Generation Z

by Peter Meredith

  The wind took that moment to gust heavily, tipping the boat alarmingly. Jenn sucked in a breath and grabbed the sides. Stu altered course slightly, steering into the wind, which immediately righted the boat. It also slowed them and the sail began snapping. Gradually, he eased the Puffer back on course, close-hauling her until the wind was nearly in their face.

  Jenn’s superstitions weren’t out of the ordinary, especially among the middling teens and the children who were born after it all began. They’d been raised to see signs and omens in everything. Stu didn’t understand why so many of the older people believed in that baloney as well.

  He thought that they were superstitious because they needed to know there was more than just chance governing their lives. In their minds, vengeful spirits could be appeased and gods could be prayed to. Thankfully, no one had yet begun casting “spells.” He could laugh off a goofy charm pendant or an anti-hex bag but he drew the line at anyone thinking they had real powers.

  “It’s D-I-E-D,” he told her. “And Ralph bought the farm probably because he was reckless. You don’t mess with the sea. It’ll bite you in the ass if you do. At the same time, you can’t live in fear of it.”

  Jenn cast a doubtful look at the grey water. “I’m not afraid of the water. Not really. It’s the signs that got me wigged. Was it all of the Coven that said I should come with you? If it was all seven, that would be a good number, but if it was six…” She sketched a quick sign of the cross before saying, “Everyone knows six is bad, bad, bad and the worst of all is six crows all in a line. You saw the crows after we killed that zombie. There were six of them!”

  “But they weren’t all in a row. And it was all seven of the Coven who wanted you to come with me, so you’re in luck.”

  “Oh, good,” she said, visibly relieved. “I still don’t know why they wanted me to come, anyway.”

  Stu hesitated and then shrugged. He was tired of lying to her and felt that silence was a better policy.

  Chapter 3

  Stuart Currans

  He was not an expert sailor. Although he aimed the boat at the island’s one docking site, the wind and current pushed him past it. Cursing, he was forced to grind the Puffer up against the seawall that ringed the island.

  A laughing face appeared over the side of the wall. It was Mike Gunter, his long, blond braid hanging down over one shoulder, his beard coming in nicely. “Nice job, Captain Stu. Do you want to bring her around and try again, or would you like a tow?”

  To try again would take another half an hour and there was no guarantee that he would do any better, which would only add to his embarrassment. “A tow would be nice. The current is running quick today.”

  Mike tossed down a rope saying, “Oh, it was the current. That explains everything.” Jenn caught the rope, tied it at the prow, then sat back staring up as Mike hauled them back to the dock. The seventeen-year old was about average in height and thin as a reed. He was stronger than he looked and didn’t need help pulling the boat along, still, others joined him. They would suddenly appear, grinning down at Stu. Each time Mike would say, “The ‘current’ got him,” and each time there would be a burst of laughter.

  Pretty much everyone on Alcatraz could sail better than Stu, which was to be expected since they sailed back and forth from the mainland practically every day, while Stu went out once a month or so.

  By the time they made it the dock, there was a crowd of people standing around staring at the unimpressive looking boat and cracking jokes. They were a young lot. All of them were skinny and wore their hair long. Even the men had braids that hung past their shoulders. Their clothes, jeans and sweaters were mostly ripped and torn, but clean, while they themselves were not.

  It was one thing to wash clothes in the cold water pulled from the bay, but to bathe in it was a painful experience. Even during the summer months, the water temperature rarely broke the sixty-degree mark. Stu’s clan had forests within a hundred yards of the apartment complex and fetched wood daily with little problem. Stu took a warm bath every other day.

  The island people took quick “whore’s baths” and used a lot of perfume, when they could get it. It was their fashion to grow thick beards, though most of the younger men at the dock could only grow sparse and patchy scruff.

  Stu was the first to come off the Puffer, and he did so very carefully. He knew that he would never hear the end of it if he fell in. Mike was kind enough to put out a hand and pull him onto the dock.

  He helped Jenn off next and then marveled over her with a wide smile on his face. “Holy moly, Jenn Lockhart! I didn’t know that was you. It’s been ages. How long has it been?”

  “I think about a year or two,” she said. She stepped towards him and he mistook the move and gave her an awkward hug, pinning her arms to her sides. A nervous laugh escaped her. “I was just going to see how much you’ve grown. I used to come up to your nose and now I barely make it to your chin.”

  Mike’s cheeks went red as people sniggered behind his back. “I-I had like a mini growth spurt.” He gestured vaguely towards the top of his head.

  “I wish I would get a growth spurt. At this rate, I might never crack five foot.”

  “You’ll get there,” he replied, standing straighter and lifting his head high. “What you need is some milk. We’re hoping the traders have a few goats left by the time they get here. That’s all Gerry has been talking about for the last week. He even has us stockpiling grass and hay and all that sort of thing. It’s a pain in the butt. We have to sail all the way up to the Sacramento River to harvest it. I just hope it’s worth it. What about you guys? What are you looking to get?”

  The traders were expected on October first which was only four days away. They were the main reason Stu had made the trip to Alcatraz. “Bullets mostly.”

  Mike let out a grunt. “Good luck with that.” Bullets had once been the unit of exchange, taking the place of the dollar bill. At one point, a single bullet could be traded for a chicken egg or ten ounces of gasoline. Now, it would take three dozen chicken eggs to purchase a bullet. Not that anyone actually had chickens. Like everything else, they had become very scarce.

  “Where’s Gerry?” Stu asked. “I have to talk business with him.”

  “Up on the water tower. The rust was getting bad.” Mike shook his head,as did almost everyone around them. “Everything tasted like it. We had to drain the tower and he’s been scraping at it for the last couple of days.”

  “How’s his mood?”

  Mike considered the question, his pleasant features turning plastic, which meant Stu could expect Gerry to be in a bad mood. “Hit or miss, mostly. It’s been like that since Abbey. I’m sure he’ll be all right with you.”

  Stu hoped so. He needed Gerry to be in the proper frame of mind for what he was proposing. “Hey, can you keep Jenn and Aaron company for an hour or two?”

  “Can we go to the prison?” Aaron asked. “The way everyone talks makes it sound all spooky, like there are real ghosts there. Don’t worry, I’m tougher now. And look, I got a knife. My mom gave it to me special for the trip.” He started to pull it out; Jenn laid a hand on his arm and shook her head.

  “It’s not a toy, it’s a tool. And don’t talk about hauntings out loud.” She crossed herself again. Stu rolled his eyes, wishing he could talk some sense into her. She was too fixated on omens and put too much faith in the Coven. They weren’t bad people, far from it. But they were an anxious fearful lot who based their decisions with the specter of imminent death clouding their judgment and turning everything into a “sign.”

  The islanders were almost as superstitious while their leader Gerry the Greek was not. Stu knew that in private Gerry scoffed at their omens, while in public he used his people’s fears to his advantage. Gerry Xydis or Gerry the Greek as people knew him since his last name was almost unpronounceable, was one of the few friends Stu had left.

  When Stu crossed to the water tower he paused, looking up at the ladder. “Let’s ho
pe Jenn was wrong about those signs,” he muttered as he began heading up. Heights weren’t Stu’s thing and he gripped the rungs so hard that his hands began to sweat which only made him more nervous.

  Sixty feet up wasn’t all that high and yet with the wind beginning to gust hard enough to sway the tower. It took all of his courage to keep going to the top where there was a gap of about a foot and a half through which he could crawl under the domed roof.

  “Who the hell is that? Is that Stu-freaking-Currans?” Gerry was sitting in the exact center of the tower, which was deep and round and could hold as much water as a backyard pool. Next to him was a five-gallon bucket of what looked like silver paint and to his left was a bottle of wine.

  Stu came down the rungs and shook Gerry’s silvered palm. The Greek also had splats of silver all over himself, especially in his dark beard. “You know I would have come down for you, Stu.”

  “Naw. When I heard what you were doing, I didn’t want to take any more of your time than I needed.”

  “Time? I got all the time in the world. There’s something wrong with this stuff.” He gestured to the paint bucket. “I guess it’s spent too much time sitting on a shelf. It separated so badly that it took me two hours of stirring to get it to freakin’ blend. That was yesterday and see that side?” He pointed to Stu’s left where the silver paint glistened in an even coat. “It’s still wet. I did that almost twenty hours ago.”

  Stu moved closer and after inspecting the silver paint he resisted the urge to touch it. “If I was you, I’d take another drink.”

  Gerry grinned and picked up the bottle adding yet another silver hand print to it, completely obscuring the label—not that Stu cared. He didn’t have much of a head for wine and became sleepy after one glass. Gerry took a swallow and passed the bottle to Stu, who took a polite sip, and then made a face.

  “Yeah,” Gerry agreed. “It might have gone over. So, what’s got you climbing ladders? Looking to come back to the island where you belong?”

  It was always the same question and as always Stu shook his head. The only thing he missed about the island was the people. “No, I wanted to talk to you about the traders.” Gerry’s eyes narrowed.

  When there was bad blood between the groups, it had to do with hunting rights or deals worked with the traders. Stu had been up at dawn three days before taking inventory of the group’s communal stockpile. It had been a poor summer of hunting and although their winter stockpile was adequate, they had even less for trading than the year before. He had stood there imagining how the bargaining would go with the traders. They would get shredded up as always and come away cheated.

  “Every year they play us,” Stu said. “Every year they pit our group against yours so they can jack up their prices, while at the same time they use your goods to undercut the value of mine and vice versa.”

  Gerry looked confused. “What are you saying? Are you suggesting I don’t bring everything I have to the table? That would be bull. We have twice your numbers and although it wasn’t the best year we’ve had, I bet we have a lot more to offer than you hillbillies.”

  Stu let the hillbilly comment go. He held up his hands. “It’s not what I’m suggesting. I’m saying we trade with each other fair and square ahead of time. How much fish do you have?” When Gerry hesitated, Stu said, “We have about two hundred pounds of flounder and another hundred of halibut.”

  “I have about three times that, plus a few hundred pounds of tuna. But I don’t get how you and me trading fish will help anything.”

  He began to tip the bottle again. Stu wished he wouldn’t since he was missing the obvious. “Every year we ask for a certain price for our fish and every year they say I can get a better price from Gerry. And I bet they say the same thing to you, don’t they?”

  Gerry looked a little uncertain when he nodded. Stu went on, “What happens if they couldn’t come to me? They would have to take your price, am I right? And what happens to the price of salted venison if I have a monopoly on that? You see? In this way, we both win.”

  “Oh, hey. Ha-ha! I like it.” He thumped a fist down on the bottom of the water tower before lifting the bottle a third time. “We’ll seal the deal with a drink.” After Stu had taken his sip, Gerry was all ready to head down to their storehouse to begin negotiations.

  Stu stopped him. “There’s another reason I’m here. It’s about Jenn Lockhart and to a lesser extent Mary Shaw and Ginny McGee.”

  Gerry’s eyes had been slightly out of focus, but now they zeroed in on Stu. “Oh, I see. You’re looking to marry them off. And you chose those three? One not quite ready and two past their prime?”

  “Thirty-five isn’t past anyone’s prime,” he said, ignoring the fact that Ginny was forty-four. “And Jenn is a sweet kid, I mean young woman.”

  “Is she bleeding yet?”

  Stu rolled his eyes. It was bad enough to be even having the conversation at all, but being crude only made it worse. “She’s fifteen, not twelve. Look, the only reason I’m talking to you is that we really don’t have anyone for her. And I’m not trying to marry her off.” This was a complete lie since it was exactly what the Coven had suggested.

  “Oh, sure,” Gerry said with an exaggerated wink. “You’re just allowing her to be exclusively courted, I get it.”

  “Exactly and the same is true with the two older women. Mary has her eye on Donny Price. I know he’s a little younger than her, but these are odd times and maybe they can make it work. Ginny isn’t nearly as picky. She’s just lonely in that regard since Bill got eaten.”

  Gerry stroked his long beard as he peered at Stu through heavily lidded eyes. “And if we can make this work, where do you think these three couples will take up residence? I get the feeling that you’re trying to weaken my group.”

  “I figured that we would take Jenn and you can have Ginny. We’ll let Mary decide on her own. What do you say?”

  “I say the same thing I always say: move back here, Stu. If you come back, then the rest will follow. I know it.” Stu shook his head making Gerry curse. He walked in a circle, leaving tracks in the wet paint, which had him cursing again. Finally, he said, “Fine. This was bound to happen. Especially with Donny. That guy’s a hound. You know I caught him going down to the Santas? He caught something from one of their ‘service girls’ and it took like three months to clear up. I thought his pecker was ‘bout ready to fall off.”

  Stu raised an eyebrow at this little tidbit of gossip. The Santas were a wild, dangerous bunch that lived thirty-five miles away in Santa Clara. Although they claimed not to, it was common knowledge that they bought and sold slaves and had been known to waylay people coming up the 101.

  “Mary will calm him down,” Stu said. “Now about Jenn. I was thinking Mike Gunter.”

  Stu was a little shocked when Gerry didn’t hesitate. “Sure. No problem.”

  He had spoken so quickly that Stu hesitated. “What’s wrong with him? No, don’t shake your head. It’s bad enough being cheated by the traders.”

  “I’m not cheating anyone. Mike is great. He’s just too much like his old man. If he lives another five years, I’ll be shocked.” Stu understood. Mike’s father had been the bravest of the brave, but it was that fearlessness that had killed him.

  Chapter 4

  Jenn Lockhart

  The afternoon wore away too quickly for Jenn’s sake. She and Mike spent the afternoon with a gang of his friends visiting their old haunts and bringing up memories of growing up in the middle of an apocalypse.

  They had been safe when so many hadn’t been. Safe, but in a sense, dirt poor. Back then there had only been a few boats to support the hundreds of people crowding the island. Food had been scarce and luxuries such as toilet paper or sugar just ceased to exist. From their childish viewpoint, people seemed to die all the time. Every day there was news of this person’s mother who was taken by slavers or that one whose father went out scavenging and never returned.

  One by one they be
came orphans and as time passed, the island became less crowded.

  They became hardened towards death. When the news came of each death, they would be sad for their friends and cry with them and hold them in their misery, but the next day they would be out jumping rope or playing tag. For a child, the world just kept going and these little breaks in their lives were quickly put behind them.

  Of all the games they would play back then, Jenn loved hide and seek the most. With the eerie prison and all the old buildings, the island was a perfect place for hide and seek, and Jenn, due to her small size and lack of fear, had reigned supreme when it came to the game.

  If she hadn’t been trying to impress Mike and his friends with her newfound maturity, she would have loved to slip back into her childhood and actually play and laugh. She missed laughing. The apartment complex was fenced and gated, still a sense of quiet hung over everything.

  Laughter, the proper full-throated kind attracted the zombies. The local packs would lumber down out of the hills and bang on the plywood wall that was fixed over the fence, and moan hungrily, which was always unnerving. Real laughter was rare.

  Jenn was very disappointed when Stu hunted them down so early. They were sitting against the lighthouse watching Aaron try to skip stones into the bay. He failed time and again as he kept trying to use ill-shaped rocks. Worse, he couldn’t get the angle of his throws down right. The stones plunked dismally, sinking one after the other. The older teens tried to demonstrate the proper technique, but growing up without a real father—his had died while Aaron was a baby and Miss Shay’s next two husbands had spent more time hunting and drinking than they had trying to raise a boy who wasn’t theirs—had left him “throwing like a girl,” as one of the boys remarked.

  “I’ll show you how a girl throws,” Jenn said, tempted to throw a rock right at the boy. Instead, she found a good skipper and bounced it across the water until a whitecap swallowed it. The winds had picked up as had the tide, and now the water in the bay chopped back and forth with little waves going in every direction.