SALT: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

by Colin F. Barnes

  Amid the hush of the crowd and the crackling of the fire, Jim was aware that the longer things went on, the worse it was for whoever was trapped. He stepped away from Stanic and headed to the ladder.

  Before he put his hands on it, a voice called from above: Dietmar, using a megaphone.

  “Stay where you are, Jim, unless you wish for young Danny to feed the sharks tonight.”

  Heinrich lifted Danny with one arm as though he were a cardboard cut-out. They approached the port side facing the Orizaba. The big German lowered Danny over the edge, out of sight.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Jim shouted up. “He’s nothing to do with this. Have some compassion!”

  Dietmar grimaced, exposing his dirty teeth “The same compassion you showed Susan when you hanged her? We’re beyond that now, Jim. There’s only one way out of this now for you, for Danny and Eva and your precious son. It might already be too late for them.” He indicated with his left hand the burning bridge section.

  Smoke billowed up and out of the windows.

  Jim grabbed the ladder and heaved himself up a few steps until Dietmar stopped him, pointing a pistol from between two sections of the makeshift barrier. “Now, now, Jim. Don’t do anything foolish. One word from me and the boy follows his mother.”

  “What do you want?” Jim said through gritted teeth, keeping his eye on Heinrich and Monika. “Just name it. This shit has gone on for too long.” He hated himself for giving in so easily, but at that point he didn’t care about anything else other than getting his son and the others out safely and making sure Danny still had a future.

  The look in Dietmar’s eyes told Jim they’d crossed a threshold.

  To them, killing a child would be justified. This was what he had feared from this group: that their twisted views were so distorted that the lives of others would mean nothing to them any more.

  “Confess your sins to me,” Dietmar said. “Confess them all to the flotilla. Show the world what you really are, Jim Reynolds. And then we will judge you. Do this, and you may save your people. If not, we stay here until everything burns.”

  Jim knew he was telling the truth. Faust’s death had sent them over the edge. He looked down from the ladder and saw Marcus Graves staring at him. The look was clear: tell them who actually killed Susan Faust, and he would answer to Marcus in much the same way he had to answer to Dietmar.

  “I’ll confess,” Jim said. “I fucking killed your precious Susan. I hanged her until she was dead. And I’d do it again if I had the chance. I’d hang the lot of you. That enough truth for you?”

  Dietmar stood back from the edge of the ship, pulling away a piece of the barrier. “Get up here,” he said, still training the pistol on him.

  Once on the deck, Jim faced Dietmar, wondering if he could disarm the small German and retaliate, but that was crazy thinking. He was surrounded, and Danny was screaming as they hung him over the side. “Bring him up,” Jim said. “I’ve done what you wanted; now leave the kid alone.”

  Dietmar stepped backwards until he was close to his fellow cultist. He said something in German, and Heinrich hefted Danny up with his great arms, dumping the boy onto the deck. Danny’s face was contorted, tears flowing down his cheeks. His body shook with fear.

  “You evil bastards, he’s just a boy!”

  “We were all boys once, Jim. We all had to lose our innocence one way or another. I bet even your son had that transition.”

  “I’ve confessed. Now let me get my son and the others out. They’ve done no harm to you.”

  “Your task isn’t finished,” Dietmar said, handing Jim the megaphone. “Confess your sins to the flotilla citizens, and then we’ll let you find them… if they’re still alive.”

  Jim snatched the megaphone, turned to face the watching crowd, and admitted he had killed Susan Faust. Admitted that he had failed them. The faces in the group looked up at him with expressions of sorrow, disbelief, and hate. They hated him for what he had allowed to happen. He knew he had let them down. Jim handed the megaphone back and stood there, numb to the events around him.

  Graves’ and Stanic’s people scaled the ship as Dietmar kept his pistol on Danny. “Get your people out, but we keep the kid until you’ve done one more thing,” he said.

  Jim waited silently for his next judgement. The words seem to come from far off as he watched the men and women of the flotilla rush past him with tools and buckets of water. Dietmar’s people had gathered around the shaking body of Danny, using him as their protection. He didn’t doubt for one moment that Dietmar was not beyond shooting a child.

  “I want you to leave,” Dietmar finally said. “In the morning you will be given the same send-off that you have given so many times before to those who never returned. Only you will never be welcomed back, and you will not take any resources with you. Once you are gone, we’ll release the boy.”

  With that, Dietmar and the group lifted Danny up, and disappeared into the dark passageways of the flotilla, back to wherever they had set up camp.

  When they were no longer in sight, Jim seemed to come alive as the fear and adrenaline hit his system at the sound of panicked voices from the members of the flotilla, who were unbarring the doors and dousing the flames that came out of the ship.

  He ran into the fray, determined to save as many as he could.

  If this was to be his last day, he’d at least go out trying to undo the hell he had brought.

  Chapter 35

  In her dream existence, Eva could sense movement and sound, a sudden rushing of activity somewhere beyond, in another world. She was aware her breathing had become difficult, her lungs straining to filter the oxygen from the air.

  Limbs like stone, hanging uselessly from her prone body, refused to do as she commanded. Ignored her pleas to gather themselves and lift her off the floor. She felt it was important, but couldn’t quite understand why.

  The voices grew louder, urgent; she recognised her name, pictured her parents standing on the porch of their old wooden farmhouse, hands to their foreheads to cut the glare from the setting evening sun, calling her in from the cornfield.

  She always pretended not to hear. For a while, anyway, and only to the point when Dad stepped off the porch and hitched up his dungarees. That was the sign she had pushed her luck as far as she could and would have to magically appear out of the cornfield, her dolls in hand, before Dad had to come out to collect her.

  She remembered the day she stayed out too long and spent the night nursing a sore backside.

  Light came now. Not the flickering light of the flames but a persistent white beam, searching ahead of her, the semi-circular shape dancing about her head, occasionally kissing her skin. Her dream-memory faded. Her mom and dad went into the field, their heads dipping below the tall crop as the sun set below the horizon, bathing the sky in a salmon-pink cast.

  They never got those kind of skies any more, just a monochrome vista from a black-and-white photograph. From day to day, very little changed. Like the black smoke within the room, the dark clouds encompassed the air, trapping them against the Orizaba as though they were imprisoned.

  “We’ve found them,” a voice called out. Male, familiar…

  A shadow stood in front of the white beam, briefly cutting out the light. A hand touched her. With the dream world fading, Eva felt her body and mind return to the waking realm, the land of physicality and burning lungs.

  Words wouldn’t come despite her lips moving, shaping to form the words. “I’m here, alive,” she wanted to say, but all that came out was a pitiful dry rasp.

  “Don’t try to talk,” the voice said, the owner of which had put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her up off the floor. “We’re getting you out.”

  Through squinting eyes she could make out the rough visage of Marcus Graves as he lifted her
off the floor and into a fireman’s carry. Ahead of them, beyond the door, more white beams came. The smoke here was different, lighter, pale grey. She heard splashing.

  More people passed them as Marcus brought Eva out into the night. She felt the breeze on her face. Her ribs were aching now as she regained full consciousness. Each step Marcus took jarred her wound. It was good, she thought. At least I’m alive. I can feel it.

  Marcus brought her down from his shoulders until she sat on the deck of the ship, her back against one of the radar towers. All around her, the flotilla citizens buzzed like worker bees. They carried buckets and wet blankets, fighting and dousing the fires.

  Stanic and Brad carried Duncan out between them. They laid him next to Eva and returned back inside to get the others. Marcus stayed where he was, looking at Eva. “Are you okay, love?” he said, with more sincerity than she’d ever heard from him before. He handed her a cup of water and touched it to her lips.

  The cool fresh water stung her chapped lips, but she was grateful for it.

  She continued to sip the water, letting each drop slide down her throat, hydrating the parched lands of her body like the welcome rains in the desert, bringing with it life and vitality.

  When Eva had drunk half the cup, she took a long, slow lungful of air, exhaling the smoke and particles before coughing up blackened sputum. Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she finished the rest of the water and turned to Duncan’s prone form, resting her hands on his chest. She felt it rise and fall weakly, his breath shallow.

  But at least he was still alive.

  “Thank you,” Eva eventually said, wincing a little at the soreness of her throat. “We would have died in there.”

  Marcus patted her on the shoulder. “Least we could do.”

  “Is Duncan going to be okay?”

  As if using his name conjured some spirit within, Duncan opened his eyes and coughed. “I’m still breathing,” he said, his voice hoarse with the smoke. He inched himself up on to his elbows and then further up until like Eva he sat with his back against the radar tower. “You?” Duncan said, looking at Graves.

  “Not just me. Everyone pitched in.”

  “Did everyone else make it out alive?” Eva asked, thinking of Patrice and Stimson and the others. Then she remembered… “Danny? Where’s Danny? And Jim?” The words fell out of her mouth in an untidy tumble.

  “My dad,” Duncan added. “Did you find him?”

  Marcus turned his head to the bow of the ship. Duncan and Eva followed his gaze. Jim was standing there, watching over and raising his head in greeting. Either side of him, Dietmar and Heinrich stood. Jim’s arms were tied with ropes. Danny was likewise bound by his side.

  “Dad?” Duncan said, not understanding what he was seeing.

  Eva sat up, tried to get to her feet, but the dizziness made her slip back to her ass. She groaned as she hit the floor, disrupting her ribs.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Eva asked.

  “There’s been a bit of trouble while you lot decided to have a bit of a nap,” Marcus said. “Faust’s dead. Her groupies decided to take revenge and”—he looked to Duncan with a brief glance of sympathy—“hold your old man responsible.”

  “He didn’t kill anyone,” Duncan said.

  A few of the rescuers around him gave him a pitying look.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Eva said. “And why have they got Danny? Is he okay?”

  “The kid’s fine. Just a bit scared. I’ll explain everything shortly. It’s not good news.”

  “Tell me now,” Duncan said, leaning over, coughing into his hand. “What’s happening?”

  Marcus looked Duncan in the eyes. “Your old man admitted it. He’s going to be exiled in the morning, in exchange for the kid. I’m sorry.”

  Eva couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but nothing about Marcus’s face told her he was lying. Jim… exiled. A pit of anxiety opened up inside, threatening to swallow her whole. It seemed everything was happening too fast, too chaotic.

  “What’s to happen with Faust’s lot?” Eva asked.

  “I’ll send every fucking one of them over if I get the chance,” Duncan said, his voice getting louder with every broken word. “They could have killed us all today, and they’re just standing there as if nothing happened. Why is no one doing anything about it?”

  The various flotilla citizens shied away from his glare and carried on transferring buckets to various parts of the ship. Patrice and Stimson walked out of the door with the help of some of Stanic’s engineering staff. It surprised Eva that Brad was there after his recent blow-up.

  “It’s all settled,” Marcus eventually said. “They’re leaving tomorrow, once your old man has gone. I’m sorry, Duncan.” Marcus stood and headed back towards his family, who had gathered around the door leading into the bridge.

  One by one they went inside, and Eva knew something drastic had happened to the flotilla’s society today.

  It would never be the same again.

  Chapter 36

  Amid the rain and gales, Jim embraced Duncan for the last time. It lashed against them as they stood by the rope ladder, swaying off the port side of the Bravo in the wind. The morning sun had retreated behind thick cloud cover.

  Below them, bobbing on the waves, a single rowboat with the most meagre of supplies: barely a few days’ water and food for a few small meals. It wasn’t so much exile as a death sentence.

  But then, he deserved it. Even though Susan Faust hadn’t died at his hand, he had wished it, conspired for it to happen, and now it was he who had to pay the price to ensure Danny’s safety. He knew his time would come eventually, everyone’s would here on the flotilla, but knowing it was never adequate preparation. Just yesterday he had prepared for death—at his own hands—and so had come to terms with the situation. At the very least, he had brokered a peaceful situation, and no one else had to die for his mistakes.

  Duncan’s strong arms gripped around Jim’s back. “I don’t want you to go,” he said, reminding Jim of when he was a small boy and Jim had to leave for weeks at a time working in the merchant navy. It wasn’t easy then, and it hadn’t changed in the intervening years.

  “You’ll be fine,” Jim said. “I brought all this on myself. I have to do this, for all of us.”

  “We’ll find another way, Dad, don’t do this.”

  “It’s already done. Listen to me, son. I need you to be strong, okay? I need you to keep this place together. God knows Marcus isn’t up to it, and with Faust’s lot leaving, there’s going to be a need for someone to help reorganise. You help these people survive, you hear me?”

  Duncan’s arms loosened as Jim stepped back to look at his son. His beard still had smoke stains at the edges, and his eyes were red and sore, but he was still standing, still breathing, and twice the man Jim had ever been.

  “You’ll do great,” Jim said, smiling through the tears. “Just lay off the rum… trust me.”

  Jim squeezed Duncan’s shoulder and turned, holding back the lump in his throat as he approached the rope ladder. The wind whipped at his waterproof coat, making it flap against his legs and face. Only a few citizens had gathered on the deck to see him off, a diminished repeat of the usual send-off ritual.

  Irony, Jim thought, was a bitter pill to take. Over a dozen times, he had been there with the others, on the deck, as they waved away the volunteers, all the while knowing they were never supposed to come back. Only this time, Jim knew he wouldn’t be coming back. Couldn’t come back, even if he wanted to.

  Eva stood behind Duncan, her hand now on his shoulder. Graves’ lot were stood outside the bridge door, having spent the night clearing out the damage, making themselves a new base of operations. Marcus wouldn’t make eye contact. Probably scared people would realise that it was, i
n fact, he who had killed Susan Faust. How long would he be able to feather his nest before the truth came out, Jim wondered.

  With Eva on the flotilla, he doubted it’d take long. She was a canny one and would soon see through the lies. Earlier, Jim had told her and Duncan what he found on the sub, that the core appeared intact, and that the radiation monitor had been tampered with.

  He didn’t doubt Eva’s sharp mind would figure out the truth, and with Stanic’s help, he hoped they’d be able to use the sub’s core to power the flotilla.

  It would make life generally a lot easier for everyone.

  They would soon forget him and what he had done.

  “Are you sure you have to do this?” Duncan pleaded as Jim turned his back to the horizon, gripped the rope ladder and placed his feet on the first rung.

  “I’m sure. One day you’ll understand… I hope. And forgive me for everything I’ve done. Just know that everything I did came from a place of wanting to help us all. Look after Danny and Eva, won’t you, son? They’ll need someone on their side.”

  Like old-fashioned Brits with a stiff-upper lip and all that nonsense, they shook hands, gripping each other firmly. Jim nodded once and added, “I love you, son.” With that, he released Duncan’s hand and descended down the side until he located the small rowboat tethered to the line of fishing vessels.

  Once inside, he picked up the oars and set off, not wanting to delay any further.

  These people had a new life ahead of them, and he wanted to make sure they could do that with as little fuss as possible.

  The tide took him out without needing the effort of rowing.

  He watched as Dietmar and Monika brought Danny up to the deck. Heinrich stood at the head of the twenty-strong group. He held the pistol in hand, presumably to ensure their safety.