by Addison Gunn
The captain frowned. “Just ask them why they did it.” He swallowed thickly and looked out the wheelhouse window. “You’ll agree with me.”
He doubted it, but Miller turned and left the wheelhouse without further retort. Outside, he found his team assisting the pirates toward the dinghy.
As Hsiung moved one of the starving men, Miller noticed she didn’t even have his hands zip-tied. Mid-deck, he stumbled down the ladder; she slung his arm over her shoulder, helping him walk.
Across the water on the dinghy and back toward the Tevatnoa, all three of the pirates lay on the raft floor glancing over their shoulders at their former boat. It was nothing more than a speck on the horizon now. Then, with glassy eyes, they looked to one another, expressions grim.
“Were you not given enough food rations?” du Trieux asked, raising her voice over the wind.
They didn’t answer at first, only looked to their bony hands, then out again toward the approaching Tevatnoa.
“How did you become so sick?” she continued. “Are you unwell?”
“We’re not infectious, if that is what you’re worried about,” one man said. He had a thick Spanish accent and a patchy beard. “You cannot catch what we have.”
“What do you have?” Morland asked flatly.
“Bleeding hearts,” one of the other men said.
Hsiung’s face contorted.
“Bollocks,” Doyle retorted.
The man nearest Hsiung shook his head. “He means our hearts are broken. Two of us died from sea sickness yesterday. We had been giving our rations to them for weeks to save them. But this storm—we ran out, and no one was able to get us more.”
“That’s no excuse—” Doyle began, his face red.
“Then the children died,” one of them said, and Doyle paled. “We just wanted to get more. Just a few fish more for Lizette, their mother. But they raised the alert when they saw us coming. Then they said they would give us some, but it was too late. You came.”
“You’re telling me there’s a woman alone on your boat, right now?” Doyle asked.
“Why didn’t you request medical aid?” Miller asked, aghast. “Why didn’t you raise your distress flag?”
“Turn the boat around. We can get her on the way in,” Doyle said to Hsiung, who sat at the rear, steering.
The man closest to her placed a skeletal hand on her arm. “It’s too late.”
“We called for aid,” one of the men said. “We raised the flag. For three days. They said to take it down, that help would come as soon as it could. No one came. And then the children died and Lizette used our last bullet on herself.”
“We just wanted a couple of fish,” said the last man, his head resting against the side of the dinghy, swaying with the motion of the boat. “To tide us over until the rest came.”
“Jesus, we were out in the water yesterday,” Morland said, gaping, then shut his mouth when Miller glared at him.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the first man. He closed his eyes against the sun and seemed to fall asleep.
Miller closed his lips tight and breathed slowly to calm himself. He wanted to punch the fucking ocean in the jaw, if it had one. He wanted to yell holy hell at whoever had handled this situation, although he knew there wasn’t much any of the rationing officers aboard the Tevatnoa could have done.
As the dinghy slowed on approach, Miller’s face grew hot and his hands closed into fists.
He knew what would happen next. They would bring the pirates aboard. The men would get rudimentary medical attention, and then brought before the tribunal and hanged. Gray would barely bat an eye, and Lewis wouldn’t miss a wink of sleep.
By tomorrow, these three men would be dead.
And all for a few measly fish.
8
THE MOB SWARMED, coming at Samantha and Susie like a freight train. With a shove, Susie pushed Samantha behind her and stood tall before the crowd. “Sam, run!”
Spreading her arms out, Susie pushed love and forgiveness through the whole of her being; she managed to reach a good half-dozen people before the horde overtook her. Her screams echoed over the noises that followed.
Samantha watched with rising horror as Susie was stamped to death, then did the only thing she could. She turned and ran.
She waded through the muddy field to the corral in seconds. Behind her, the mob finished their work on Susie, then stampeded toward her.
Sam climbed over the fence and fell to the ground, then scrambled to her feet, backing away from the flimsy barrier and into the center of the pen. The fence—three split rails held together with barbed wire—would hardly keep the horde at bay, but the three beasts within might.
Sensing her terror, the trio of husk-mutts paced about Sam, growling and pawing the ground with razor-sharp claws.
The Regulars pressed up against the circular fence and watched her warily—the two other Archaeans, Thomas and Wilma, among them. Concerned they would turn the animals against her, Sam pushed feelings of attachment and loyalty into the creatures to forestall them, but felt no opposing pulses from the other Archaeans. They seemed to have lost their ability to commune with the difficult animals.
Just then, Samantha had a horrifying idea. Sensing her determination, the beasts slowed their scratching around the corral and turned outward, facing the crowd gathered at the fence.
A warm hide nudged Samantha’s hip and she turned to find the largest of the beasts at her side. She swung her leg over, gripped the skin at the animal’s nape, and then urged it forward with a kick of her heels.
Kneeling back on their haunches, the other beasts leapt into the air, clearing the fence and scattering half the crowd, knocking them far and wide.
Samantha waited for the count of three and followed, jumping the fence after them. As the first two mutts slashed and clawed their way through the horde of screaming Infected, Samantha rode the third mutt through their wake—coming out the other side of the crowd, tearing over the muddy field, and breaking free of the farm.
Samantha rode down the footpath and onto the adjoining dirt road, tapping the beast to go faster. Fighting self-revulsion and defeat, she shook her head and squinted at the road ahead, trying to keep alert and ready for what might come next. The roads were unusually clear. Normally there would be Infected walking between farms, transporting supplies via thug behemoth-drawn carts, paying social visits, but now there was no one to be seen.
Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Where the hell was everyone?
Ahead and to the right, the tomato-squash farm flew by, but the area radiated rage so thickly Sam felt it all the way from the road. Cutting through the trees lining the lane, she turned the husk-mutt toward the farm, determined to either rally them to her defence, or save the resident Archaeans from a fate like Susie’s, but once she cleared the trees, she pulled up short.
Below, approximately half a kilometer downslope, the farm was in pandemonium. She was too late. A mob had formed to the right of the field, where two Archaeans—a man and woman—were being hacked to death by a handful of Regulars wielding machetes.
How and why the mob mentality had spread so far and so quickly was baffling, but it was apparent to Sam that any attempt to interfere would only result in her own death. Sickened but determined, she pulled the husk-mutt around and headed back up the embankment, through the trees and onto the road. As she pounded back and forth down the lane, passing farms along the way, she heard the screams and felt the anger rolling off the other properties. Every farm she passed was overrun with chaos. The maddening energy was thick in the air; Samantha had to fight not to join in, even kilometers away on the road.
The only thought that kept her focused was the need to escape. Running off into the forest with nothing but the clothes on her back—especially with the coming winter—would be a recipe for death, so she formulated plans, worked through worst-case scenarios, plotted her getaway.
She had to get back to her farm. She had to somehow sneak in past the horde, ga
ther supplies, and get back out without detection—and without a hint of emotion. If she felt anything—fear, terror, sympathy toward the other Archaeans—she would be detected.
Clearing her mind and concentrating solely on breathing, Sam led the husk-mutt to the outskirts of the main farm and immediately failed at controlling herself.
The outside of the farmhouse was on fire, flames reaching the top of the two-story walls. As far as she could tell, the interior hadn’t caught—there was no smoke or fire coming from the windows—but the sight of it filled Sam’s belly with dread. She half expected a mob of Infected to come barrelling around the corner to tear her flesh from her bones, but the farm appeared quiet, abandoned but for a handful of Infected gathered around the barn. They seemed distracted by something happening inside; they crowded around the doorway, peering over the tops of each other’s heads.
Seizing the opportunity, Samantha hopped off her husk-mutt and ran down the footpath to the farmhouse’s back door.
The handle felt hot to the touch, but she risked it anyway, using the tail of her shirt to twist the knob. The door opened, spilling a plume of smoke out and around her. Samantha pulled her bandana up and over her mouth and nose and pushed inside.
The kitchen was empty. Passing through the central room and up the wooden stairs, she reached the bedroom she shared and set to work rummaging through it.
Winter coats were rare. It was due to be a major issue for the commune once the first snowfall came, but she couldn’t worry about that. She had vague memories of an Infected woman wearing a down-lined jacket when she had first arrived, and knew she slept in a pile of blankets beside the window, but after digging through the corner for several seconds to no avail, Sam gave up the search and moved on.
Under one bed she found a scarf; another hid a pair of gloves and a knitted cap. Despite her best efforts, the closest she came to a coat was a faded denim jacket with large metal buttons and an embroidered biker emblem on the back. She threw it on and stuffed the gloves and hat in the pockets.
Smoke in the room was turning the air black, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Giving up her search, Sam left the room and rushed down the stairs, the scarf trailing from her hand like a kite.
She turned at a loud, wooden crack, to see that the walls of the main room had begun to burn. Flames trailed up and over the tattered wallpaper, spreading across the ceiling like a river of fire.
Holding her breath, Sam raised her arm over her mouth and bolted though the flames and smoke, coming out into the kitchen and smashing into the small table and chairs. She staggered, spinning, to avoid going over, and the knitted scarf in her hands swung wide, passing through the flames. The end caught quickly, scorching up the synthetic yard like the wick of a cartoon bomb. Tossing the scarf, Sam dashed around the table and grabbed the kitchen door knob, searing her skin on the scorching metal and involuntarily screaming.
Pushing her burned hand into the jean jacket pocket, she used the fabric as a buffer and turned the knob, then spilled out into the back yard of the farm house, coughing.
Wet laundry hung abandoned on the line, turning dark in the ash and soot falling from the fire. Samantha managed to find two pairs of thick white socks and a pair of men’s long underwear, tossed them over her shoulder, then skirted around the corner and into the adjacent forest.
From the tree line, she felt safe enough to move around the house fire and observe the fields on the other side.
As she feared, the mob had left the barn and were now in the center of the alfalfa-barley field. Joseph and Chris stood in the middle. At first, the crowd did nothing but poke and jab at the two men with fingers and open palms, and Sam momentarily felt a spark of hope. Perhaps the rage had not spread to every farm?
Her hope was quickly dashed, however, when she saw what they had been waiting for.
A Regular, Aaron—his blotchy fungal infection noticeable even from where Samantha hid—walked up from the front of the farm house, carrying a lit torch over his head.
The crowd parted as he approached Joseph and Chris, who still remained unmoving at the middle of the crowd.
Joseph then turned, said something to Chris, and reached out his hand to Aaron. He took the torch—nothing more than a burning plank pried from the house—and lit Chris on fire.
The crowd drew back, giving Samantha a clearer view. She realized Chris was tied to a post, a pile of kindling collected at his feet.
Chris flailed and thrashed against his bindings, his clothing and skin blackening in the flames, his hair going up like a tinderbox, and a cry rose from Sam’s throat.
The crowd turned at the sound, searching the treeline, and a handful of them broke off from the mob and walked in her direction. Forgetting all sense, and leaving her husk-mutt behind, Samantha ran into the forest.
9
MILLER ENTERED GRAY’S office without knocking.
Gray, sitting at his ping-pong table desk surrounded by slips of paper, looked up and squinted. “That went a lot quicker than expected.”
“They were starving,” Miller said.
“The Dawn Rising? How’s that possible? They should be the best fed ship in the fleet.”
“No, Gray, Minerva’s Wand. They’ve been waiting for rations for days and lost three members of their crew—two of them children.”
Gray frowned and looked down at the paperwork. “That’s unfortunate.”
“What happened to their rations?” Miller asked. “You and I both know it wasn’t the weather.”
Ration packets were delivered to the smaller ships of the S-Y fleet in two ways. On calm days, small drone craft were rigged with nets and flown across the waters, where the payload was dropped on deck.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t always viable. If winds weren’t an issue, the goliath brutes were: large, blubbery dog-like creatures that plagued the waters. They’d taken to snatching the deliveries from the water if the drone missed the target ship by even a few meters; some even went so far as to board the ships in hopes of catching the net themselves.
Things grew more primitive from there. A delivery squad was equipped with a guard, thrown into a dinghy, and tasked with hand-delivering the rations. But gasoline was in short supply, and the amount spent on ferrying rations to the other ships cut that supply by almost a third in a matter of weeks, especially in the choppy waters.
Then, the goliath brutes seemed to figure out that pattern, and simple food deliveries became running battles. If the brutes weren’t bad enough, the tusk-fiends—large pinnipeds with an enormous, and deadly, under-bite—followed suit; and they didn’t mind using their colossal teeth to munch the delivery men if the supplies weren’t easily obtained.
Entire cargos were lost, crew and all. Out of desperation, Gray then enacted a new edict, both to reduce the risk and to ease the burden on the Tevatnoa. From then on, the closest of the two cruise liners would be on the hook for delivering rations, whether by drone, by delivery, or by the zip-lines that were the Princess Penelope’s preferred method.
But there was no oversight, no committee or director overseeing rations for the whole fleet, and the Minerva’s Wand, which had been on the southeast corner of the fleet, should have been cared for by the Penelope.
It made some sense that they hadn’t any rations during the big three-day storm—those had been difficult conditions—but today had been clear. And there was still no answer as to who had told them to take down their distress flag.
“I’ll look into it,” Gray said, shuffling his papers.
“Don’t bullshit me.”
Gray’s hands tightened into fists. “Look, Miller, I give you a lot of leeway here. I appreciate you got me and my family out of the compound, I really do—and all those years of service protecting us...”
“I was glad to do it.”
“Thank you. We were glad to have you. And I also appreciate that you spear-headed the campaign against the Infected on land, and that you protect this ship and it
s residents like the soldier you are—”
“I get it, get to the ‘but.’”
Gray’s face reddened. “...but do not mistake my willingness to listen to your outbursts as a sign that we are somehow equals.”
Miller digested this for a moment before answering, “What the fuck, Gray?”
“Let’s get one thing straight—I am in charge. You have no idea the shit I crawl through every day to keep this boat afloat.”
“Now you sound like Harris.”
Gray stood from his folding chair, red-faced, and rested his knuckles against the table. “There are life and death decisions made in this room every day.”
“You don’t think I’m faced with life and death decisions daily? What the hell is the matter with you?”
“There’s more to life and death than pulling a trigger.”
Miller’s mouth went dry. “And there’s more to leading this fleet than sitting at that stupid table and playing God. Wake the fuck up. We’re losing.”
“I know that!” Gray snapped, fixing Miller with a glassy stare. “I fucking know that! And I don’t need some meathead coming in here telling me to do better.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Not now!” Miller shouted.
“Come in,” Gray said.
The door opened on a doctor from the infirmary. “You’d better come,” he said to Gray.
“How bad is it?” Gray asked, dismissing Miller and walking around his desk.
“One hundred and two, at the moment. But the number is rising.”
“How long until it’s shipwide?” Gray asked as they exited together.
“If we set up quarantine...” the doctor said, and then they were gone.
Miller stood in the center of the office, angry and unfulfilled.
He was wrong. Schaeffer-Yeager wasn’t losing the fight for survival.
They’d already lost.
MILLER RETREATED TOWARD the Crow’s Nest, in the hopes of taking a moment to unwind with his team. Tensions had been high since the Dunn Roven recovery, and after the oddly anti-climactic situation on the fishing trawler he was certain his team would need loosening.
