The Rain by Joseph Turkot Page B

transmissions, but it was enjoyable then to go out, running through the rain, like it made everything an adventure, and not the cold advance of death that it really was. When Russell got sick back then, with a cold, or a headache, or his leg infection, Delly and Jennifer helped out. I tried my best to contribute—make him soup, find some extra cookies somewhere, trade for ice, anything I thought might cheer him up or make him better faster. Sometimes I found Tylenol that was still dry and edible. But Delly and Jennifer were really the ones taking care of him, as much as I thought I was helping. Most of the time they left us alone, and they worried about their own small space in the high rise, keeping anyone from getting too close to their family in case things became too desperate. That’s how things became in Philadelphia, Russell says—too desperate. But I remember feeling a sense of comfort knowing they were around, within shouting distance, neighbors even. Getting the Tylenol for Russell was really going to Delly and asking him for some. Or maybe running down into the gutted supermarkets by myself, climbing through the ransacked pharmacies, though Russell didn’t like me doing that. He said it was too risky.    Despite the distance they kept from us, I felt like Delly and Jennifer actually cared about us. After Pittsburg, we left Delly and Jennifer behind because they refused to travel through the open rain again. They’d had enough moving from place to place like nomads without a home, even though all the streets were flooded by then, and the militia hospitals were falling apart from disease, and the rampant mindset about heading west was in full fever. We didn’t have anyone else that cared about us for a long time after that. Not until the Sea Queen Marie. In Indianapolis, Russell did the work: he traded for food, weapons, clothing, and medicine. That’s when we had a gun. I’d help scavenge, and we’d have extra to trade sometimes. He’d always trade for books with the extra, or let me pick out board games to play with him. But there, in Indianapolis, when I was twelve, I realized no one gave a shit anymore. No one actually cared about us. It was every man for himself. No one would help you there unless you helped them in what they considered an equal way. And that was the best case scenario. If it wasn’t that, it was more often someone who would just try to take what you had. Russell used his gun sometimes, but he didn’t talk to me about it when he did. I could tell he didn’t like that he had to use it. Still, he did use it, and he thought it was important I know how to use it too. He taught me how to shoot then.
                If something had happened to Russell then, I don’t know what I would have done. Probably went and asked someone to help me move him, get him medicine, and I would give whatever we had in our tarp house. I would give them anything they wanted. We lived in a ratty tarp house then, in a tarp city, on a rooftop. But I could have traded something there at least, and someone would probably have helped us, even if they didn’t give a shit about us. People at least gave a shit about your supplies. Only Russell stopped getting sick for a long time, so I never had to look for help. And when we got to the Sea Queen Marie , I started to feel like I used to around Delly and Jennifer again. On that ship , people even helped when you didn’t have anything to trade. They’d let you owe them, and they trusted you to repay them. That’s how close we all became on the Marie .
                But after the storm, after the ship capsized, and we passed through Sioux Falls on our way to Wyoming, there was no one to ask for anything. Just salvage what you can and keep your distance from people. There was a selfish, dangerous hunger in everyone we met after the sinking, and I started to feel like the West was the opposite of what Russell said it would be—instead of the