"Flood"
An ever-expanding rivulet of clear water ran through the dusty concrete street gutter and down into the awaiting maw of the steel storm drain three houses away, carrying with it miniature floating vessels of dried leaves, blades of shorn grass, and bits of rubbish. Despite the recent bout of water shortages from the Colorado River Aqueduct that called for countywide increases in water conservation practices, the three busted sprinkler rotors were dumb and deaf to the concerns of their heedless human handlers—especially when their malfunction was through no fault of their own. So the trickle became a rivulet and the rivulet quickly became a stream. The wasteful expenditure of life-giving water remained unattended. It was a weekend typical for any nondescript middle-class suburban neighborhood residing within the greater Los Angeles County area sneeringly called "The Valley."
Inside an eggshell blue and white clapboard house with prefabricated wooden picket fences, John and Cameron Denslow sat at the kitchen table slowly eating the ridiculously high stack of misshapen and extra crispy pancakes left behind by their mother earlier that morning before she left to join their uncle on another mystery hunt. The brand-spanking new television set from the living room across the hall droned on in the background, accompanied by the sporadic humming of the central air conditioning, also new, running at maximum. The garbled announcements from the pretty and bright-eyed news anchor, about the sudden torrential rain in some remote parts of the Mojave Desert necessitating local authorities there to call for flash flood warnings, went unnoticed by the couple. They continued to eat methodically until John broke the silence.
"Can you taste any of that?" John asked Cameron about Sarah's carefully cooked but never successful pancakes.
"Yes, but not like you can. My taste receptors require secondary value assignments to interpret taste," explained Cameron as she set her fork down tangent to the closest forget-me-not decorating the edge of her plate.
"So what do these pancakes taste like to you then? What have you interpreted? They're burnt so they're not very good, but you only analyze the carbon content and compare the amount to that of acceptable levels recommended by heath experts or something, right? You don't sleep after all," John smirked perceptively.
"If I was John Connor eating these pancakes, then they would taste like affectionate concern. Today, my piece tastes like indifference," Cameron expounded.
"What about you? What do these pancakes taste like to you? Don't they say food tastes better in good company?" Cameron asked, her dark eyes round and inquisitive.
"Where'd you learn that?" John's eyebrows furrowed questioningly then quickly relaxed. "Never mind."
He patiently elucidated, "That doesn't always apply. Bad food stays bad. Mom's meatloaf sandwich for instance. The meatloaf was bad coming out from the oven the night before. Two slices of bread and lunchtime outdoors the next day at school changed nothing."
"Then I guess that's another one for cyborgs. My portion of Sarah's pancakes tastes exponentially better the longer we sit here." Cameron once again picked up her fork and efficiently transported another precisely sectioned portion of pancake into her awaiting mouth. A dollop of blueberry jam and maple syrup overflowed from the edge of her lips and ran down her smooth chin.
John blushed and quickly resumed his meal with heretofore missing gusto. In the background, the same news anchor smilingly recommended camping trips and hikes in the Mojave National Preserve at the start of the coming week for nature lovers of all ages since the flood-inducing rainfall had provided ideal conditions for viewing wild desert blooms. Through the crystal-clear glass-paned window over the large kitchen sink, an emaciated stray dog drank thirstily from the sprinkler runoff and the dried-up flowerbed in the Denslow's front lawn rapidly soaked up the passing deluge of water through a crack in the concrete curb.
) * * * (
An irregular trickle of tinted water drip-dropped down onto the debris-ridden flooring that ravenously drank up the precious resource to propagate dark, hairy and slippery colonies of microorganisms. During the months enclosed within the bunker of the military base, now cleverly renamed "Connors' Camp," many dexterous and inclined volunteers had attempted to trace the source of the leak and address the growing problem but all had failed. The multitude of effort extended into stopping the sacrilegious leakage was for naught and the trickle continued unimpeded. Life, or what was left of it after the radiation clouds blanketed the surfaces of the globe at the conclusion of the detonations of the vast majority of humanity's nuclear warheads by Skynet, continued on its now tumultuous path where even the simplest problems were atypical and potentially fatal.
Inside the large cavernous auditorium designated as the mess hall, John and Cameron Connor sat together at a bench table in the furthermost corner isolated from the grid of neatly-arranged dinning tables filled beyond capacity with the masses. John perfunctorily ingested their daily ration of perishable and preserved consumables mixed together, also perfunctorily, by that week's rotation of kitchen aid—Sarah Connor. In the background, the dulcet crooning of a long-forgotten songstress from a battered record player some industrious aficionada had scraped and forced together using mismatching parts drowned out the hushed conversations from the other cohabitants. In between bites, John and Cameron continued their regular banter.
"What I would give for some crunchy cheesy things. That's what I miss having the most," John lamented.
Cameron diligently masticated her food and did not comment; she had no particular opinion in regards to crunchy cheesy things beyond that they were oft brought to attention by her tablemate.
"I know you taste food according to context, but was there something that you particularly liked to eat?" John inquired.
"Congee," Cameron answered without deliberation.
"Kong-gy? Is that a type of gummy sweet thing? When did we have that?" John asked, perplexed.
"No, that wouldn't be the correct consistency or saccharide level for congee. At least not the type I liked, that I will like. I had it with Future John for the first time when we visited Mangalore and I had it again when he made some using the parboiled rice the China-Asia resistance cells supplied us to commemorate the new alliance. I don't believe you've ever eaten it," Cameron elaborated.
"What did it taste like, that congee? What secondary value did you assign to it?" John hesitatingly asked.
"It tasted like victory," stated Cameron with a faraway look.
Cameron had already finished her meal, her ration portions being smaller, and was ready to start rotation at the communication control terminals in Central Command. John sped up his pace and shoved the last bit of a protein and vitamin square into his mouth in order to join her. His eyes were downcast and his lips had lost their previous casual grin upon discerning Cameron's look. Talk about Future John by anyone in the know was a wealth of information that was always useful and sometimes critical for his current strategic planning. But, despite the benefits and advantages, the personal tidbits from Cameron Connor always left John ambivalent and uneasy. John wiped his mouth and gathered the vestiges of their meals before getting up. The crunchy cheesy things would have now given him a stomachache.
A long while later, when contact and alliance with the Asia-China People's Resistance were achieved ahead of schedule via teleconferencing, "Connors' Army" was once again gifted with a few barrels of parboiled rice in exchange for some satellite intelligence. The hour after the much-awaited delivery found John Connor in a small private kitchen pouring his third liter of filtered water into a monstrous stainless-steel cylindrical pot. The furious bubbling that spilled a large portion of the starchy white mixture had abated, for now, when he remembered to turn the gas fire down to simmer. His attempt to replenish the deficit had then resulted in unexpected expansions of epic proportions that afterward necessitated extreme rehydration procedures. At least that was what he had believed was the correct formula. In the end, John Connor finally conceded that the whole stratagem was an unmitigated disaster since inception. John was truly Sarah Connor's son and genetics were a bitch. He just hoped his failure here did not portent a similar result elsewhere.
Cameron subsequently discovered him, moments after having ladled the liquid of his labor into a pretty and dainty purple ceramic bowl, laid out all the fixings and silverware atop a yellowed lace place setting, and completed the picture with a small crystal vase filled with some newly discovered tiny wild blue flowers. She paused in the doorway, puzzled by the unusual sight, but entered and sat down when John beckoned.
"There's congee then there's wallpaper glue, John," Cameron mused.
"It's all gruel to me," John flippantly replied. "What's the difference?"
"Perhaps we can put this to good use and wallpaper the children's schoolrooms with the apples and carrots prints we found. It will brighten the atmosphere and facilitate learning," Cameron suggested in all seriousness.
John's glittering glare was answer enough and Cameron's lips lifted infinitesimally.
"So," a long pause. "What does this congee taste like to you?" John finally asked half hopeful and half anxious.
"Love," Cameron answered simply after sharing three spoonful of the viscous mixture with him.
John Connor would always favor the crackle and tang of crunchy cheesy things and burnt pancakes would forever remind him of lazy days in the calm of suburbia; but strangely, as John slowly spooned into his reluctant mouth the final dollop of the white gooey thing that he had sacrificed three liters of precious drinking water towards, his special brand of congee tasted like love for him as well. Mission accomplished, he stowed the cooling stainless-steel pot away for later transport into the civilian wing and headed towards the southeast tunnel to check on the progress of reinforcing the roofing structure there from collapse. This time, he remembered to carefully maneuver around the slippery footing caused by the ominous leak.
~Fin.~
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