IRONY

Myra wept, clutching a heart shaped locket to her breast. Tears had become a way of life for her these past weeks. Tears were her daily companions, especially the tears of irony. Irony that she was here on the ferry dock in Seattle while her family was on a small island ten miles away, so close, yet impossibly far. Irony that she was away from the home she and her husband had chosen as their “bug in” location. Irony that she had come to fill her trailer with supplies on the very day of the event.

What the event was, was unknown. Some speculated it was a nuclear strike, some said EMP, others insisted a solar flare. All they knew for sure was electronics, vehicles and communications were down, there was no power and the government was MIA.

The first sign of a problem was the ferry being late, they could see it drifting on the water, powerless. People grabbed their phones, but found them dead; next they discovered all the signal lights were out, and their cars wouldn’t start.

Throughout the afternoon, passengers wandered off leaving their cars behind. And so did the ferry workers. Myra didn’t know and didn’t care where they had gone or what they hoped to accomplish. She just wanted to go home.

The remaining passengers looked to each other for answers, ideas that were once scoffed at as conspiracy theories were quickly being embraced as probabilities. A small number of those left on the dock realized they were all from the island and had the same goal -- to get home. They worked together, set up sleeping quarters in surrounding cars and trucks, established a schedule for guard duty and began making plans for the worst case scenario they were beginning to accept as their new reality.

Each day groups headed north and south looking for supplies and a boat to buy, borrow or steal. They quickly ruled out any vessel that had a motor knowing they would not work. Their focus was on a sailboat of sufficient size to carry the 15 people in their group plus as many of their supplies as possible.

Their efforts were hampered by the rain which started on the second day. While a mid-July storm was not unheard of, it wasn’t common. Neither was the nature of this storm. It was accompanied by torrential winds that never seemed to let up. The clouds themselves had an ominous quality, the dark clouds almost seemed to have a substance to them, something more than just moisture.

Each day people came by in ones and twos or small groups, often families with small children. Most begged for handouts, some offered to trade for supplies they could see in the trailer, others tried to steal. All were turned aside. It tore at Myra’s heart to say no, but each time she clasped her locket, reminding herself her family needed it more.

On the fourth day of their search, Myra had returned to find several armed men leaving the dock with the majority of their supplies loaded in wagons. She found it ironic that she recognized most of them as shop owners whose establishments had ‘gun free zone’ signs in their windows. Despite their stated abhorrence for guns and violence, at the first sight of danger they had “procured” weapons.

She considered drawing her own weapon, knowing she was a better shot but the risk of injury or death to others was not worth the materials they were taking. And so Myra stood quietly fuming watching all of her supplies leaving.

And at the same time, she was glad. There had been an idea forming in her mind to get herself home but at the cost of betraying the others in her group. This was the justification she needed to take action.

That morning she had found a kayak she was confident would make the trip. It would be difficult crossing open water, exposed to the elements, using just her own strength to power the craft. But being reunited with her family and escaping the escalating violence of her current situation was motivation enough for her to take the risk.

Myra returned to her truck, grateful that the driving rain and dropping temperatures ensured the others had also sought the safety of their vehicles. This, and the fact that the odd weather conditions made her breath fog up the windows, ensured her actions would go unnoticed. She sorted and repacked her Bug Out Bag, choosing the barest of necessities and changed her clothes, opting for multiple layers of clothing from the BOB. Plastic bags slipped over her socks were secured with zip ties. Myra then forced her feet into her boots, tied the laces and pulled her pant legs down hiding her improvised rain boots.

Satisfied she was as prepared as she could be, Myra laid down and slept. As expected, a knock on her window woke her in the dead of night. Myra pulled on her heavy coat (thankful her husband kept warm clothing in their vehicle,) stepped out of the truck and headed to the trailer for her daily ration of food, forgetting that the trailer had been emptied.

Eduardo, the teenager assigned to guard duty with her, nodded in sympathy as she looked into the trailer. “Bastards took everything, even the fricking dog food. What’s that?” he asked, pointing to her backpack.

“Extra ammo,” she answered, patting the holster on her belt, “we may need to start carrying more now.

“Here, take this,” She offered him a protein bar from her bag. Myra knew it would do nothing to stem his hunger, but it did assuage her guilt over her planned desertion.

Eduardo hesitated then shook his head, “No, I can’t take your food.” He locked his hands behind his back as though afraid they might reach out on their own.

“Take it,” Myra insisted, “I don’t need you passing out from hunger when you are supposed to have my back.” Her free hand tugged at the locket and she prayed someone was looking out for her children, keeping them fed.

As Eduardo gobbled the food she had given him, Myra picked up her bag and started to walk away.

“Where you going with that?” Eduardo asked.

“Gotta pee and stuff,” was her answer. Seeing his pointed glance at the backpack, she added, “It’s a woman thing.” Myra fought back a smile as a blush crept up his neck and face. “I might be a while, because, well, you know…” She took his embarrassed snort as assurance he would not come looking for her for quite a while.

Myra slipped over the guard rail and dropped down the embankment out of sight. She hit the ground running, staying under the tree cover as she worked her way up the beach.

It was slow going as the sand was saturated and her feet sank an inch or two with each step. By the time she had travelled a mile to the vacant house where she found the kayak, she was already winded and her legs ached. She fought through the driving rain to pull the craft from the yard where it was stored and drag it to the water’s edge.

Myra cursed when she realized she had no paddles and had to hike uphill to the house to search for them. At long last, soaked completely through all her layers of clothing, cold and exhausted, she was back at the kayak, the paddles and gear stowed.

As soon as it was light enough for Myra to see the outline of her island in the distance, she pushed into the water. She had been able to hear the waves crashing throughout the night and knew the seas were rough, but she had not realized how rough. Close to shore where she expected to see only ripples, the waves were breaking a foot high and crashing onto the sand. Further out they were cresting, by her estimation, at over four feet.

Myra knew she should return to shore and wait for the storm to pass. But this storm had been ongoing for over three days without a break. It was different than any she had ever seen and she knew, without knowing how she knew, this weather was the new normal. This storm would not abate any time soon.

So she fought on, driving into the waves, struggling to stay upright. Her arms and legs ached, her muscles began to cramp. The sun had fully risen, but it was still dark and gray, the island she longed to reach was still just a blurry outline in the distance. Myra looked back to the shore and wanted to cry. She had travelled less than a tenth of the distance in the two hours she had been battling the sea.

Her body screamed at her to give up, but her spirit said no, not while there was a chance of getting back to her family. Myra gripped the paddle tightly, determined to fight on but the next wave ripped it from her hands. Adrift, she had no time to worry about how to propel her craft for the next waves were relentless, picking her up and flipping the kayak.

Myra struggled unsuccessfully to right the craft, failing that she fought to free herself from the kayak. Her right foot was held captive between something heavy and the seat she had just been occupying. Reaching down she found it was her backpack imprisoning her and managed to grab one of the straps. Alternately pulling up on the straps,then pushing the bag down with her left foot, she fought to work herself free.

Her lungs were burning when she finally dislodged the bag. She worked her arms and legs furiously swimming from her underwater almost grave to break through to the surface. She opened her mouth wide gasping for air and was hit with another wave, driving her under again.

Myra felt the backpack being pulled from her hand realizing she was losing her food and ammo but had to focus instead on getting to the surface and oxygen. She broke free, took one breath and was driven under again. She continued this dance with the waves for several minutes until she had been pushed close enough to the shore to stand. And was immediately knocked to her knees. She fought the wild waters for every inch, but managed to crawl and collapse on the saturated sand.

Wet, cold, exhausted she could only lay in the driving rain, knowing she needed to move. Pushing herself with a strength she didn’t know she had, she made her way back to the vacant house where she slept the through the night.

The following weeks were a repeat of that day, plus foraging for food and water. And each day was less successful than the previous ones. In desperation she returned to the ferry dock but found it deserted. Now she sat at the end of the dock in a current of running water from the unceasing rain. The wind that howled around her was not enough to disperse the constant grayness hiding her island.

Myra held her locket in a grip that, in days past, would have only left indentations in the fat pads of her palm; in her emaciated state, with skin on bone, the edges pierced her fragile flesh. She was crying yet again, tears of resignation and despair; never make it home to her family. She had nothing to live for.

Myra pushed off from the ramp and slid into the water; ignoring the instinct to swim. She let the cold water embrace her and take her down. There would be no more hunger, no more pain, no more sorrow. At last she could rest. She sank to the ocean floor, the locket slipping from her fingers.

Above Myra’s watery grave, a sailboat cut through the waves, slamming into the dock. Myra’s husband had arrived.