CHAPTER 10.
Noon came quickly for Scott and his crew. The day was growing hotter by the minute, the rocks and dirt almost painful to touch, and they still didn't have any water. Not that they were far away from civilization or anything, but it was going to get real uncomfortable in a few hours if someone didn't make a run to the store soon.
What was even more concerning, though, was the new issue with the aquifer. Scott had spent weeks measuring the ground, testing the rock underneath, drilling down into the water that was trapped beneath the saturated zone. It was water that had been here for ages, constantly replenished by the nearby river and sinking fog during cold nights. Whether it was enough to be economically feasible to use for irrigation was still undetermined, but there was no way it should have vanished.
"Come on, guys, put your backs into it," Scott shouted. Around him, the team of graduate students and city workers peeled back layers of the desert bedrock, exposing the interior flesh of the earth. It was dry, dead, gray, the epitome of lifelessness. Scott knew they should have hit wet clay by now, but there was nothing, no sign that water ever existed under the surface.
"I can't believe this. We're gonna lose the grant." Scott threw a rock into the sky like a man intent on shattering the clouds.
"Just the opposite," Jack said. "Disappearing aquifer needs to be studied, wouldn't you think? I wouldn't worry about money. What I'd worry about is what that guy over there is doing to the pump."
Scott ran over and steered the man away from the pressure valves he was adjusting. "Whoa! Whoa, buddy, too hot. See, you're running this too hot, that's why the needle is in the red."
The worker, slick with sweat, shrugged and walked away.
Everyone was getting too sweaty and irritable to do things correctly; the bottled water situation needed to be solved pronto.
"Jack," Scott said, taking out his car keys, "I'm going to get water. We'll all start hallucinating in a minute unless we hydrate ourselves."
"Don't bother," Jack replied, "I sent that Shaun kid. He already came back."
"Then where's the water?
"Kid said everything at the store was either empty or damn near close. Scott, we need to talk."
Jack's tone was now serious, the kind of serious where people get fired or transferred or told their wife has been having an affair. It was never a tone you wanted to hear from someone higher up than you. "What's going on?"
"Not here. Let's go in the trailer."
When they got to the trailer, Jack sat on the cot and turned on the television. A reporter was standing in a beach parking lot, pointing at the ocean, shaking his head like he was confused. Men in Hazmat suits were running around in the background.
"What's that all about?" Scott asked. It looked like Mann's Beach, only a few miles from where they were now. "Someone dump hospital waste or something?"
Instead of answering the question, Jack checked his watch and noted the time. "Get me a beer, Scott."
Now Scott knew something was up: Jack didn't drink beer until the end of the work day. Jack didn't do anything that could be considered rebellious. Jack was Jack, geological professor extraordinaire, always the example of professional academia.
What Scott saw inside the fridge stopped him cold. "The beer is all gone," he said.
"I know," Jack replied.
"But how-"
Jack pointed to the TV, the way he used to point to the board in class.
Together they looked at the television, listening for the first time to what the reporter was saying.
"...water's disappearance has city and university officials baffled. We have received word that the President is being briefed on the situation..."
"The water at my house wasn't running this morning," Jack said. "The juice was nearly all gone. I grabbed an apple on the way out. It was dry as dirt. I'm thirsty and hot and it's been nearly twelve hours since I had a glass of water."
Silence hung heavy in the air between them as Scott remembered the problem with the plumbing at his house, how there wasn't any water in the fridge. The air was suddenly a lot more arid than it should be.
Jack nodded toward the television. "Turn it off. Tell everyone to go home."
"What?"
"I'm serious. Forget grants and work, tell everybody to stock up on water and send them home."
The television faded to black, with a thin white line eventually shrinking to a dot in the middle which in turn became nothingness. "Where's the water going, Jack?"
CHAPTER 11.
When the front door swung open and Scott ran in, Cam knew the shit was hitting the fan. Scott was a workaholic and didn't come home unless something was FUBAR. Even when he wasn't working he was working, tinkering with some experiment or gadget. Hell, even when he was just sitting he was learning, watching the Discovery Channel, reading some new science journal or something. Now, he looked spooked.
"Cam, get up and help me," he said, throwing his laptop and backpack of work gear on the chair near the door.
Before he knew what was going on, Cam was following Scott out to the garage, watching as the scientist threw boxes aside to get to the back of the room.
Becky followed them, holding Cobalt on her arms; the baby was crying again, further testament to the whole shit/fan scenario unfolding around them. "Scott, something's wrong with the water," she said.
"I know," Scott replied. "It's happening everywhere. Cam, help me get this thing down from the shelf."
From the top of a rickety wooden shelving unit, Cam grabbed one side of an old dehumidifier and got it safely to the ground. "This can make water, right?"
"It doesn't make it," Scott said, "but it'll pull it from the air, if there's any left to pull."
"Can we drink it?"
"Get the coffee filters from the cabinet in the kitchen. We can't drink it unless we can filter it."
After Scott had the dehumidifier plugged in, he took several large containers -metal thermoses, plastic pitchers, glass conifers, and something that looked like an astronaut's lunch pack-down from the shelf and carried them back into the house. "Becky, find me an empty milk carton. A cardboard one. Cam?"
Cam felt like a damn puppy as he trailed his brother-in-law into the living room. Scott was stuffing all the containers into his backpack, jamming them in as fast as he could. It was the kind of suitcase-stuffing people did knowing they were late for their flight. It didn't help that the baby was still crying. Suddenly, tensions were through the frigging roof.
"Cam?"
"What?"
"I need you to come with me to the reservoir. I need an extra set of hands."
"The reservoir? Why?"
Before Scott could answer him, Becky cut in, handing her brother the empty milk carton from the fridge. "Scott, this is scaring me. Why are you going to the reservoir?"
Tipping the carton upside down, Cam whacked it on the bottom. What looked like chunks of white dust fell to the floor. "Because we need to find water and we need to find it now."
Cam saw that Becky was near tears. She was a strong girl, and if she was losing it, it meant things were getting really fucked up. Instinct forced him to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything was going to be okay. She pulled away from him and gave him a glare that would turn a gorgon into stone. "Don't touch me. Don't you act like you love me after what you did."
"Beck, please, this is no time to-"
"What, Cam? No time to remind you that you fucked some girl behind my back when you had a kid and wife at home waiting for you. I don't care how much water disappears, that's one thing that won't ever disappear."
"Guys, you can fight later," Scott interjected, "I need Cam right now. While we're gone, Beck, lock the doors."
CHAPTER 12.
The reservoir was about thirty minutes east of the house, nestled in the middle of rocky hills along the river. The access road leading to it was blocked off by a guardhouse, a new addition the city had installed as part of its anti-terrorism campaign. Scott was pretty sure terrorism had nothing to do with what was going on. Terrorists would lace the drinking supply with poison, not dry it up. When they got there and found the guardhouse empty, it didn't make much difference. Problem was, the large orange blockade arm was still down, stopping them from advancing.
"You gonna ram it?" Cam asked.
"I've got a better idea, Rambo." No use ruining the car when simple deductive reasoning would save the day, Scott thought as he got out of the car and opened the door to the guardhouse. Somehow he knew it was going to be unlocked-it was that kind of day. He pressed the green button on the console and the blockade arm rose up.
Once past the gate, they drove by the treatment facility and took a dirt access road that wound around to the far side of the reservoir. It was meant for all-terrain vehicles, like Jeeps and pickup trucks. Scott had been here once before for a work project, and he knew the dirt road was mostly used to monitor the fence that ran the perimeter of the reservoir. Again, part of the city's attempt to placate the citizens who believed Osama Bin Laden was skulking around the bushes of suburban San Diego County.
The reservoir had never been tampered with, and Scott was pretty sure the terrorists wouldn't bother with such a low-key act. Truth be told, it provided some of the best trout fishing in San Diego; if there was anything to worry about, it was getting a bad case of the Trout Trots.
There should have been some officials on patrol, but the road was unoccupied.
"I thought they had some guards here now. They on break?" Cam asked.
"I don't know. Why was there no guard at the front?"
Cam spotted something and said, "Look, there's a bunch of cars over there."
Three quarters of the way around the reservoir, toward the rear of the sterilization facility, a group of cars was parked on the side of the road. Scott slowed the car and squinted across the large body of water, trying to make out what was going on. There was a lot of activity, nearly forty people trying to get into the water. City police and the guards were fighting them off. Many of them had containers much like the ones Scott had brought.
"What do you make of that?" Cam asked.
"My guess, they suspect terrorist activity and figure someone's tampering with the water."
"Those yahoos don't look like terrorists to me."
"They aren't. They're just thirsty."
"What if they come arrest us?"
Scott shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation. "Can't arrest us for drinking out of the reservoir. Might arrest us for tampering with the drinking supply if they suspect we're part of something bigger."
"Check out that pig," Cam said. "That cop just threw a punch."
"People are starting to panic, not think. If half the world had an education none of this would be getting out of hand."
"Speak for yourself, Brainboy, school sucked."
"I'll pretend you didn't say that. Okay, quick, grab a couple containers and when I say go we're going to race down to the water and fill up each one. Make sure you fill each one."
"What does it matter?" asked Cam, taking the thermos and glass conifer from the backpack.
"I need to determine if the substance holding the water makes a difference somehow."
"Seems like it don't. I was at the store today."
"Seems that way, but we can't be sure till we rule it out."
"I'm pretty sure-"
"Cam, I went to bat for you last night with my sister, now shut up and quit giving me lip."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Fitch, sir."
"I'm serious here, Cam."
Bang!
He and Cam both jumped at the gunshot.
"Holy shit," Cam said, pointing across the water, "that cop just shot somebody!"
The crowd had turned away from the reservoir and was now fighting the police. Fists were flying, legs kicking, and they fell to the ground in a heap. Another shot rang out and another body rolled into the water.
"Jesus Christ, this is not good," Scott said, opening the car door. "This is getting out of control real fucking fast."
"I don't know about this, Scott. Let's just get out-"
"Do you know you have a kid at home who can only go two, maybe three days without water? Look at me! Do you know that?!"
Yelling was never something Scott did if he could avoid it, but Cam's eyes were showing fear and hesitation. It was a moment of shock. Scott was feeling it too, but he knew it could be fought. Cam was a tough motherfucker, six feet tall, lots of muscles from all his days surfing. If he gave in to fear they were truly in a heap of shit.
"Cam?! Are you hearing me?"