Dispersal

by Addison Gunn

  “—the northeast is too cold during the winter, we should head south—”

  “—how will we feed the commune during a migration—?”

  “—we should have left already—”

  “—the trees have begun to turn—”

  “—it will snow soon—”

  “What about vehicles?”

  “There isn’t enough fuel—”

  “—we could ride the husk-mutts—?”

  “—they’ll eat the Regulars—”

  “—we can’t stay, we’ll starve—”

  “—we can’t leave, we’ll freeze.”

  Samantha rapped her knuckles against the table, turning all heads toward her. “The crops have failed. The environment is uncooperative. We have no choice but to leave. Staying here will only result in death—the elderly and children are already in imminent danger.”

  “The elderly and young won’t be able to keep up if we migrate.”

  “We could leave them here—”

  “—split the commune—?”

  “—not an option—”

  “—either solution presents problems—”

  “—what about rationing—?”

  “—slaughter every beast, salt the meat—”

  “—train more archers—”

  “—no other alternative.”

  Joseph, standing from his position to Samantha’s right, waved his hand in the air. “It’s decided. We fortify for the winter.”

  “Wait—” Samantha said, absently reaching out to touch his arm.

  He jerked his arm out of her grasp and pulled it behind him. “We will not succumb to your will simply because you wish it.”

  “Joseph...”

  “Meeting adjourned,” he said as he moved away, heading out the barn and into the sunlight outside.

  Samantha felt the resentment and anxiety of the others as they dispersed, heading back to their duties and glancing back at her.

  This was not something she had anticipated. The structure of the commune, by design, was meant to give the Archaeans the power to influence the Regulars and maintain order. Since their arrival at the farms, that system had done just that. It seemed only right, and necessary, that there would be a driving force leading the Archaeans as well.

  Back during the invasion, it was Samantha’s link to Alex and the humans that had saved them from the blast in New York City. Just a few days ago, it had been Samantha’s ability to maintain individuality outside the collective mind which had saved the yucca-flax farm from deteriorating into madness. How was it, after all that had transpired, she was now being met with distrust? As if Samantha had ever had a thought in her mind against the commune? As if she hadn’t devoted herself to the care and cultivation of the Archaean life?

  But as the Bishops left the barn and she remained alone, Samantha realized her tenuous position.

  How did one rule a group who distrusted any leader with the strength to rule? Harder yet: how did one rule without being a ruler? She had seen firsthand how the hive-mind could deteriorate. So had Joseph, now, for that matter. What other choice did he think she’d had but to impose her own calm on the mob?

  She shuddered to think what would have become of the Regulars, not to mention Susie.

  The possibilities left a sour taste on her tongue. Worse was the look Joseph gave her as she stepped out of the barn and into the muddy field to resume her work at the clean up. They locked eyes for just a moment before he moved off, and her gut lurched.

  THERE WAS A change, like the shifting of the wind. Where once it had blown freely, without resistance—always filling her up and moving her forward—now the wind came at Samantha from all directions, pulling, pushing, twisting her around, sapping her energy.

  The commune was evolving. The hierarchy the Archaeans had conceived had altered. No longer were the Archaeans controlling the farms directly; instead, on Joseph’s urging, they were delving into the hive-mind to find a consensus and then ruling by committee.

  A true democracy wasn’t a horrible mode of rule, Samantha supposed, but only if the majority were an intelligent, well-rounded lot that weren’t partial to forming angry mobs and ignoring personal hygiene—but that wasn’t the case.

  Several days into their winter fortification plans, Samantha caught the first signs of deterioration. It began with suspicious glances from the workers at the farm she controlled with Joseph and Chris—glaring eyes that jerked away as she walked by. As the days passed, she felt their animosity, their resentfulness pushing at her from all sides.

  Muttered imprecations regarding her disloyalty to the commune spread through the farms like cancer, blackening the souls within and turning each away from her. It became so toxic, so quickly, that Samantha took to dividing her days between farms—working in the morning at her own, reseeding the alfalfa-barley, and then moving off in the afternoon to work elsewhere.

  She wanted to think it was all in her imagination. Perhaps paranoia had begun to take hold. But the hive-mind provided perfect clarity to the feelings of the others, and from what Samantha could tell, her position in the community—and her safety—were in jeopardy more and more each day.

  Finally, while standing in line for her midday meal a month after the incident with Susie at the greenhouse, Sam noticed that not only had the Regulars in line developed patches of fungus, but the two other resident Archaeans—Thomas and Wilma—had begun to grow them as well.

  After receiving her plate—a fried grain patty, a half-cup of vegetables and a strip of meat jerky—Samantha sat at the crowded picnic tables inside the barn and ate in silence, feeling besieged, and with the undeniable urge to scratch her skin raw.

  When had they stopped enforcing the personal hygiene regiments, she wondered? How was that a good idea?

  From the corner of the barn, beside one of the stalls currently used for storage, a woman’s laugh pierced the clanging of dishes and the scraping of forks upon plates.

  Samantha didn’t know what the woman had found so funny, but like a ripple, the laugh spread across the room. Before long, the entirety of the group, over a hundred people, were all cackling in sheer glee.

  Samantha couldn’t help herself and joined in—the merriment was too strong to push away—but the moment her soft, hesitant chuckle fused with the multitude, the laughter stopped. With an abrupt yank, the gaiety was gone, replaced instead with glares of disdain and a swell of resentment.

  Samantha’s face grew hot. She stood from the picnic table, placed her plate and utensils into the bin, and exited the barn.

  The weight of over two hundred eyeballs drilled into her back.

  She was unsafe; she knew it with a certainty. The tide had turned against her. Just as she was about to break into a run, certain she had put enough distance between her and the barn, she heard footsteps behind her.

  She looked over her shoulder. The barn was empty. Every man and woman had followed her out into the field.

  Samantha swallowed her panic and tried to remain calm. She couldn’t tell what had her more terrified—the sight of the mob, or the hatred washing off them.

  How had they turned so quickly against her? What had she done, other than try to help them?

  They were not running at her, or even carrying weapons, but the malicious intent was undeniable.

  Should she run? Would they chase her? Should she stand and fight? Maybe if she pushed a feeling of love and acceptance at them, it might stop a few... but a hundred?

  She stepped backwards, keeping her face to the onslaught as she moved away—one arm thrust behind her, the other held out as if to ward them off. A good twenty meters behind her sat the farm house; to her left—slightly closer—was the corral of tamed husk-mutts.

  The muddy field squashed under her feet, sticking her worn boots to the ground and slowing her pace. The sun blazed down onto her head, burning the parting in her hair. Blinking in the stark brightness, she fought to maintain eye contact with the approaching horde, but their eye
s had glazed over, as if they didn’t see her anymore.

  Her instincts told her to crack a joke—maybe lighten the mood with a silly quip or a remark about the weather—but she knew it was hopeless. She could feel their outrage and revulsion. She felt it toward herself as well.

  “Hey, what’s going on out here?” Susie let the farm house screen door close with a whap, then adjusted her arm in the sling with a grunt. “I felt someth—” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Sam’s stomach roiled as she was surrounded. With the crowd in front of her, and Susie and the farm house staff behind, there was no escaping. She would never reach the corral in time. The forest was an equally bad idea—full of beasts and deserters and heaven knew what else. She would die on that muddy field, torn to shreds by the very people she had helped destroy New York City to save.

  She heard footsteps in the mud behind her. Susie approached, her free hand loosely holding a dish towel.

  Samantha’s mouth went dry as she choked back a sob. Taking what she felt was her last step, she stopped in her tracks, resigned to her fate.

  A hand clasped her shoulder. Sam felt a prick of sympathy, a deep and uncomplicated encouragement. Instead of wrapping the towel around her throat and squeezing the air from Sam’s lungs, Susie leaned in and whispered into her ear, “Run.”

  7

  ANOTHER DAY AT sea, Miller mused, squinting into the white, soaring sun. Another day tasting salt on his lips. Another day of the sticky film that coated his hair and skin and never seemed to wash off, no matter if he used his entire water ration scrubbing.

  Other people had had the same thought. In families and groups of friends, occupants of the Tevatnoa crowded the railings around the top deck observation area and stared at the glassy water.

  At least the ocean was calm today. For whatever reason, it had exorcized its demons the previous day, and was giving the Tevatnoa a reprieve.

  It wouldn’t last, but Miller would appreciate it while it did. Apparently these other folks around him were as well.

  He closed his eyes against the burning sun and listened to the wind in his ears, the hum of the engines, the water splashing and sloshing beneath him, and for just now, he was fine.

  Then, like the pounding of a judge’s gavel, the sound of heavy boot-steps arose behind him, and the moment shattered like the glassy sea.

  Miller twisted to face Morland, who had shaved and combed his hair, looking almost dapper since the previous night’s scuffle in the bar—which was more than Miller had done.

  “Sir,” Morland said. “There’s been another distress call.”

  Miller didn’t even bother to register his disappointment. He just turned and strode off, Morland following at his heels.

  “Has another boat capsized?”

  “No, sir. Looks like some bugger’s trying to steal the fishing trawler.”

  Miller shook his head, barely missing a stride as he made his way back to his living quarters to get dressed and grab his weapons. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Wish I were.”

  “Jesus, does it never end?”

  Morland didn’t bother to respond.

  THE DAWN RISING was a stern trawler they’d picked up by Martha’s Vineyard, shortly after they’d found the Dunn Roven. About forty-six meters in length, the ship could net up to two hundred tons of fish a day, depending on the weather, their location, and the currents.

  It was arguably the most important vessel in the fleet. More vital than the cruise liners, and certainly more useful than the sail boats or the yacht had been.

  With only ten crew members, it was also the most vulnerable. This was not the first time Cobalt had been called up to intervene on their behalf, even after Gray assigned three additional security guards to the crew.

  Twice before, they’d been attacked by pirates: once from a ship in S-Y’s own fleet and once by a random ferry filled with an Infected commune they’d scared off with a few warning shots.

  This round, it appeared, was from within their ranks again. Minerva’s Wand was a ten-meter sailboat, designed for speed. Lightweight, with a hull made of balsa wood and fiberglass, it had a fifteen-horsepower diesel engine with a saildrive transmission—but since it had run out of fuel ages ago, it depended solely on wind power to keep up with the fleet, and had continually struggled to do so.

  Manned by seven people, designed to house two, the sailboat wallowed in almost any sea; it wasn’t uncommon for Minerva’s Wand to request the fleet slow down for them to catch up. Miller had heard Gray complain about that more than once.

  Honestly, he thought, it wasn’t as if the fleet was in any sort of rush—but the cruise liners could certainly go faster if they wanted, and it wasted time and energy to slow down every time the sailboats lost the wind.

  Miller understood why Gray was annoyed. It seemed to him, as he rode the dinghy toward the Dawn Rising, that what Minerva’s Wand should have done is stock-pile rations so they could leave the fleet and head off on their own, which would have been fine by Gray and Lewis, and for Miller too—given how many times they’d slowed down to accommodate them—instead of blasting their way onto the Dawn Rising and demanding extra food, which is apparently what they had done.

  When they’d spotted the Minerva’s Wand some three nautical miles behind, not even attempting to catch up to the fleet, Miller grew even more suspicious. The boat, sails not only down but removed altogether, floated out in the calm waters, eerily still and empty. It hadn’t responded to a single request for communication either, which Miller found equally odd.

  “I’m getting really tired of playing watch dog,” Morland said, from beside him in the dinghy. He wiped sea water from his safety goggles, did it again, then gave up, taking them off and squinting into the sun.

  No one replied, not even Miller.

  The incident between Hsiung and Doyle the previous day had left things tense. Miller found it equal parts amusing and irritating how Cobalt all looked ahead at the Dawn Rising and refused to look at each other; he just hoped they pulled their shit together by the time they reached the trawler.

  On reaching the fishing vessel, Hsiung steered the dinghy up the back ramp, driving it straight up the embankment and cutting the engine almost immediately. The trawler nets were out, giving Cobalt clear access. Sprinting onto deck, Miller noted two plastic two-man kayaks, the oars tossed aside as if discarded.

  He snapped the safety off his M27 and glared at the kayaks in confusion.

  Apparently du Trieux had had the same thought. “How would they carry the fish back in those?”

  Miller shook his head as the others prepared their weapons.

  Doyle shouldered the strap of his .388 custom rifle and rubbed his sweaty nose on the back of his hand. “So, they’re reckless and stupid.”

  Hsiung raised an eyebrow. “Takes one to know—”

  “Fuck off,” he spat.

  “Enough,” Miller snapped, feeling more like a referee than a commanding officer. “Watch your sixes.”

  They fanned out in a three-by-two formation. After a quick sweep of the lower deck, which was empty, they made their way slowly up the ladders on either side to mid-deck, where they merged and rose higher again.

  Having met no resistance thus far, Miller suspected the pirates were either grouped inside the wheelhouse, or keeping the crew hostage in the barracks below. First things first, however—they needed to determine who was piloting the ship.

  Up two flights to the main deck, they entered the wheelhouse, three on the right, two on the left, guns drawn.

  The pirates were waiting inside: three emaciated men, holding spear guns, standing among the trawler’s seven-strong crew. The trawler’s captain, a bearded man in his forties, stood behind the steering wheel. Raising his hands toward Cobalt he shouted, “Hold your fire!”

  “Drop your weapons,” Miller ordered the pirates.

  At first glance, the crew didn’t look wounded, or even worried. In fact, given that there were sev
en of them, and only three skinny pirates, Miller immediately wondered why there were still pirates aboard at all, when the crew could clearly have overpowered them.

  Scanning the wheelhouse, Miller paused to examine the pirates. The emaciated men looked about ready to collapse. One swayed on his feet as his spear gun dipped in his palms, while another had to work to stay awake—his eyes closing and snapping open with regularity.

  Miller lowered his M27.

  “Put ’em down!” Doyle barked, red-faced and jittery, still pointing his sidearm at the nearest pirate.

  “Now!” Morland added.

  “Hold your fire!” the trawler captain shouted again. “Please!” Turning his attention back toward the emaciated men, he almost looked apologetic. “See, Greg. See? I told you. Nobody’s getting hurt. Nobody. Just put down the spears. Put them down.”

  The man in the center of the three pirates gawked at the captain with a look Miller couldn’t quite place. His clothes were threadbare, his ribs visibly protruded like he hadn’t eaten in months. He blinked slowly at the captain, then stumbled once as if he were about to pass out. As the trawler swayed, he buckled to his knees. When he went down, Cobalt surged forward. In a few moments, the three pirates were in custody, not a shot fired.

  “Get these three medical attention,” the captain said to Miller. “They’ve been through enough.” Then he barked orders to his crew to check the trawlers and the men scurried off to work.

  “What happened here?” Miller asked him. “Where’s your security squad?”

  The captain rubbed the back of his neck. “I sent them below. We’re not interested in pressing charges. Just feed those guys, will you? Take care of them.”

  “Captain, you were just held hostage by pirates. There’s no ‘pressing charges.’ They’ll be punished, there’s no doubt of that,” Miller said.

  “No, you don’t understand. I want you to take them back to their ship, let them go. They won’t bother us again.”

  Miller puffed out his cheeks. “I can’t do that.”