Staying Alive

16

The tourist boat was floating down the Schuylkill River, headed in the wrong direction.

Lawrence had died on the crude metal floor. He’d bled to death. John had held him until the end, silently. There was nothing that could have been done. The tourniquet John fashioned from Lawrence’s shirt didn’t work. The wound was too massive.

Now John was covered in Lawrence’s blood.

As the time passed, John began to partially recover from the shock of losing the man who had become his unlikely friend. His mind returned to practical matters, and he realized that he had no food, no water. His only possessions were his blood-stained clothes and his kitchen knife. If anyone saw him, he’d look like a knife murderer from a horror movie.

At some point, John decided that a burial at “sea,” or in this case, the river, was the best burial that the former therapist was going to get.

It took quite a bit of effort to hoist Lawrence’s body over the side of the boat. John had needed to get almost entirely under Lawrence’s body and push upwards. Then Lawrence’s belt had gotten caught on the rough lip of the boat’s side. It had taken what felt like an eternity to solve that problem. Finally, with a huge final push, Lawrence was overboard, landing with a splash in the Schuylkill.

John was trying his best to think clearly. It was difficult with his pulse racing from the physical exertion, not to mention the anxiety produced by the situation.

He was sweating, and he didn’t have anything to drink. His throat was already parched. His hair stuck to his forehead and his shirt stuck annoyingly to his back.

John took a deep breath and sat down in one of the boat’s seats.

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore his surroundings. He tried to picture where the Schuylkill River led. Eventually, he knew, it fed into the larger Delaware River, which ran south, past Delaware, eventually leading into the Atlantic.

John knew he needed get off the boat soon. He certainly wasn’t going to stay on it until the river got wide. And he certainly wasn’t going to float all the way to the Atlantic. He needed to make his move soon, while he could still see the shore.

Thoughts of Lawrence’s death kept poking at his mind, distracting from the plans he needed to make. The death was just so senseless. The men had already been enough of a threat that John and Lawrence had fled onto the boat. The men essentially already had all the food they’d be able to steal from John and Lawrence, in the abandoned sacks on the dock.

Maybe there was another reason. John knew he shouldn’t have been thinking about it now, but he couldn’t help it. Maybe the men had been the owners of the boat. He hadn’t even considered that possibility until now. But still, the boat was already gone. Their only motive could have been revenge.

John had always looked out for himself. But in this instant, he felt that he should have been the one who’d been shot. After all, hadn’t the whole thing been his idea? Lawrence didn’t deserve this. He should have stayed in the city. But John had convinced him to leave.

Then again, Lawrence would have died for sure in the city, one way or another. That much was certain. Almost everyone there would die, sooner or later. There simply wasn’t any food being grown. The animals weren’t big enough to survive for long. John didn’t want to think about the possibility of cannibalism. And still, that would only work for so long.

He had to snap out of it.

John shook his head back and forth like a dog.

He was studying the banks of the river, trying to figure out where he was.

It looked like he was somewhere in the sprawl of Southwest Philly. This wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be, but at least here he wouldn’t have to travel through the densely populated West Philly neighborhood.

It was now or never, figured John. In a couple minutes, he might not have the mental energy to even try to escape. And who knew, maybe the river would become more rapid. The longer he waited, the farther he’d get from the farmhouse.

Not that he’d ever get there.

John knew he needed to bring the knife with him, but he didn’t relish the idea of swimming with it. Then again, he couldn’t think of anything to do with it.

John acted suddenly. He intentionally didn’t give himself time to think about the consequences.

He hurled himself over the side of the boat completely unglamorously.

He fell with a splash into the water. It was colder than he’d thought it would be.

John didn’t look back. He swam, as best he could, with the kitchen knife in his hand. He’d been a competitive swimmer back in high school, but that was a long time ago, and he found himself tiring quickly.

The bank of the river hadn’t looked far from the boat. But now, with his eyes just a few inches above the water, it looked almost impossibly far.

John’s form was getting looser the more fatigued he became. He wasn’t aware of where his hands and feet were moving. The only thing he knew was that he had to keep moving them. He had to keep going.

Suddenly, he felt a pain in his side.

It took a moment for him to realize what had happened.

Somehow, he had let the knife swing too close to his body. And it had cut him.

He didn’t know yet whether it was a simple nick, or a deeper wound. It wasn’t like he was able to check it, there in the water.

John tried to keep the knife out of the way as much as possible as he continued.

The pain wasn’t too bad. But it worried him.

But the only thing he could do was to keep going.