“I downloaded the album for my father, so I had it in my collection. Papà really loved that guy.” Bruno sat in the desk chair, picked up his phone, and played with the screen. He paused the music.
“We have music again,” DeLuca said.
“It’s strange, you know? I used to do everything with my phone—buy things, take videos, get the news, whatever. Didn’t make that many phone calls, though.” Bruno shrugged. “Now, it’s so useless, I don’t even carry it. All it’s good for is to play some songs.” Bruno looked at the phone again. “Although, I’m not sure you’ll like anything else in my collection,” he said with a smile.
“I’m just happy to hear music again,” said DeLuca. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Bruno . . .” DeLuca started, but then stopped.
“What?”
“Well, yes—is there anyone else on the radio?” Bruno heard a desperate note creep into DeLuca’s voice. “Anyone playing sixties songs or old Napoli-Juventus games? Is there anyone else out there?”
Bruno swiveled the chair and looked at the equipment.
“No music. No voices. Not even some crazy ham radio operator.” Bruno turned around to see DeLuca’s reaction, and he saw pain in the old man’s eyes. But Bruno knew his answer misled DeLuca. He could go down a path of lies and deception. Or Bruno could tell the truth. And why not tell the truth? If he wasn’t going to tell DeLuca, why come back here at all? Bruno wasn’t even sure what his own motivations were in taking DeLuca to this place. Maybe he wanted another opinion. Maybe he just wanted to share the sound of a melody. He did not know.
Bruno ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “But,” he said, “I did hear something. A signal that repeats. And regularly.”
“A signal? What kind of signal?”
“Definitely not a commercial broadcast. Digital for sure. Military maybe? Or Interior Ministry? Who knows? Could be coming from anywhere.”
“Have you tried to contact them?”
Bruno shook his head.
“Why not? When did you find this equipment?”
“July.”
“And you didn’t tell me? Why haven’t you tried to contact anyone?”
“Look, there’s no way to know who they are, or what they want. We have no idea what they will do if they find out there’s someone on the island.”
“Come get us, I hope! It’s got to be whatever’s left of the government.”
Bruno shrugged. “Who knows where that signal is coming from? Even if what you think is true, why should we trust them? For Christ’s sake, they were slaughtering people like cattle in hospitals, of all places!”
“But we’re not infected, so—”
“So what? We’re not special. If they were so interested in helping anyone who’s alive, why not just broadcast in the clear so everyone can understand? Why this digital signal?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they want to see if there are other survivors from the police or military, maybe they’re looking for remnants of the government because—because . . ”
Bruno completed the thought. “Maybe they’re not sure who might be listening. Maybe they want something. Maybe they need something.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Even if I wanted to contact them, I can’t decode the signal, and I can’t transmit on that frequency. Only a certain type of radio, another law enforcement or maybe military radio, can decode it.”
“What do you mean?”
Bruno shook his head. “Look, I’m pretty sure I recognize the sound of the signal. This is an ALE signal, it’s got very distinctive tones. But the equipment here is for radioamatori, not for this type of signal.”
“An ALE signal?”
“Stands for ‘Automatic Link Establishment.’” Bruno mouthed the last English word with some difficulty. “It’s a way for two radios to form a link like . . .” Bruno struggled to explain the way the ALE radios would skip around from frequency to frequency, finding the clearest one before establishing a link. He finally settled on a not-too-exact simile. “Like computers over the Internet.”
“So . . .”
“So, I need an ALE radio, otherwise it won’t make the link.”
“You said military and law enforcement use them? Don’t you have one here, on Capri?”
Bruno shook his head. “It was sometimes used for communications between regional commands and national headquarters. I think they mostly just ran test messages.”
“Why just tests?”
“It’s an older technology. I think that we mostly used ALE radio as a backup in case of emergency. I’m not exactly sure. Look, I spent six months working as a communications tech at the Regional Command in Naples. But that was years ago now. I could be mistaken.” Bruno rubbed his chin, remembering some long-ago training session. “The beauty of radio communications is that even when infrastructure like cellular networks or the Internet fails, or even satellites, radio will still work as long as you have power from somewhere.”
“Well, don’t you think that’s exactly what we have here?”
“Yes,” responded Bruno, not rising to the bait. “Total infrastructure collapse. I’ve tried to fix a position with my phone, but the GPS and Galileo systems have failed. GLONASS is off-line, too. And I doubt even a real satellite phone would still work; without ground control, satellites are probably out of position now. Anyway, we didn’t have that kind of setup here. We didn’t even have a satphone or direct uplink. Encrypted comms over our intranet were enough for a small station like ours.”
“You must have a regional headquarters—a regional command, isn’t that what you call it?” said DeLuca. “In Naples, right? So, you must have an ALE radio in Naples?”
“Maybe,” Bruno responded in a low voice.
“Maybe? Maybe!” DeLuca grabbed Bruno’s arm. “That’s all you can say? You think you know where there’s a radio you can use, and you’re just sitting here? What is wrong with you?”
Bruno knocked DeLuca’s arm away. “Don’t touch me!” he said. “There was one in Naples, yes! But it can’t be there now. Not after all of this.”
DeLuca backed away. “How do you know? You can’t be sure,” he said under his breath.
“You don’t get it, do you? Don’t you understand the kinds of people left out there? They’re not going to help you! Why should they? What can you do for them? I told you what they tried to do on the island, at the hospitals! Didn’t you listen? You think it’s better somewhere else? Go to Naples. Find the radio yourself! You’d be dog food in a day, old man. I’m staying here. I have everything I need right here. It’s safe here. I’m not risking everything for nothing.” Bruno stepped towards the sliding glass door.
“That’s it then?” DeLuca said. “Well, fucking great. We’ll just sit here and hunker down like rats. What’s the point? Why should we go on? After everything that’s happened, what are you still afraid of?”
Bruno kept his back to DeLuca.
“Are we just supposed to live like this, alone? Just live?” said DeLuca.
For all those long months, Bruno had thought the solitude would crush him. Yet now he wanted to be rid of his only companion. Bruno remembered the words of some damned French nihilist who once wrote that people are hell, or some such self-centered drivel. He had always thought that Frenchman was an arrogant, egotistical ass. But now Bruno knew exactly what he meant.
Yet, DeLuca’s final words lingered in Bruno’s head. Just live. DeLuca reminded Bruno of his father’s words, the last words his father ever spoke to him. Bruno knew in his bones that he was the last of his family. But how could it be, thought Bruno, that he had come to find just living enough? Why did he bother to go on? Because of his father’s desperate hope that his son and daughter should live? After the death of everyone he had ever known, was Bruno still so afraid of his own death? If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit he was more afraid than ever. All that had transpired only confirmed his certainty that humanity floated adrift in the universe, without hope
of deliverance. That meant faith in anything was truly absurd, and death was horribly final. After all the death he had seen and after all the terrible things he had done in the last few months, his hope had been destroyed. So Bruno chose to ignore the signal, to deny that flicker of hope that still burned inside him. Yet hope, like death itself, was insidious; it could lie dormant like an ember, only to be rekindled into a raging fire by the slightest breeze.
Bruno didn’t believe in fate or destiny or powers greater than himself, but at this moment, he recognized he had a choice. He could heed the words of his father, prolonging his existence as long as he could. Or he could embrace death, the only path to hope. For in this world, even mere survival invited death, let alone embarking on a futile quest into the bowels of a once-great city. Despite, or maybe because of the inexorability of morality, Bruno knew what he would choose even before he turned to speak, for in his mind, ultimately, there could be only one choice.
Bruno exhaled. “If we’re going to do more than just live, I’ll need your help. I can’t do this alone.”
DeLuca nodded. “You know, we have that small motorboat of mine. Of course, we’ll have to scavenge fuel, but I think we can find enough to get us to Naples and back.” DeLuca sounded giddy with energy. Bruno felt like the old man of their duo, embittered and weary.
“Maybe you’re right. Who knows? Maybe whoever it is can help us.”
Part II
Chapter 17
September 10
Now, Bruno felt that hope had indeed died.
For what seemed like an age, Bruno stared in disbelief at bare rocks below him. He knew he wasn’t in the wrong spot. He had said to DeLuca to stay here, and now both DeLuca and the motorboat were gone. Had DeLuca moved? Had they found him?
The two approaching figures sprinted faster than Bruno thought was possible with rifles strapped across their backs. Bruno’s options for escape diminished with each moment. Then Bruno heard a voice.
“Ehi! Down here!” Bruno descended the stairs toward the rocks below, three at a time, nearly stumbling twice. DeLuca had pulled the motorboat further onto the rocks into the shadows, under the pier’s overhang, obscuring it from sight.
There was no time for explanations. As soon as Bruno finished his descent down the stairs, he dashed over the rocks to the boat and began pulling it by the bow into the water. DeLuca lifted the stern, making sure the engine was not damaged.
When they were knee-deep into the water, Bruno clambered aboard. “Got it.” That was all he said to DeLuca. They were fifty meters behind him.
“Come on, come on!” DeLuca muttered as he pulled the rip cord on the engine. On the second pull, it bellowed to life. DeLuca opened up the engine full throttle and headed for the center of the marina. Their bodies were facing away from the city, but both had craned their heads to see what was happening behind them. Though they were fast retreating, they spotted the pursuers standing on the top of the pier. One of them aimed his rifle. Bruno turned and yanked DeLuca down. Surprised, DeLuca kept his hand on the tiller, sending the boat veering to the left. They saw the kick of the rifle a split-second before they heard the rifle’s report. Staying crouched, DeLuca pushed the motor to the left, and they headed out into the open bay. Swerving this way and that, they stayed in a semi-crouch long after the pursuers had faded into the haze of the shoreline.
When he couldn’t stand staying in the same position any longer, Bruno turned his back toward the bow of the boat. He slid the backpack off his right shoulder and trapped it between his legs, unzipping the main pocket and peering in. He wanted to pull it out, to study it in the daylight, this thing for which he had risked his life. But he didn’t dare, for fear of having it catapulted out of his hands. The waves were choppy, and DeLuca kept the engine at a high rev. The boat bounced around with enough force to rattle teeth.
Bruno slumped, back towards the bow, exhausted, in no mood for explanations or chat. Still, DeLuca felt the need to engage Bruno. “I hope it works!” shouted DeLuca over the din of the engine and the waves. Bruno turned his head and looked out over the water, pretending not to hear. The sweat on his face drying in the wind cooled him, and he didn’t feel like shouting over the engine’s growl or telling DeLuca to slow down. Nor did Bruno feel like saying anything to the man who had pushed him to risk their lives in the first place.
When they made it back to the island, Bruno was in a piss-poor mood. The rifle he had poached was gone. In their rush to escape, he hadn’t properly secured it, and it had fallen overboard. Bruno knew himself better than to try to set up the radio that evening. So, he plugged the radio into the battery bank. It would take hours to recharge, which was just as well, since Bruno needed time to decompress. That night, they stayed in Filippo’s house. Bruno had long waited for some reason to celebrate something, anything, and since merely surviving now passed for a joyous occasion, he decided he might as well drink to that. He opened an old bottle of grappa he had found in the ruins of some patrician’s house. He felt better after a few drinks. They handed the bottle back and forth, laughing and talking well into the night.
DeLuca explained why he had moved the boat out of sight. “I was getting paranoid that something had happened to you.” DeLuca took a swig from the bottle before continuing. “So I thought I’d move the boat where it couldn’t be seen from the pier, just in case someone came looking. Then I heard the shots and knew I was right to be paranoid!”
Bruno laughed. “Well, it worked! I didn’t know where the hell you had gone!”
Bruno broke eye contact, looked down, and his smile faded. He swirled the bottle around.
“Something wrong?” DeLuca asked.
“He’s there, you know.”
DeLuca’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Il Serbo. He’s there, in Naples. I know. You remember, when I found you, the guy I shot said his name.”
DeLuca shook his head. “You said you weren’t sure what he said. God knows, he was a bloody mess. And you said your sister was sick, so he must have got it too, from the one who escaped Tiberius’ Leap. Il Serbo is probably long dead by now.”
“No, he’s not! They were organized. That gang—that bunch of thugs needs a strong hand to keep them in line.”
DeLuca shrugged. “So, they need a strong hand, so what? Could be anyone.”
“No, no. Only a Camorrista would know how to do that. Only someone like him.”
“Yeah, a Camorrista . . . or maybe a cop,” DeLuca replied, deadpanning.
For a second, Bruno stiffened. Then he chuckled. “Good point, old man.” Bruno took a large gulp of grappa, and the next words out of his mouth changed the subject to more pleasant topics.
As they bantered and laughed, time passed slowly, and Bruno savored each moment, enjoying the alcohol and DeLuca’s company. Hours later, DeLuca passed out face down on the bed, his snores echoing around the room. Bruno remained awake, lost in thought, long after even DeLuca’s snores died down. Finally Bruno fell asleep in a lounge chair, with hope for the future raging in his mind for the first time since it all fell to pieces. Yet suffocating dreams troubled his sleep, dreams of swimming blind in murky water, dreams of clawing up out of a dark pit through rubble.
***
When Bruno woke the next morning, DeLuca was snoring again. Bruno eased his way up out of the lounge chair. While stiff from sleeping in the chair, to his surprise, his head didn’t throb from the booze the previous night. I should have drank more grappa, he reflected. No impurities and no hangover.
Bruno rubbed the sleep from his eyes, moved to the desk, and studied the ALE radio. Before beginning the task of setting it up, he moved some other radio equipment around on the desk, taking care not to disconnect anything, making just enough room for the ALE radio. Unlike the ham radios in Filippo’s bedroom, the ALE radio did not have a confusing number of knobs, buttons, and keys. It was simple, even sleek. The body of the unit was olive-drab plastic with two rounded metal handles jutting
out from the front panel and the battery attached to the back. The front panel itself had a long, narrow screen that could display perhaps ten lines of data. Below the screen was a keypad arranged in a square. Its keys had numbers, letters, and functions listed on each key, along with volume control and various keys used to activate the functions. To the left of the screen were three ports for various types of antennas, and to the right were two ports for connecting accessories and a knob with five positions.
Bruno read through the manual with care. Satisfying himself he knew what to do, he began to connect cables. Once DeLuca awoke he hovered in the background, lending Bruno a hand when he could, but mostly just providing encouragement. They spent all morning setting up the radio, checking connections, cross-checking the manual, making sure they understood how the radio worked, and double checking everything.
By the time Bruno and DeLuca finished the setup, the sun rode high in the sky. They paused for a moment, each sitting in a chair in front of the desk, Bruno directly in front of the ALE radio, and DeLuca behind and to the right of Bruno, in a chair taken from the kitchen.
Bruno leaned back in his chair and turned towards DeLuca. “Well, everything is set, as best as I can tell. They’ve been broadcasting the signal every two hours.” Bruno glanced at his watch. “I’m sure the date is still right, and I’m pretty sure the time still is. So we are just about due for a signal.”
DeLuca patted Bruno on the shoulder. “You are quite the technician.”
“Not so fast, I haven’t turned it on yet,” said Bruno, laughing. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Bruno paused, his finger lingering over the “on” knob. “Well, this is it,” said Bruno.
The tiny screen blinked to life. “It works!” said DeLuca.
Bruno smiled. “I was afraid it might have been damaged from our Naples adventure.”
Referring to the manual on his lap, Bruno touched the “menu” key and set the radio to search for a signal on a series of preset frequencies. Now that he was sure the radio worked, Bruno plugged in the keypad/display attachment. The display on the attachment had a full keyboard and LCD screen that was about twice the size of the one on the radio itself. The radio switched to the keypad attachment as the primary display. The words “ALE Sounding” blinked in a slow rhythm on the larger screen as the radio switched rapidly from frequency to frequency. In a regular pattern, the radio lingered on each frequency, transmitted a few seconds of audible signal, and paused for a response. Nothing.
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