by James, Glynn
And with that, two additional biker-looking dudes, both of them also armed and confident, appeared like pop-up targets at two other points around the big boat, one high and one low. Shit. Handon instantly wondered if he had erred here. But he knew these thoughts were idle. They were committed now. Homer would say it was in God’s hands.
But Handon’s resignation was simpler: Now it would simply go the way it would go.
Even more disturbing than the tripling of the number of men on the deck of the Diablo was what the two newcomers were armed with – not just side arms, but also a Remington shotgun and an M-4 assault rifle (or AR-15, the civilian version). Both weapons could be either police- or military-issue. Or just as easily privately bought and owned.
And Handon didn’t think these guys looked like they were part of any disciplined or uniformed service. If the first two guys had seemed like bikers, these new guys were trending toward Mad Max territory. The one with the shotgun had a couple of facial piercings, more than a couple of visible tattoos, and elaborate custom leathers. The other had some kind of weird fur hat. Handon couldn’t rule out that it was made out of some small animal he’d killed and inexpertly skinned himself. The guy with the shotgun also had his finger inside the trigger guard of his weapon, curled right around the trigger. And the barrel, resting on his shoulder, pointed directly up at the feet of his buddy on the deck above.
Which meant this guy literally didn’t know the first two rules of gun safety.
So no on police or military then, Handon thought. What the hell were all these dodgy sons of bitches doing out in the middle of Lake Michigan in the first place? It didn’t make any sense. Seeming to mirror his observation of their weapons, the pierced shotgun guy looked across and said, “Nice guns you’ve got there. Those military-issue?”
“Thanks,” Handon said across the tiny expanse of water that now separated them. But he stopped there, conspicuously failing either to elaborate or to answer the question. As he broke eye contact, he felt warm breath near his ear. It was Henno again – speaking only loud enough for him to hear.
“Fuck’s sake, Sarge… We need to drop these muppets and go. Or at least go.”
Subtly, invisibly, Handon made a hold signal behind his back. Yeah, these people were increasingly looking like bad news. But they still had an injured female on board. More to the point, they still had Ali down in the bowels of their ship. And while Handon didn’t doubt for a second her ability to blast her way out of there, he was far from resigned that it would go that way. There was still a chance this was simply what it seemed.
The guy with the shotgun, seeing their whispered confab, grunted testily in response – as if he didn’t like the two of them talking. Handon was sure he didn’t give a shit what this guy did or didn’t like. But then the one off to the left started hovering his hand around the weapons on his belt. Handon merely stood with his palms on the railing. As if completely relaxed.
Which maybe he was.
* * *
The darkness below decks swallowed up Ali as quickly as she walked down into it. The steps of the narrow companionway led down and away from what little light there was out on deck. The ship was totally blacked out inside as well as out. She could barely make out the next step in front of her. But she could hear the other girl following behind.
As Ali hit the deck below, she felt more than saw another figure step out from a side passage. She stopped and tuned in, but didn’t otherwise react. She too knew right where her weapons were – a Heckler & Koch USP Tactical .45 pistol with 12-round capacity in a drop-leg holster. Four spare mags in a pouch in the small of her back. And a Gerber LMF II Infantry knife in a boot sheath. None of which she’d necessarily need, or use. Ali was human proof that weapons aren’t dangerous – people are.
Then again, she thought to herself, so are these dubious motherfuckers.
A heavy beat passed in the blackness.
And then the newcomer clicked on a powerful flashlight, blinding Ali for the instant it took her to slam her eyes shut and bring her forearm up. But the figure immediately turned and poured illumination down the passageway ahead, and onto the surfaces of the cramped corridor. The light created deep, impenetrable shadows behind it. And even the lit surfaces seemed to lean in and menace them now, in the tight and harshly lit space. It was like a bad first-person shooter.
Bodies and walls stood too close to Ali on every side. She wasn’t prone to claustrophobia; but this was bullshit. She had very little room to maneuver, or time to react. If they jumped her… well, it was going to be dicey at best.
The flashlight guy, who Ali still couldn’t really make out, finally set off and led them down the passageway. After five meters, he turned right and Ali followed him into an unlit compartment. The flashlight revealed that this was probably the master sleeping cabin, dominated by a queen-size bed surrounded by wall-mounted drawers, shelves, and a desk, shadows nipping at all of it. Another doorway, open but dark, led to what was probably a private toilet compartment. Some bandages and other basic medical supplies littered the desk.
On the bed was the wounded girl. Standing beside her was the biker ’stache dude.
As Ali turned, the older girl entered behind her. The person holding the flashlight now stood in the corner, pointing the light at the bed, where the wounded girl squinted in the glare. Ali paused for one beat, simply clocking all the angles in the room – not to mention the vibe, the cramped space, and the general air of menace. She wasn’t sure what the deal was with these guys.
But she was pretty sure she didn’t want any.
She moved efficiently to the girl’s side, took her pale wrist with her left hand, rotated her wristwatch to where she could see it, and started counting pulse beats and breaths. While doing this, she got her first real look at the girl. She was younger, smaller, and fairer than her sister. The paleness could be due to injury, illness, malnutrition, fear, or simply her natural complexion. Ali figured the “girl” might actually be 18, while her sister was probably more in the ballpark of 20 or 22. Neither seemed to be showing any particular maturity so far.
Even after all that had befallen them…
Ali considered that a lot of other young people had managed to grow up quickly enough.
While Ali gazed down on her, the girl looked fearfully up and across at her older sister, seeking some kind of reassurance. And with that one brief look, Ali suddenly began to feel sympathetic, even tender, toward the younger one. She couldn’t fail to think of her own younger sister. The age difference was about the same.
Though this little sister would grow older, while Ali’s would not.
And there was another similarity that raised Ali’s blood pressure: she’d had to leave her own sister behind, bound into that arranged marriage, powerless and subject to the whims and cruelties of men. Just as it appeared to Ali that these girls were now.
Ruled, or even owned, by men.
But now thirty seconds had gone by, and she returned from her dark reverie to add up the numbers she’d counted without really being aware of doing so. The girl’s respiration and pulse were both in a normal range, so Ali began unwrapping the wound. As she did, she spoke to the girl gently.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“How old are you, Emily?”
“Eighteen.”
“And what happened to your leg?”
The mustache man spoke from behind her in his deep crackle: “She fell off the upper deck.”
Not turning, Ali said, “Thanks, but I need her answers.”
“Whatever you say, darling,” he said, sounding a lot as if he were humoring her – and at least a little like he was leering. Ali let it go.
For the moment.
* * *
And now there were six: three more military-age males appeared on the deck of the Diablo. Two of these wore no visible weapons. But they stood to the side of and slightly behind some large object sitting on the top deck, and which was c
overed with a dark tarpaulin. The dude on the right rested his hand casually, a little too casually, on whatever it was.
The third new guy stood on the lower deck, amidships. He wore a white tracksuit under a light body-armor vest. And he carried a crossbow.
Seriously? Handon thought. He clocked all this while trying not to let his expression or posture change.
He heard Henno mutter a single word behind him: “Wanker.”
Facing off against these six, there were now only two in evidence on the Three Brothers – Handon and Henno. Park was still below, Ali had gone off on her mission of mercy, and Predator and Juice were still tucked out of sight. Now, Handon heard a gentle splashing, or maybe just a rustling of the water, from behind him. It came from the starboard, the side facing away from the Diablo. It ended almost as soon as it began. Handon didn’t turn around.
The sun was coming up in earnest now, though hidden behind some low clouds in the east. The deep gloom of early morning had turned into smudgy daylight. A couple of the men on the other boat maneuvered a few steps, tweaking their positions.
“What else you got on board?” asked the pierced shotgun guy, half-grinning, looking like he was trying to be friendly. Complicating this effort, on top of his weapons and piercings, was the dark leather coat he wore, which Handon now saw ill concealed some kind of harness and drop holsters strapped to each thigh. Like he thought he was Neo in The Matrix. “We could do you a trade, maybe. You got ammunition? Long-life food? Or maybe some of your fuel…” The guy seemed to be looking around the sides of Handon and Henno now, scanning the bags and boxes that lay in the cockpit area. As he peered, he spat messily in the water between the boats.
A little landed on the hull of Alpha’s boat.
Behind Handon, Henno screwed up his nose. He felt violated even having the gaze of this muppet upon him. Not to mention by the messy gobbing. Henno was hardly the most mannered or fastidious member of this team. But he figured he’d had just about enough of this shite…
“Why don’t I just hop over and take a look,” the shotgun guy said, as if offering to do them a favor.
Handon shook his head fractionally. “Probably better if you stay where you are.”
The man leaned back again, after half-raising his leg to the railing. “Sure. No problem.” But his eye drifted back to Alpha’s deck. “Looks like maybe… some boxes of rifle bullets? How many of those you got?”
Handon just slit his eyes and nodded. He figured he pretty much had this worked out now. And it was all just going to go the way it would have to go…
And with that two more of them appeared toward the prow, Handon’s right – one high and one low. That made eight on two.
It struck Handon that this was a heck of a lot of survivors – particularly this far from Britain, and particularly this long into the ZA. Though he couldn’t say these were the kind of guys he was happy to see surviving. They were, by all appearances, the kind of people he could frankly do without. The kind who probably made the world even more of a living hell for anyone else lucky enough to still be breathing air, but unlucky enough to cross their path.
And with eight of them, this really was turning into a bad Mad Max sequel. Something like Beyond Thunderdome meets The Expendables – on a Lake, Handon thought mordantly, mentally pitching the movie idea. But of more immediate tactical concern was the fact that all these guys were armed, and half of them were in elevated positions relative to Alpha. And there was very little space between the two groups, and almost no cover. Only open air and water, and damned little of that. If it all kicked off, things were going to happen very, very quickly.
Handon moved his hand very slowly to pick up his radio, to hail Ali and get a sitrep.
But it picked that moment to perk up on its own.
“Mortem One, this is Charles One Zero, how copy?”
As Handon brought the radio to his mouth, he squinted across at the shotgun guy, who spat again, leaning farther forward to do so.
“Charles One Zero, Mortem One, solid copy. That you, Master Gunny?”
“Yeah, ole Gunny Fick here, live and in person. Told you we’d come and get you, you suicide-squad sons of bitches…”
Handon spoke again, while simultaneously monitoring the position and posture of all the armed men standing a handful of feet away from him. He gave a little smile and nod. “Is that our air transport you’re riding? I don’t recognize the engine noise signature.”
“No, well you wouldn’t. But never you mind that. We are inbound Beaver Island airport, ETA approx three-zero mikes. What’s your status?”
“Also approaching Beaver Island. And also about thirty mikes out. But we’ve hit a slight delay.”
Now the crossbowman, also nearly opposite Handon, sort of casually removed a bolt and slid it into the grooved barrel of his weapon. Handon could already see the string was back and the compound cables taut.
Jesus Christ…
“Wait one, Gunny,” he said.
He slowly lowered the radio to the control panel beside him.
* * *
After a only a couple of minutes below, Ali knew several things. First, she knew that the girl’s wound was real – but not new. Someone had already replaced the emerging section of bone and set it, however clumsily. And the blood on the bandages wasn’t fresh either.
Ali had held advanced paramedic qualifications back in the world, and she led the girl through some standard casualty treatment questions – symptoms of the injury, known allergies, any medications she was on, past illnesses, and the history of the incident that caused the wound. Then she moved on to the symptoms of sepsis, or blood poisoning. The girl seemed alternately confused, and like she was reading from a script. But the script didn’t extend as far as Ali’s questions went, and that’s where she got confused.
And the biker ’stache dude, who was actually starting to strike Ali as more of a post-Apocalyptic cowboy, kept trying to answer for her.
Ali was also now pretty sure the girl was scared, and possibly under duress. And if she, and her sister, were here against their wishes… well, Ali didn’t really like to think about what that would be like, or what it entailed. She really disliked these guys. But she would at least be on her way in a few minutes.
These two would be trapped.
Unless she did something about it.
Which could be problematical on about a thousand levels.
As Ali debrided and disinfected the wound – it had never been done properly in the first place – she could feel the man behind her lean in close. “What sort of painkillers you got in your aid kit there? Morphine? Oxycontin?” He reached toward it.
Ali eyed him, but made no move to stop him.
Then again, she amended, maybe it’s ME that’s trapped…
The man leaned in even closer. “How about Percocet? Any Vicodin?”
Ali didn’t pause in her work. She spoke flatly. “I thought you said she needed antibiotics.”
The older girl answered. “My sister’s been in a lot of pain. It’s for that.”
And then Ali heard a dull, indeterminate noise from across the cabin. The doorway to the bathroom was directly across from her, and that’s where it came from. She purposely got up and moved around to the other side of the bed, putting the bathroom to her back. She made a show of carefully wrapping a dressing around the girl’s leg… but her focus was on peripheral vision, where she saw the cowboy make a subtle gesture over her head.
And that’s what she needed to see.
The mystery man with the flashlight was also more or less positioned behind her now too, and a bit to the right. She couldn’t miss him stepping forward, as the light grew closer and brighter. He spoke over Ali’s shoulder. “You look pretty nice bent over like that. A real angel of mercy.” He took another step closer.
Ali kept wrapping the wound. And she kept her posture relaxed and her breathing steady.
The man pressed his body up behind her. Ali could feel his warmth �
�� and then she felt his hand on her hip. For all her cold-blooded professionalism, it was hard work keeping herself from reacting to this, for two reasons. One, because of what it told her about what life here must be like for these girls. And two, because it reminded her again of her sister’s dubious husband, back in Somalia, who had subjected Amina to a life of sexual servitude, and domestic drudgery, and the controlling jealousy of a rough man. Ali thought balefully of man, that fallen creature, who had made the lives of so many women a living hell even before life itself had gone completely to hell…
And now this dude’s hand started to slide up Ali’s hip toward her waist.
And with that, there came another faint sound directly behind her, from the bathroom. And she knew exactly what that was: the slide or bolt of a firearm easing forward over a loaded chamber.
She finished tying off the wound, taking care not to make it too tight.
* * *
Up top, Handon casually shifted the radio to his left hand, still moving very slowly.
And that’s when a blood-chilling holler tore through the early-morning silence. It was loud and vivid enough that it filled the air around both boats, sounding as if it came from everywhere at once, or at least from close by. It carried over the still surface of the lake for hundreds of meters around them. But its source was definitely down in the hold of the Diablo.
And in that moment, on the outside decks of the same boat, sixteen previously squinty eyes went wide. And eighty fingers began to tense and curl.
And then they all froze for an instant as a very tight, very rapid series of muted but heavy gunshots banged out from down below – from below decks in what Handon had originally guessed was, and now knew to be, the pirate vessel.
As one, all the biker dudes up top on the Diablo grabbed for their weapons.
The LT
Over America
Gunny Fick recrossed half the distance of the plane’s vibrating fuselage, tottering in his full combat load, and retook his seat by the gun bubble. He had, thank fuck, been able to get Alpha on the horn. And they were, seriously thank fuck, moving toward their extraction point – even if Handon had hung up on him. With a little luck, Chuckie would only have to kiss the tarmac with three wheels, open the door to onload the free riders, do a U-turn, and take back off again.
