tainted water.

Cold enough for a fire, Dad said, poking at the coals with the wrought iron poker. Lucky it’s such a dreary day or we’d be waiting for nightfall to get warm. He took a deep breath and stared into the open flames as a light frown came across his face. The snow’ll be flying soon.

Time to dig in and get used to the taste of brine again, Bampy said, reaching over and tousling Carl’s shoulder-length black hair.

Carl scowled and moved his head away from his grandfather’s hand. He hated it when Bampy treated him like a little boy. He was almost sixteen, old enough to carry an adult share of the chores.

Bampy grinned and turned back to Dad. "Right about now your mother would be getting all her Christmas decorations out. Blast the warlords of this world who stole that holiday from you kids." He looked back and forth between Carl and Zoey as he scratched his chest through his black-and-red checkered flannel shirt.

The kids are better off, Dad said. Happy things like that would just confuse people now. Besides . . . I don’t think I’d be able to look at a Christmas tree the same way as we did back then.

Zoey sat up and rested her elbows on her knees. Her interest, like Carl’s, was piqued. The fire cast flickering shadows along the knotty pine walls. The trace amounts of dull daylight that managed to get through the boarded-up windows did little to diminish the brilliance of the orange flames. Carl waited expectantly for either Dad or Bampy to speak.

Because of Black Christmas? Zoey asked. She looked surprised to have actually asked the question and Carl choked back a laugh. Zoey gave a nervous shrug and shrank back against the couch.

That night, Dad said, shocking everyone in the room as he moved into his story. Generally, he had to be in a mood before he started talking about Black Christmas, a mood that often involved pulling out a bottle of the vodka Mom made from potatoes. Every bit of my childhood was stolen in an instant. Neither of you kids could possibly know how big a deal Christmas was back then. His gaze shifted between them as Carl leaned forward. "You remember when I told you about what money was?"

Carl nodded.

Well, this was a time of year when people would often spend all the money they had on presents for others, Dad said, looking at Bampy.

The old man nodded, and a few stray locks of his long, silver hair fell into his face. He pushed them back into place and remained silent.

Like food? Carl asked, not willing to divulge that he didn’t really understand exactly what money was. He barely understood what a present was. Dad had said that a present was a gift, but as far as their family was concerned, gifts didn’t translate into material possessions. Another day alive with a small amount of food in his belly was a gift, at least in this world, and it was not given by a single person. It was given by the world itself.

In some cases, yes, Dad answered, shifting the coals around in preparation for adding another log to the fire. But mostly things like . . . Carl studied his father as he trailed off, then started again. Like . . . clothes and tools, only brand-new—store-bought.

Carl nodded, though he still didn’t fully understand. He knew that both Dad and Bampy would get depressed if either of them went into detail about the times when they could simply slap a paper note down on a counter and walk out with bags full of food or new clothes made by people they would never meet.

So, when everyone had their presents, they would wrap the gifts in pretty paper and put them underneath a fir tree in their house so that they could be opened on Christmas Day.

They brought a tree inside the house? Carl asked, confused but not truly surprised. People did a lot of strange things back then.

Yes.

Why? Zoey asked.

Dad thought on this for a moment before turning away from the fire and looking at Bampy. Bampy shrugged.

I suppose we never really thought about it, Dad finally said. It was just our tradition . . . the normal thing to do at that time of year. Seems a little silly now, but we’d string lights and popcorn and cranberries on the tree, and we’d decorate the branches with various ornaments made of glass.

Carl frowned and Dad seemed to sense his confusion.

Popcorn was a snack we used to eat. Corn kernels were first dried, then heated. They would pop open and . . . well, I’m not really sure how to describe it. I sure do miss it. Don’t get me started on butter.

What happened on the night of Black Christmas? Zoey asked, obviously trying to refocus her father. Dad often needed such a push. It wasn’t unusual for him to run off on tangents with regard to the various types of food they would eat in the old days. If Carl heard the word hamburger one more time, he’d probably throw a fit.

Dad leaned the poker against the brick hearth and placed another log in the dwindling flames. He rubbed at his face with calloused hands before smoothing down his long, black hair and continuing. Bampy and Gram took me to my grandparents’ house for Christmas Eve dinner and the family party we had each year. I remember being so excited. I’d wanted some kind of video game system, and it was all I could think about. There was no way for me to be sure that I was even going to get it, but I had a feeling. He chuckled. I sure asked enough for it. Gram had started to shut me up every time I mentioned it. Funny . . . I can’t for the life of me remember what it was called. He looked at Bampy, who shrugged again.

Zoey looked as confused as Carl felt. He had no idea what a video game was, but Dad moved on without explaining.

On Christmas Eve it was always impossible to fall asleep, he continued with a quick smile that lit up his clean-shaven face. The excitement of all the new stuff waiting for us the next day was too much. I could never stop thinking about it. I’d try to wake Bampy and Gram up at three a.m. sometimes.

Yeah, and we sent you back to bed every time. Bampy chuckled.

I suppose you did, Dad said, obviously finding it a bit more difficult to remember than Bampy. "Anyway, it was Bampy and Gram who woke me up that year. Along with the explosions at the shipyard."

We were just far enough away to escape the blasts, Bampy added.

"It didn’t feel like we were far away, Dad said. He shook his head and took a deep breath. Imagine going to sleep, excited as you’ve ever been and expecting to wake up to a day of joy and celebration . . . and instead you’re shaken awake by frantic parents as the world around you falls apart. Before you have a chance to get a handle on what’s going on, you’re thrown into a car and are speeding north as everything explodes around you . . ."

He trailed off, and Carl stared into the fire, trying to imagine what Dad was talking about. He wasn’t old enough to have ever seen an operating car and neither was Zoey. They had seen the rusted-out heaps that were once functioning vehicles, but that was about as far as it went. If they were to see something like Dad was talking about, it would probably frighten them so badly that they’d die of a heart attack.

All the way up to camp we saw more explosions, Bampy said, taking over. He scratched at the white stubble on his face. We were so scared. The only stop we made was off of I-95—this was a major highway for cars back then—right outside of Portland. The city was already leveled, and what was left of it was in flames—

That’s where they picked me up, Mom said from the kitchen. She walked over to the kettle of boiling water with a small cooking pot to fill.

Hard not to stop and pick up a poor little girl sitting on her own on the shoulder of a major highway, Bampy said, smiling warmly at her. He looked back at Carl and Zoey. It was your Gram who insisted we stop.

It seems like forever ago, Mom sighed, dipping her pot into the large kettle and coming up with some water. Carl watched, his attention shifting briefly away from Bampy, as she brought the water to her face and inhaled deeply, making sure that the sour smell of rotted onions—a tell-tale sign of tainted water—was not present. All infected water shared this reek, which diminished and almost disappeared entirely if allowed to boil long enough.

Seems like a different life, Dad added.

What happened? Carl asked, scratching at his faded, torn blue jeans and pulling down the sleeves of his red thermal shirt. What caused the explosions, I mean?

Bampy’s answer was hardly the one Carl was looking for. Carl had asked this same question countless times in one way or another and the response had always been pretty much the same.

Government, Bampy growled, his voice dripping with rancor. Nothing more than a failed experiment that gave the impression that it was working for a couple millennia, but was always destined to obliterate our race.

I don’t understand, Carl said. He looked at Zoey as if she might perhaps clue him in, but her attention remained on Bampy. Carl knew that she could feel his eyes on her, yet she chose to ignore him. It was reasonable to surmise that she also had no idea what the old man was talking about, but she wasn’t willing to share this fact with him. This was typical Zoey, unwavering in her endeavors to avoid showing any kind of ignorance or vulnerability.

And you’re better off because of it, Bampy said, seemingly having no qualms about leaving Carl in the dark. He would go to great lengths to make sure that Carl and Zoey knew what a refrigerator and a smart phone had been, but he refused to elaborate on this topic.

We came up over the Height of the Land lookout, overlooking Mooselookmeguntic Lake, just as the sun was throwing some color into the sky, Dad said. The fire popped, sending a burning coal toward his legs. He expertly swatted the coal back at the hearth, avoiding burning more holes in his already threadbare jeans. Clothing was so scarce that they had learned to be just as protective of their clothes as they were of their food. Dad scooped the coal up with the wrought iron ash shovel, and tossed the smoldering ember back into the fire, continuing as if nothing had happened. "There hadn’t been any more fires or explosions since we passed the burning paper mills in Mexico—that’s the town in Maine, not the country down south. At that time the water was still safe to drink. Whatever contaminated our water didn’t show up for another couple of months.

I remember we came into Oquossoc—about two or three miles from here—and Bampy broke into the hardware and gun shop. He took the .308 and all the camo netting we now have strung around the place, and he probably took a few other things as well, Dad said, raising his eyebrows at his father.

I’ve never stolen anything in my life, Bampy insisted. "I left four hundred dollars cash next to the register."

That was money, right? Zoey asked.

That’s right, girlie, Bampy replied.

In any event, Dad said, we loaded up the car and brought everything here. Aside from a few grocery trips in the months before the water turned, we’ve never left. After those first couple months . . . well, let’s just say that as the world changed, people changed, too. People can turn into monsters when they’re struggling to stay alive. It’s a good thing the plants started growing so fast. Had our camp road not been swallowed up by the trees and ferns around it, I fear that we would have been spotted by now. We’ve been very lucky.

Bampy nodded. He gently patted Carl on the back. Don’t you ever forget, boy—the only way to stay alive in this world is to dig in and stay safe. I can only imagine what people have resorted to for food over these last thirty years, and I don’t care to mention it here.

Pots clanged in the kitchen behind them. Just a little longer on the rice and sprouts, Mom said, effectively ending their talk about Black Christmas. James, you can take that water off the fire before too much of it evaporates.

Evaporate. That was an old-world word . . . like grocery or phone. Carl and Zoey had come to know a lot of those words, but their favorites were the old-world phrases like hold your horses. They understood that meant to slow down, but neither of them had ever seen a single horse, and based on how large the animals seemed when described by Dad or Bampy, it didn’t sound as though Carl could easily pick one up and hold it like a rabbit.

Yes, ma’am, Dad responded, pulling on his heavy gloves and lifting the kettle off the fire. He placed the steaming kettle next to the fireplace on a stone slab reserved just for this purpose. Fit enough for the pope to drink.

Bampy laughed. Pope was a word Carl hadn’t heard before and he made a mental note of it. He did not ask what the word meant, though he assumed it referred to someone important. Like a king, another commonly referenced item from the old world.

Among the plethora of old-world words and references that were constantly flung around in the camp between those over forty, there was one word that Carl vaguely remembered. A word that hadn’t been used in a very long time.

That word was God . . .

Two

CARL MARCHED FOR what felt like hours. The path wove through the woods, split into a fork, and continued on until it hit another fork. At each fork, Dad took the route that appeared least traveled. Like Bampy leading Dad, Gram, and Mom away from the horrors of Black Christmas, Dad did not allow any breaks until they were far enough into the woods to avoid making contact with another soul. At one point, the trail became two gravel ruts, running side by side through whatever vegetation happened to be the most dominant.

Dad gave no indication that he knew where they were going. As far as Carl knew, his father hadn’t strayed more than a mile from the Rangeley House. Ever. It seemed obvious that he had made the decision to push deep into the woods to hopefully find a more isolated place for them to start over. This made sense on a certain level, but if Carl had learned anything from recent events, it was that no place was truly safe.

Carl watched with slowly mounting anxiety as Tripp lifted his nose in the air just as they emerged from a row of white pine and prickly spruce.

Leash him, Dad snapped.

Carl removed a length of rope from the right breast pocket of his black-and-green checked flannel shirt. Untangling the rope, he called Tripp and waited for the dog to approach. The dog obeyed without protest, trotting over and allowing Carl to loop the rope around his neck.

Before them lay a grassy meadow, browning with the changing season. The rich, earthy smells of decaying leaves which had been so pervasive in the forest had been replaced with the scent of dry grass. A breeze cooled the sweat on Carl’s brow and he studied the area, trying to figure out what had caught Tripp’s attention. Overhead, the sky was darkening as the sun started its trip down toward the tips of the western mountains. The gravel ruts they’d been following were almost hidden beneath the knee-length grass.

Carl couldn’t see anything that indicated there was water close by, the primary reason to put Tripp back on his leash. If the dog was left to his own impulses, he would almost certainly walk up to any standing source of water and drink freely and they couldn’t allow that. Carl had heard the stories about how generation after generation of pups had found their way to the pond. Tripp was the last living dog in the line of Bampy and Gram’s old house pets—Gambit, a wirehaired terrier and Sasha, a border collie. Considering how deeply inbred he was, it was a wonder he was so sharp.

Can you smell it, Dad? Zoey asked, lifting her nose into the air as Tripp had.

No, Dad whispered, holding out his hand in a keep your voices low signal. Zoey nodded and Dad cupped a hand to his ear, gesturing for them to listen closely.

At first Carl could hear only the light breeze that had picked up a few hours into their march. It whispered through the trees behind him, rustling pine needles and amber-colored leaves both on the ground and still on the trees. The spicy scents of pitch, sap, and soil reached his nose.

He listened harder, shutting out the obvious sounds. After a minute or so, he was able to isolate the weak trickling of a brook. The water was too far away for anyone except Tripp to smell.

A brook? Carl asked, breaking the silence.

Dad shrugged. Probably, but I can’t really tell. Keep the dog leashed and stay sharp—where there’s water there might be people.

Dad was generally what Bampy called a cool-headed man, always taking plenty of time to think things through and often being overly cautious. Considering how far into the woods they were, odds were high that there weren’t many people about.

Carl meticulously studied the meadow as Dad led them forward again. Tripp stayed at Carl’s side as he walked, not pulling or making any kind of attempt to break free. The dog trotted happily along one of the gravel ruts, cutting through the tunnel of grass, staring occasionally up at Carl, his moustache of wiry black-and-white fur curling around the top of his muzzle.

The trail twisted through the meadow until it reached a slow-moving brook. Growing from the muddy shallows were a number of tightly grouped plants consisting of wispy, brown leaves that fluttered gently in the breeze. Interspersed among the leaves were dozens of yellowing reeds rising rigidly out of