The Book of Kell Read online

  So it was time to move on. But where, exactly? If it weren’t for Crazy Bastard Matteo, the logical thing would have been to go back down 101 South and find 17. I had confidence (well, some) that once I got my bearings again on 17, I could lead us to the V that would put us on the right side of the bay. But neither East nor I wanted any further encounters with Matteo and his darts. From the way he’d run off when the jet appeared, I didn’t think he’d come after us if we stayed out of his territory. But if we walked right back into his clutches again, East’s hurt knee would hamper our efforts to avoid him.

  So South did not seem to be an option. North would dead end in San Francisco—definitely not an option. West was the opposite of where we wanted to go. East? We were on a road headed east, to a bridge that once spanned the bay. If it still formed an unbroken connection to the eastern shore, it was the perfect and most direct choice. The adults told stories of Before, when there were no less than five bridges across the bay, with the Golden Gate, of course, being the most famous. It had been the first to go, blown up by homegrown terrorists in the early days of the Bad Times. War, weather and earthquakes had all taken their toll on the other bridges. No pun intended. None of them had been passable to vehicular traffic for years. I wondered what kind of shape our bridge was in. Despite the standard piles of debris and weeds poking up through the asphalt, the road was still walkable. I knew no car or truck could get over the bridge, but how about an agile and athletic person such as myself? If we could get across the bay via the bridge, we’d be saving days of travel time.

  I decided to give it a try. Worst case scenario, we would camp overnight in some well-hidden spot, then backtrack in the morning. It was worth a shot. I explained my thought process to East as we shouldered our packs and started walking toward the bridge.

  Eyebrows raised, she said, “Uh, not to be rude, but are you sure we’re going the right direction?”

  I had to admit it was a fair question, all things considered. We’d been running all over the place, first this way, then that. We both knew the old maps we’d seen in school could not be trusted. Too much had changed during the Bad Times. Geography itself had changed, what with all the earthquakes and violent storms. The afternoon sky was too dim at that moment to reliably find the sun starting its descent in the west. I searched for another landmark, something to convince both of us that we really were headed east. The road began to rise as we approached the beginning of the bridge. I was cheered by its sturdy appearance. Well, sturdy by post-apocalyptic standards. The side railings were missing in some spots. There were the usual abandoned vehicles here and there, and plenty of potholes. But so far, at least, we hadn’t come across anything insurmountable.

  As the road climbed, we gained a commendable view of our surroundings. Below were marshy sloughs, stretching for miles in both directions. North and south, if I was right. Straight ahead, we could finally see the turbulent steel gray waters of the bay with whitecaps dancing. In the distance was the eastern shore. The East Bay, they used to call it per history class. Cities like Oakland and Berkeley had been there. Behind the cities, further to the east, loomed an impressive peak called Mount Diablo. I pointed it out to East to confirm we were going the right way. Once we reached that far shore, we’d make a left and head north again.

  “If Diablo’s on your right and the bay’s on your left,” Gabriel had told me, “you’re on track.”

  Now all we had to do was skip across several miles of open water. San Francisco Bay is not some cozy little pond. It’s pretty much like the ocean. It’s big and cold, with waves and currents and sharks.

  I really wished I hadn’t thought of the sharks.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Toll

  The first five miles or so of the bridge were easy. East’s knee didn’t seem to be bothering her too badly. There were places where the middle lanes had collapsed, but we could still ease our way along one of the sides. There were a few spots where we had to jump over small gaps, the water visible below. One ten-foot gap was too far to jump, but a downed light pole allowed us to safely scoot across on our butts. All in all, so far, so good, although I was acutely aware that every mile we walked was a mile we’d have to walk back if we found something that blocked our progress. I pushed that thought to the back of my mind and hoped for the best. Maybe Matteo was wrong about the bridge being out. The guy was mental, after all.

  As usual, I was highly alert and checking behind us, in front of us, on both sides and keeping an eye on the sky as well. But I saw nothing. Heard nothing but the wind and the waves and the birds. Big metal power towers on concrete pedestals ran parallel to the bridge, their bases white with guano. Cormorants were clustered on several of these. The birds ignored us, but they got me thinking about nests and eggs. And dinner, always one of my favorite topics.

  The view was astounding. The bay was vast and we could see miles of it on either side of the bridge. A delicate mist hung over the East Bay, but we could discern the ghostly, bombed-out skyline of Oakland. Or maybe it was Berkeley. No skyline in San Francisco, of course, but the remains of the Bay Bridge could be seen to the north. From a distance, these sights were striking, beautiful even—as long as you didn’t know the ugly history. I was never much for history, though. Lots of the grownups were stuck in the past, obsessing over things they couldn’t change. I was all about the present. If we could survive that, we’d make it to the next bit of future.

  But walking on the vast, deserted bridge, with the vistas of bay, sky and land to feast our eyes on, was something I knew even then that I would never forget. It was gorgeous, even on a cloudy day with intermittent sprinkles to refresh our faces. East had unearthed Mr. Giovanni’s yellow slicker from her pack, but I always liked the feel of a little rain on my skin. The tantalizing eastern shore grew closer with each step. The air, so fresh and clear right off the water, was cold, yet invigorating. Like it was infused with extra oxygen or something.

  Ahead was yet another tangle of abandoned vehicles, this one larger than usual. Some big trucks, including an eighteen-wheeler, were at the center of the wreckage. About a dozen rusted-out vehicles were scattered across the bridge, forming a wall of metal that would have blocked anything substantial from getting through.

  But we were small. We approached the line of cars with caution, but they were empty hulks. We threaded our way through, then found out why everybody had slammed on the brakes and crashed together in a pile.

  The bridge ended. A fifty-foot section was simply gone, no doubt at the bottom of the bay, covered with barnacles. And/or minivans. Fifty feet of no bridge, then the structure picked up again, looking robust and saucy on the other side. So near and yet so far. The bay surged below, mere feet beneath us. I’d seen pictures in books where the water was considerably lower under the bridges on the bay, but global warming had melted a lot of ice over the years. San Francisco Bay, along with the world’s oceans, had noticeably risen as a result.

  Fifty feet of air to the other side. It felt so close, like we could almost reach out and touch it. Too far to jump, though. There were some crumbling concrete kiosks on the other side. I remembered hearing about people working on the bridges, collecting money from each car as it passed. Maybe that’s what the kiosks were for. Or maybe they housed the electrical stuff for the light poles which monotonously dotted both sides of the bridge every hundred feet or so. My grandmother would have known what they were, with her mechanical engineering background. An all too familiar feeling of desolation arose in my chest, but was blocked by the lump in my throat. I missed Gran so much. And Gabriel. The only people who loved me. And I might never see Gabriel again…

  Shut up, I told myself. Shut up shut up shut up. Focus. You’ve got business to take care of. I took another look at the far side. Beyond the kiosks, the bridge sloped downward. Just another mile or so and we’d have been on the eastern shore. Dang, so close! The thought of having to walk all those miles back made me feel sick.

  A rumble of th
under summed up my mood nicely. There were more clouds in the sky and they were a dark, ominous gray. The wind was picking up too. We were going to be drenched soon, no doubt about it. I glanced behind us—nothing back there but a long soggy walk awaiting us. I turned to look again at the fifty-foot gap between us and the rest of the bridge. I had to get us over there. Had to. But how?

  East came up next to me and wrapped both her arms around my right arm. A week before, I would have found that unimaginable. The day before, I would have found it intrusive. Now, I think we both needed the consolation of a little contact.

  “What do you think?” she said, looking down at the dark heaving waters of the bay.

  Something stirred inside me. Frustration, impatience, stubbornness, strength, will—call it what you want. A feeling that I would not—could not—be denied.

  “Can you swim?” I asked her. She gasped and let go of my arm. I took that as a no.

  “Are you nuts? We can’t swim across that!”

  She gestured incredulously at the waves below. They weren’t that big, I thought. Only a foot high or so. And it was only fifty feet. I knew I could swim that far—no problem. Gabriel had taught me to swim when I was little. Although this wouldn’t be like swimming in a pond or one of the little sheltered inlets by the beach in San Tomas. There were the waves to contend with, currents as well, and hopefully all the sharks were taking the day off. Fifty feet…it wasn’t that far. I just had to convince East.

  She was still staring at me like I had a screw loose. Hands on her hips. I realized with a jolt of recognition that she was just as stubborn as I was.

  “What about our packs? Did you think about that?”

  Crap. I had not thought about that. But there was no way in hell I was walking five miles back to 101 and then all the way down south to where we’d started out that morning. Several freaking lifetimes ago.

  “Kell, come on,” she said anxiously, pleading her case. “You know these packs won’t float. They’ll sink like rocks. And drag us down with them!”

  “Well…” I said, trying to come up with a solution. She was right—we couldn’t ditch our packs. I had some lightweight, but ultra-strong utility cord in mine as part of my usual camping gear, but I couldn’t swim and tow the pack behind me. It would sink like she said. I’d once read a book where a boy lassoed hundreds of sea gulls so he and his friends could fly away from a sticky situation. The gulls on this bridge were not of such a cooperative bent, however. Think, I told myself severely.

  What kind of tools and assets did we have on the bridge with us? I turned around to survey the available resources. Old wrecks of cars wouldn’t help. Ditto hunks of concrete. We needed a boat or a raft. Or at least something that would float…

  “There!” I exclaimed, pointing.

  “There what?” East said, exasperated. “Look, whatever you’re thinking, just stop, all right? I can’t fucking swim!”

  “Maybe you won’t have to,” I said to her over my shoulder as I jogged back to what I’d seen. One of the vehicles in the pile-up was a pickup truck. Its front end was smashed, but the cargo in the back had survived undisturbed—orange plastic barrels. I had no idea what they’d been used for—probably something terrible for the environment—but that didn’t matter. What was important was that not only does plastic last just about forever, it floats. The barrels were filthy and some had lost their tops, but they were otherwise just as good as new.

  “Kell,” East said nervously, joining me as I examined the barrels, trying to decide which one was best for our needs. “What are you doing? Are you listening to me? Seriously, I can’t swim!”

  I jumped down from the truck. If we were going to cross the water together, I needed her to not freak out. “I’m listening. Look, it’s okay if you’re not a good swimmer. I can tow you over there—it’s really not that far. It’ll take like two minutes.”

  Dubious was the word to describe her expression. A wet lock of her hair hung down the side of her face, framing her cheek. I wanted to reach out and gently push it behind her ear. Stop it, I told myself. She’s not your friend. She’s one of them.

  “Have you ever swum in the ocean?” she asked pointedly.

  “Yes,” I said confidently. It was even true. “That’s where Gabriel taught me to swim back in San Tomas. I’m an excellent swimmer, East. You gotta trust me.”

  She trembled a bit as I said the town’s name. Perhaps from the cold and the wet. Perhaps from the memories. Since our conversation about the Aptitudes, both of us had shied away from talking about the past, especially the traumatic events of the extremely recent past. It was just too hard to think about.

  “What about sharks?” she said with a scowl, arms rigidly folded across her chest. “Let’s just walk back, all right?”

  “The bay is huge, East. The chances of a shark being in the same fifty-foot stretch of water we need to cross are super low. And anyhow, those sharks are looking for fish to eat, not people who are bigger than they are.”

  I hoped she didn’t remember from class that one of the Before towns that lined the bay was called Tiburon. Which is Spanish for shark.

  She turned her back on me to stare across the gap. Maybe I was winning her over after all.

  “East?”

  Whoa. So not winning her over. She whipped around and grabbed both my arms fiercely, but she wasn’t just angry. She was scared.

  “I can’t swim!” she yelled at me. “And you want me to jump in the freezing cold shark water like it’s no big deal! Well, it is a big deal—to me!”

  She slumped suddenly, her hands slipping down my arms as if she’d lost all her strength. Sitting at my feet on the wet concrete, she pulled her knees to her chest, then put her head down. She was rocking slowly, from side to side.

  “Why can’t we just walk?” she said, sobbing. “I just want to go home.”

  Oh, hell. Crying girl alert. Crying tall girl alert. If I sat down next to her, I wouldn’t be able to put my arm around her shoulders. I got down on my knees and awkwardly hugged her from the side.

  “Don’t cry, Easty,” I murmured. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  I continued with the meaningless, reassuring drivel for a while. I don’t know if she believed that stuff any more than I did, but that was apparently what people did in these situations. Eventually, she stopped sniffling and wiped her nose with her sleeve. I pulled out of the hug and rocked back on my heels.

  “Did you seriously just call me Easty?” she finally said, with tears still on her cheeks, but the beginnings of a smile in her eyes and on those lips that I wanted to kiss so, so badly. Back in our school days, I’d sometimes fantasized about what it would have been like if I’d been born in the right body. When East came to our school for the first time as the new girl at the end of ninth grade, I could have been all charming and nice, showing her around. Maybe she would have liked me. Maybe she would have been my girlfriend…I couldn’t even imagine that level of happiness. To be part of a couple.

  Yeah, right.

  We were definitely going to die out here if I couldn’t stay focused on the task at hand for more than a minute at a time. Why did she have to be such a distraction? Heck, if I were alone, I would have probably already made it to Segundo.

  I stood up abruptly and went back to what I’d been doing before, selecting a good barrel. They were pretty much all the same, so that was easy.

  “We can’t walk,” I said over my shoulder to East as I wrestled the barrel out of the truck. My tone was objective, just laying out the facts for her with no emotion. “It’s not just the time and the distance and the backtracking. We have to be realistic. Every minute, every hour we’re out here, we’re in danger. Swimming fifty feet and saving days of backtracking is a much better option—and a much lower risk—than having to go past Deadwood again and being out here for extra days and nights. We need to get to Segundo as quickly as we can. And I know you’re scared about the swimming part, but I can do it, East. For real.”
<
br />   She stared back at me bleakly, not speaking. After a moment, she got up and walked over, looking deep into my eyes as if she could see the truth in my soul if she looked hard enough. Finally, she slowly nodded and held up her hand, palm facing me. “Okay. I’m in. And if you drown me, I’ll kill you.”

  I high-fived her to seal the deal. We worked together to load up the Chosen Barrel, which seemed reliably watertight with its lid screwed on. The molded plastic lid had handles built in—perfect for attaching a length of utility cord.

  It was going to take three trips—one with East, a second with the barrel full of my gear and a third for her gear. We couldn’t fit all the gear in the barrel no matter how we configured it. On one hand, that was okay—it might have been too heavy for me to tow. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure how well I’d be doing making multiple trips in cold and increasingly rough water. Was I being pigheaded and stupid to think this would work? Was laziness the real reason I didn’t want to walk all the way back and then around the bottom of the bay? These weren’t idle questions. If I made the wrong decision, I was gambling with not only my life, but East’s as well.

  I knew what my Gran would have said. When all your choices are bad, you’ve still got to make a decision. So pull the trigger, kid!

  I sighed. Time to pull the trigger.

  We walked through the plan a few times to make sure I’d thought of everything. Then East climbed down first, stopping a couple of feet above the water line. Slowly and tentatively, but she made it. The steel framework holding up the bridge had plenty of hand-and footholds built into it, so at least that was no problem. The spots where waves splattered were slippery, but we both knew we needed to be careful. I lowered her backpack and other gear down to her. She found places to hang all that from the structure, using bungee cords as needed to secure them.

  The next step was the barrel itself. I’d tied two lengths of utility cord to its handles—one shorter, one longer. It must have weighed about twenty pounds when it was empty and was much heavier with nearly all my possessions packed inside. The clothes we’d both just stripped off were in there too along with East’s water bottle. The chilly air off the bay was an additional incentive to work fast. East had helped me manhandle the full barrel to the side of the bridge by a gap in the railing before she descended. Now I tossed her the shorter of the two lengths of cord. She made sure it too was firmly secured to the framework.