by Thomas Hopp
“Uh-oh,” Steel murmured, nearing the fallen form the crows had been picking over. It was a man’s body, lying in the center of the drive under the marquee. He was face-down on the asphalt, naked to the waist, and bloodied with scratches. Steel turned the corpse over with a foot. He looked into the fellow’s bloated, dead face for a moment. “I know this guy. He’s a Makah.”
“But if he’s Makah, why wasn’t he immune?”
“Don’t know. He lived here and worked at the casino. He got out of touch with life at Neah Bay. I guess when you live like a babalthud, you die like a babalthud.”
“But he’s an Indian.”
“Proves if you don’t eat sea spinach, you die no matter who you are.”
My mind boggled. “That means the Neah virus could kill everyone on earth sooner or later. It could wipe out humanity.”
“Come here, Fin. Look at this.” Steel went to a display window. Inside the glass stood a larger-than-life carved creature with the combined features of a man and a raven, with a long black beak protruding from its face. The spirit creature’s human hands held out a square bentwood box similar to the Spaniard’s coffin, decorated with carvings of animal heads. “Our legends say Raven brought light to the world. But to get it, he had to steal it. He took the sun from the Creator’s longhouse and brought it to the people in a wooden box. The Creator got even by making Raven’s feathers dark as night.”
“This time,” I said, “Raven has something else in his box. The Neah virus.”
“Raven is the trickiest spirit,” Steel said. “He can hurt you as easy as help you.” The crows cawed as if chorusing their agreement with Steel, who seemed to have inherited his father’s eerie sense of timing. A chill ran along my spine.
“Come on,” Steel touched my arm and made me jump. “Let’s get going.”
My feverishness had transformed into cold dread while I stood in the chilly air, but I felt revived as I accompanied Steel back to the car and got in on the driver’s side.
“You okay to drive?” he asked.
“I’ll do alright. My headache is better and the tremors - ” I held out my hands in front of me. ” - are gone.” I fired the engine and got onto the highway westbound again. The crows resumed pecking at the body.
Highway 101 skirted the town of Sequim on the south, but at Port Angeles it became a city thoroughfare. We moved through town for several miles flanked by storefronts, gas stations, burger joints, supermarkets and houses. My Mustang was the only vehicle moving on the streets but there were signs of life, most of which were disturbing. Columns of smoke rose from a dozen buildings. I rolled past a sporting goods store that was ablaze in huge orange sheets of flame with no one to fight the fire. Farther along, a house had been reduced to smoldering rubble.
“Where are all the people?” Steel asked, staring along a deserted side street as we passed it.
“Hiding in their houses?” I suggested.
“Maybe sick or dead,” said Steel.
We rolled past a now-familiar sight. A naked body, this time a woman’s, lay sprawled on the sidewalk. It was being investigated by a dozen crows. Overhead, more crows were on the wing.
I stopped rather pointlessly at a red traffic light. As I waited for it to change, a redheaded man appeared from behind a hedge, moving in a jerky Night-of-the-Living-Dead walk. He was stark naked and covered from head to foot in scratch marks. In places, his skin had detached in sagging sheets. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, but when his vacuous stare fell on us, he uttered a growl like Frankenstein’s monster. He lurched toward us with clutching, claw-like hands raised. I ran the light and left him to resume his aimless stiff-legged wanderings.
Following a Highway 101 directional sign, I turned left at the next intersection. We passed a silent Clallam County Courthouse where anti-whaling protesters had massed before. Some of their banners and signs on sticks leaned against the courthouse wall as if abandoned in haste. They looked rainwashed and sun-bleached. Farther on we passed another pedestrian, an East Asian man who stumbled along, bare-chested, scratched and bleeding. He too was wandering aimlessly on the sidewalk, but unlike the previous madman, seemed too mindless to even notice our passing.
“Chinese guy,” Steel said, looking carefully at the man. “Or maybe Korean.”
“Chalk up another billion people susceptible to the virus,” I said.
I turned right to follow the zigzagging thoroughfare out of town, and was surprised to find a state patrol car with blue lights flashing, parked across the roadway as a roadblock. There was no one near it and it seemed empty. I skirted it on the right, bumping two wheels up onto the sidewalk to do so. I passed slowly with my window rolled down, thinking it would be wise to talk with the officer if he appeared - and he did. He had sunk down in his seat and was half-hidden by the steering wheel but as I rolled past him he sat up. His patrol hat was off, his dark hair was tangled, and his eyes were surrounded by purplish flesh. His cheeks were wet with tears. When he saw me, his expression changed to horror. I stopped and stared at him. Suddenly and inexplicably he broke into demonic laughter and raised one hand, which held a pistol. A jolt of adrenaline rolled through me, but he made no threat. Rather, he simply waved the pistol around, pointing it this way and that as if he were not quite sure what to do with it.
I pressed the gas pedal and hurried to get as far from that pistol as possible. The officer uttered several lines of gibbering speech, but paid no further attention to us. I drove half on the sidewalk for a ways and then steered back onto the street. As I did so, a single gunshot cracked from the squad car. There was no sound after that. I muttered as I drove off, “The Neah virus has won the battle for Port Angeles.”
The drive westbound along the shore of Lake Crescent was uneventful, but the glorious vistas of forested mountains and shimmering lake waters only emphasized the distance we had come away from help and safety. After an hour on winding forest roads we entered Clallam Bay, which was devoid of life, like a smaller version of Port Angeles. Signs of death and destruction were plentiful, however. The gas station that had been the scene of our encounter with the madman was reduced to charred, twisted, rusted metal - both the gas island and the building itself. A trace of black ash and bones near the burnt-out gas pumps marked the spot where the maniac had immolated himself.
As I rolled westbound out of town I passed an old, homey-looking tavern. Its beer lights were dark and the place was empty. Its front door was open wide and a dead couple lay sprawled on the front porch steps. Her body lay across his as if he had been cradling her in his arms when he died. Both bodies were bloated and covered with buzzing flies. Any crows and ravens here had apparently moved on to the east. The stench of rotting flesh encouraged me to gain speed as I rolled out of town. I glanced back at McKean and the boy. They were slumped in positions reminiscent of the dead couple on the porch. I pressed the accelerator down harder.
Chapter 22
The first trip to Neah Bay had been one of positive anticipation. The second, one of deep concern. This third trip was one of abject terror. The sights and smells of Port Angeles and Clallam Bay made it clear the last vestiges of society on the peninsula were unraveling. The sky overhead filled with ragged clouds as I negotiated the serpent coils of the cliffside road with my teeth clenched and my hands tight on the wheel. Immense raindrops spattered the windshield like the bullets that had riddled the motor home at the Narrows Bridge. I squinted through the splatters while following the twisting curves, but a resurgent fever made me see faces in the rain spots - hallucinations of half-human, half-raven creatures and two-headed serpents. A sweat broke across my brow. The windshield fogged and I put the defroster on full, but it scarcely held off the haze closing in from the sides, constricting my view until I seemed to be driving through a tunnel.
Sheets of rain chased each other across the highway, driven by a stiff wind. Every gutter was swollen. Muddy floods crossed the road and drained on the ocean side. In places mud oozed like volca
nic flows down the hillsides and into the ditches. At every turn the Mustang slid toward the ditch or the cliff but I kept the accelerator down.
Eventually we emerged from the serpentine road and I breathed easier driving the last stretch into town. The rain abated, but gloomy clouds hung low over Neah Bay. As we rolled along wet, deserted Bayview Avenue, lack of electric lighting in the homes and buildings confirmed the power was out here as it had been in Port Angles and Clallam Bay. Just as I began to anticipate a similar apocalypse, I spotted a reassuring sight. In the open shed outside the Makah Elder Center, the same chef in denim jeans and Pendleton shirt was tending his bonfire kitchen. A dozen salmon filets on sticks were roasting around the coals. In contrast to the wretched humanity we had seen along the way, the man looked chipper and tidy with his long gray hair braided and neatly hanging down his back. He smiled and waved at us as I pulled off the road and stopped beside the shed.
“First visitors in a long time,” he said to me when I rolled my window down. “Glad to see somebody’s still alive out there.” Then his face lit with recognition at my front-seat passenger. “John Steel!” he cried. “How you doing?”
John got out, holding the harpoon, and they embraced. The man stepped back and pointed at the weapon. “Ho ho!” he exulted. “You got it!”
“Sure did!” Steel exclaimed.
“Take it inside! Everyone will want to see it!”
John looked at me questioningly and I nodded. I got out, cinched my collar against a cold wind and followed him to the building. I glanced back at Peyton McKean and saw that he and his son hadn’t moved.
A near-capacity crowd of Makahs filled the elder center, sitting by the fireplace or at tables buzzing with conversation. There were no electric lights but the big room was day-lit by the tall windows overlooking the bay. Children played on the floor while elders held court at a dozen tables. There was a sense of warmth and calm despite the storm blustering outside. The room grew quiet when we walked in.
“Hey!” someone cried, “It’s John Steel, back from Seattle!” More than one voice called a cheery greeting. Then someone exclaimed, “He’s got it!”
John raised the harpoon high and shouted a victory whoop. The crowd broke into cheers and applause. Children crowded around Steel, wanting to see and touch the weapon. When they dispersed to run and play, John and I were surrounded by a dozen familiar old faces. Alma Kingfisher and Arnie and Ginny Musselshell and other old folks gathered to ooh and ahh at the harpoon or touch it as reverently as the children had.
John grinned. “Here it is, everybody. What do you think?” Arnie Musselshell patted the shaft with one hand. “Good work, Johnny,” he said. “Any trouble getting it?”
Steel shot me a grin. “Plenty of trouble. But Fin helped me get outta town.”
“That’s the way it is,” Arnie replied. “When something’s important, you gotta fight for it.” Ginny touched the shaft as well. She said, “Your daddy’s gonna be so proud, Johnny!”
Alma Kingfisher took a good look at me and her happy expression turned to one of concern. “Oh my,” she said. “You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” I admitted. And then a thought struck me. “Do you have any sea spinach?”
“Sea spinach?” Alma replied. “I suppose we might.”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s cures the disease.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Alma’s eyes widened and her penciled brows raised. “No one told us. We didn’t know…”
“For God’s sake,” I said, struggling against a tremor. “If you have any, get it quick!”
Ginny Musselshell brightened. “Yes! We’ve got two big five-gallon plastic bucketsful in the freezer. Gordon Steel brought it here because he didn’t have any way to keep it at his longhouse. The power has been out for a couple days, but it’s probably still cold.”
“I’ll get it,” Arnie said, hurrying for the kitchen door. Several other oldsters followed him to help.
As we waited, Alma said reassuringly, “Remember, Fin Morton, the name ‘Makah’ was given to us by our neighbors, the S’Klallams. It’s their word for ‘Generous with Food.’ ‘
“You are kind,” I replied. “I want to get some down Peyton McKean’s throat, and then his son. Then, we’ll try to get back to Seattle with as much as you can spare. If you have enough, I’m sure Peyton can isolate the active substance.”
Arnie Musselshell came back looking regretful. “It’s all been taken,” he said. “Both buckets are gone.”
“I know who took it!” Ginny Musselshell cried. “Dag Bukwatch was snooping around here the other day. I sent him packing, but I guess he got what he came for before I spotted him.”
My temporary revitalization faded. “Does anyone else around here have any?” I asked.
Arnie shook his head. “We ate the last of ours a couple days ago. Didn’t know it was so precious. We need another whale!”
Alma Kingfisher said, “Mine’s gone too. Those protesters stopped any hope of getting more.”
“We could go door to door,” Arnie suggested.
Alma shook her head. “Most folks probably wouldn’t give up what little they’ve got, knowing it fights the disease. Folks have got to think of themselves and their kids first.”
“Of course they do,” I murmured dejectedly. I drew a deep breath and summoned a last measure of resolve. “Back to our original plan, then, John? Ask your father?”
“Sure,” Steel replied. “Let’s go.”
Alma and the others followed us to the door. She called after us, “Be careful. There’s been trouble out that way.”
“Uh-oh,” Steel said as we walked to the car. “Looks like we drew a crowd.”
A group of sullen-looking young Makah men had gathered near the Mustang. We hurried to the car and the group surrounded us as we got in. Steel rolled his window down and said, “Hi Donald.” A wiry fellow of about nineteen wearing baggy black jeans, a black leather coat and black tee shirt, whose long black hair hung loose over his shoulders, put his hands on the window frame and leaned in and looked me and McKean over. “How come you white guys ain’t dead?” he sneered.
John clapped me on the shoulder and grinned. “Comes from eating right, eh, Fin?”
“Truth is, I’m not feeling all that well.” A wave of feverish heat flushed my cheeks.
Another member of the group, big Eugene, whom we’d encountered at Dag Buckwatch’s compound, rapped a knuckle on my side window. I rolled it down and he leaned in to look at McKean and his boy. “The DNA man don’t look so good.”
“We’re taking him to see my father,” Steel explained.
“Spirit Cove’s a long way from here,” Eugene rumbled. “You won’t get these white guys past Cousin Dag - alive.” The others laughed maliciously.
“I guess we’ll see about that,” Steel muttered. “I don’t want no fight with Dag.”
“Yeah, but he wants a fight with you, if you take these guys out there.”
“What’s his problem - ?” Steel began, but Eugene cut him off with a growl.
“There’s quite a few Makahs, including me, who don’t want to help no white people at all. We say let ‘em die the way we died back in the 1850s. Maybe that’ll even the score. Let the protesters rot in hell!’
Steel shook his head slowly. “Everybody’s gone crazy.”
“Crazy, are we?” Eugene seethed. “You’re the crazy one, if you help these guys do anything but die. Cousin Dag’s declared the land around Spirit Cove a liberated zone. Says it’s sovereign Makah territory again. No white folks allowed. And your father has thrown in with him. He’s their spiritual leader on a new warpath. He’s like Crazy Horse and Dag’s like Sitting Bull. The Indian Wars ain’t over in Neah Bay. This time, we’re gonna win!”
“I don’t think so,” Steel resisted.
“Believe what you want. Cousin Dag sees these guys and - ” He made a throat slitting gesture.
“Let’s get going, Fin,” said Steel. �
��There’s no point in any more talk.”
I started the engine and backed out of the parking spot. The young men followed us onto the street and Donald called after us, “You go out there, you’re dead men!”
“We’ll take our chances!” Steel shouted.
I accelerated the Mustang quickly to put some distance between us and them. A thump on the back of the car made me check the rearview mirror. Beer bottle glass was scattering across the roadway. Another beer bottle smashed on the pavement beside us before I drove out of range. At the Spanish fort I turned southbound onto the road to Cape Flattery and pressed the pedal down farther. As I drove, my eyes began itching miserably. I stopped on the empty highway and rubbed them with both hands while a bout of dizziness washed over me.
“You okay?” Steel asked. “You don’t look too good.”
“I’m alright,” I lied. I took a deep breath and drove on just as a rusted gray sedan with a rumbling engine pulled up on my tail. Squinting through bleary eyes at the rearview mirror, I couldn’t make out the faces within the tinted windows.
“Donald at the wheel,” Steel said. “Eugene riding shotgun - literally. And the other boys are in the back.”
The gray car followed us closely but made no aggressive maneuvers. I drew my cell phone out of a coat pocket thinking I might need to call 911, but it displayed the message, “Out of coverage area.” I followed the winding road around the south coast of the cape until I came to the small opening Tleena had directed me into on our first visit. The gray car followed uncomfortably close as I entered and began negotiating the mud holes and rutted turns of the road.
After passing several jagged headlands and dark forests, we reached the clearing where Dag Bukwatch’s trailer home stood. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the home and the other trailers, but I saw no one out of doors. I drove quickly past the house but was forced to halt just beyond it, stopped short by a heavy chain stretched across the road between two huge stumps.
A man who had sat on the porch of the house unnoticed, stood up. He flicked a cigarette butt into the bushes and then opened the front door and called inside. A moment later, Dag Bukwatch and two other men dressed in camouflage military fatigues came out and hurried down the steps. They jogged in our direction as I nosed the Mustang up to the heavy-looking chain. The sedan halted just inches behind us, and its occupants got out to join Bukwatch and the others to surround us.
