For Those In Peril (Book 1): For Those In Peril On The Sea

by Drysdale, Colin M.

  ‘Is that all of them?’ CJ was yelling at the top of her voice.

  ‘I think so,’ Andrew bellowed, as he came back from the right-hand side.

  Taking the spotlight, CJ checked the anchor lines, the sides of the boat and then the stern, and found they were all clear. We could finally return to the safety of the cabin. Once inside, I stripped off my wet clothes and tried to regain my strength. As I did so, I looked over the back of the boat. In the flickering lightning I watched David’s ketch crash into the nearest garden boat, spilling some of the infected on to its covers. The next flash revealed that the impact had broken it from its mooring and it, too, was now loose in the harbour.

  In the meantime, the ketch had spun off towards another boat. The people on board had seen how we’d dealt with it and were ready on deck. They didn’t have the benefit of the long, stout poles we’d had and instead were only armed with shorter, more fragile boat hooks. On the first impact these shattered, and there was nothing more they could do. It only caught them a glancing blow, but it was enough to send infected sprawling onto their deck. As the people ran for the safety of their cabin, they were attacked. I could hear nothing, but I could imagine the sounds. The next flash of lightning revealed the infected pinning them to the deck, tearing at their bodies as they scrambled for their lives. Another flash and the only movement was from infected feasting on their bodies.

  I was too tired to watch any longer, too drained, physically and emotionally. I sat down and held my head in my hands. The next thing I knew I was crying, releasing the tension that had been building in my body all night; for days, for weeks, for months. Before I knew it, and despite everything that was going on around us, I fell asleep.

  ***

  When I woke, the sunlight was streaming through the windows. The storm had passed and we had survived. I pulled on my rain jacket and went outside. Out on deck, I scanned the harbour. Of the seventeen live-aboard boats left in the community before the storm, thirteen remained afloat, the others having sunk in the storm or been washed onto the shore and broken up. I could see infected on the land picking through the remains, looking for anything they could eat.

  Of the thirteen boats that had survived, five had infected on board. I could see them huddled on the decks, pulling at the scattered carcasses of the occupants. My heart leapt as I saw Jack’s boat was unscathed and uninfested. He was standing on his deck, surveying the damage. He waved and I waved back. I turned my attention back to the anchorage and saw that none of the garden boats had survived. The one that had broken loose was now sitting high on the shore. The remaining six had sunk at their moorings, swamped by the waves, too overloaded to ride out the storm.

  I looked at the land that almost completely surrounded us. Many of the remaining houses had been flattened or were little more than shattered skeletons. With no one to board up the windows and bar the doors, there’d been nothing to protect them from the full strength of the storm. I turned my attention to the lighthouse. The door we’d left open when we run into it for shelter a few days before had been ripped off. The wind had got inside and had blown out the windows of the light itself. These now lay shattered some fifty feet from its base. Most of the palm trees I could see had been uprooted, while others had been snapped in two. With the storm over, the infected no longer thronged the shores and were starting to disperse. They ambled through the remains of the town, apparently unaware of the devastation that surrounded them.

  The harbour itself was clogged with debris of all kinds: roofs, wooden walls, the remains of boats. Many infected had been blown or swept into the water. The ones that had survived clung to the debris, while the bodies of those that hadn’t floated in the water. There was little we could do. There were now so many drifters we simply didn’t have enough bullets left to deal with them all. Even if we could, within a few days, the stench of decaying bodies would make the harbour uninhabitable.

  We had no choice. Those of us who’d survived the storm would need to leave. The Hope Town anchorage, our little bit of normality in all that had changed, was no longer safe. With so many wrecks, so many decaying bodies and so many drifters floating around, we’d never be able to return.

  Chapter Twenty

  By the end of the day, we’d established a temporary anchorage about a mile from the entrance to Hope Town. We came together to meet, to mourn and to decide what to do next. Of the forty-eight people in our community before the storm, only twenty-seven remained. We’d lost the garden boats and their promise for long-term survival. We’d survived one hurricane, but it was only a small one and it had given us hope when it was really a warning of what was to come.

  While some of the carnage could be attributed to David trying to come back into the anchorage in the midst of the storm, he’d made things worse, but not all the devastation could be pinned on him. Without him, we might not have lost so many boats and so many people, but the harbour would still have become uninhabitable. The garden boats would still have been lost. Some would still have died.

  ‘What should we do?’ CJ was looking from Jack to me and back again.

  We were poring over a chart, trying to work out a strategy that we could put to what was left of the community. I considered the sheltered harbours that were available to us — the one in Marsh Harbour, in Man-O-War, in Hope Town — they would all be similarly clogged with the bodies of dead infected, and with living ones that clung to the floating debris that undoubtedly filled them.

  ‘I don’t know. What about here?’ I pointed to the area between the southern end of Elbow Cay and Lubbers. It wasn’t as sheltered or as perfect as Hope Town, but that meant it would be pretty much clear of debris, of bodies and of drifters.

  Jack scratched his beard as he considered my suggestion. ‘I guess it’d do for the time being.’

  A few minutes later and Jack put this idea to the others. They agreed, but then again there really wasn’t a better option. The following morning we moved to our new home, but it felt wrong. It was too open and too empty. We were used to being surrounded by other boats, but now there seemed so few.

  I looked at those who had survived and thought about those we’d lost. I might not have spent as much time with them as I had with Jack and Andrew, but I still missed them. Before the storm there had been seven children. Jeff, Jimmy and Mike were now the only ones left. Our community no longer looked like any sort of settlement; it just looked like a small group of boats riding at anchor.

  ***

  Over the next few days I spent a lot of time thinking, talking with the others on the catamaran and considering what to do next. I came to a decision and laid it out before them.

  ‘I think we need to leave here and look for somewhere away from hurricanes. We also need to see if we can find somewhere we can grow things on shore. The garden boats were a good idea, but they were only ever going to be a temporary measure. We need to start thinking about the long term; not just the next few months, but what’s going to happen in the years to come.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound dangerously like David.’ CJ was looking at me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Much as I hated to admit it, the hurricane has shown us he was right about one thing. We can’t expect to live on boats forever. They’ll eventually become unseaworthy. We need to find somewhere we can live on the shore.’

  ‘You’re saying David was right? Don’t you remember what he did?’ CJ was glaring at me, almost daring me to carry on.

  ‘Of course I remember.’ I hesitated briefly. ‘And I’m not saying David was right. He was all about clearing the infected from the land, about waging war against them. That’s clearly nuts. We’d never be able to do anything like that. What I’m talking about is different. What I’m saying is that we need to find somewhere that’s already free of infected.’

  I looked at CJ. Her lips were still tightly pursed but she’d started to calm down, so I carried on. ‘When there were a lot of people here, when we had Hope Town, it made sense to stay, b
ut now there’s too few of us, there’s no real benefit to it. I think we need to move on and look for somewhere more permanent.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, I see what you’re getting at.’ CJ thought about what I was saying for a few seconds. ‘I’m okay with moving on. There’re too many memories here anyway. Everything reminds me of Jon, of what happened to him. I can’t bear to think of him lying there below the lighthouse.’

  I knew how CJ felt. Whenever my eyes fell on the Hope Town light off in the distance, I was reminded of Jon and how senseless his loss had been. I looked at Mike and Jimmy. There was a quick whispered exchange before Mike spoke. ‘Yeah, we’re okay with it too.’

  Andrew was next. ‘I want to stay. This is my home. I know it will be difficult, and I know that anything beyond basic survival isn’t really possible here. I realise there are too many infected on the islands and that there will always be drifters. I know there will be more hurricanes, but it’s my home, and for now, I want to stay. I’m just not ready to leave yet.’

  I understood what he meant. He was clinging to the last remnant of his past life. If he left the Abacos, he would lose that one last thing that linked him to the time before the infected.

  ‘I want to go.’ Jeff’s voice was firm. ‘I want to start again somewhere new. While I’m here, I can’t stop thinking about ...’ His voice tailed off, but we all knew what it was.

  ‘Where would we go?’ CJ looked at me, but I had no answer. Before, I’d only thought about leaving, not where we’d be heading to.

  The storm had shown we’d be best placed away from the path of hurricanes. They were just too much to deal with on top of all the other problems we faced. I thought about what we’d need to survive long term. We’d need somewhere we could live ashore, but away from the infected. It would need to be somewhere where there weren’t any drifters, or at least as few as possible. That meant it would have to be quite isolated. Yet, it would need to be close enough to places where we could scavenge parts and materials. It seemed a pretty tall order, but there had to be somewhere. I ran through all the places I’d ever been. Assessing and testing them in my head, I ruled out each one in turn. I could think of nowhere suitable. I discussed it with the others, with Jack, with everyone, but no one came up with anything that sounded reasonable or even vaguely feasible.

  Then finally it came to me; a brief flash of something. I dug out the memory from where it was stored deep in the back of my mind. I pondered it, turning it over in my head so I could examine it from every possible angle. When I had been an undergraduate, I’d done a project on the Celtic communities of Western Scotland. They’d lived on the coast and on the many islands scattered along it. They’d survived for thousands of years, using the sea as their highway to move around and avoid the dangers of travelling through the wild wood, on a mainland filled with bears, wolves and other predators. The influence of the Gulf Stream and its position at the edge of the continent meant it had a warm maritime climate; not too hot in summer nor too cold in winter. There were storms, but they weren’t hurricanes.

  The Celts were hunters, fishermen and farmers, growing food on land fertilised with seaweed, taking seabirds and seals, catching the fish that thrived in the nutrient rich waters. While the people had changed over the years — Scots replacing Picts before being replaced by Vikings — the lifestyle had remained unchanged until the start of the twentieth century. Then industrialisation finally took hold, not on the islands but in cities on the mainland. As young people left and old people died, once thriving communities disappeared. Cottages and barns were left to rot and disappeared back into the ground. By the turn of the millennium, the whole region was sparsely populated at best and many islands capable of supporting communities, that had supported communities for thousands of years, lay empty and abandoned. It was almost like a forewarning of what had come to pass for the whole world.

  After I had graduated, I spent a long, hot summer on an archaeological dig on one of these islands looking for traces of Neolithic settlements amongst the sand dunes. We’d camped in the ruins of cottages and swum in the crystal clear waters. The main bay was large, sand-fringed and sheltered. We’d only seen one other person in the entire time we were there; a farmer who came to check on the sheep he grazed on the island. He still owned the land where his parents had been born, well the grazing rights at any rate, but he chose to live on one of the larger islands to the north. He found it just too remote.

  There would have been no one on it when the infection struck. It was far enough from other islands, separated by deep waters and strong currents that made it unlikely any infected would ever make it there, clinging to pieces of flotsam or jetsam. This would mean the dangers they posed would be minimal.

  I searched around in my mind for a name and eventually found it.

  Mingulay.

  I pulled out our charts. The only one that showed any of Scotland on it was a large-scale chart designed for ocean crossings. I followed the string of islands off Scotland’s western coast and could just make out where Mingulay sat, out in the middle of nowhere, far away from anywhere that would house substantial numbers of infected.

  I mulled it over in my mind for almost a day, but couldn’t come up with any problems. Yes, it wouldn’t be easy, and there would undoubtedly be unexpected problems, ones I couldn’t predict or foresee, but it was the only option I’d come up with so far that seemed even remotely viable.

  At a community meeting that afternoon, I laid it before the others. Their response was not unexpected.

  ‘It sounds great, but it’s a long way to go. What happens if we get there and find things aren’t as you remember them?’ Jack was right, what would we do if we got there and found that the island had been overrun? That things were worse there than they were here? I was eager to go, but I knew what we’d be going to. I had no attachments to this place and so no reason to stay. Many of the others, like Andrew, had links to the Abacos that went back to before everything had changed. I understood their reluctance to leave, to venture into what was, for them, the unknown.

  Jack carried on. ‘Look, it’s now late enough in the year that we’re unlikely to get another hurricane before next summer. We can survive here in the short term, for months, maybe even a year or two. It’s the long term that’s the problem. If you’re set on Mingulay, you could go ahead, check it out and let us know what you find. Then we could decide if we want to come over too.’

  ‘How would we tell you what we find there?’ I was sceptical of what Jack was suggesting. I could see us crossing the ocean once, but I couldn’t see us returning. Going eastward, we’d be carried on the Gulf Stream, speeding us along our way, but to get back we would need to go far to the south before we could find a current we could ride westward again. It would take us months.

  ‘What about your short-wave radio? You’ve got one haven’t you? I’ve seen it on your boat.’

  With a short-wave radio, we’d be able to communicate across the ocean that would separate us.

  ‘It doesn’t work. And besides, you’d need one too.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can get your one sorted first, then we can worry about finding another one.’

  ***

  Jack, Andrew and I sat with our short-wave radio and tried to figure out what was wrong with it. We soldered and checked, then soldered some more. We replaced wires and components, taking them out of anything electronic we had to hand, that we no longer needed or that no longer worked. It took a week but, finally, it seemed like we had everything sorted. Jack looked at me.

  ‘Shall we hook it up?’

  ‘I guess.’ I was nervous. The last time I’d turned it on was with Bill and it had blown almost immediately. This time there was a lot more riding on it. If it blew again, we’d be back to square one. I screwed in the cable for the antenna and then secured the wires to one of the boat’s batteries.

  ‘Okay, here goes.’ I reached out and turned it on. The power light blinked once and then stayed lit. I breathed a
sigh of relief.

  ‘That’s promising.’ I glanced across at Jack, ‘All we need to do now is to find another set to see if it actually works.’

  ‘Yeah, I think this might have been the easy part.’

  I was just about to switch it off again when it crackled into life.

  ‘Tristan, calling Stanley. Come in Stanley ...’ The voice was male and deep, with a South African twang.

  I stared open-mouthed at the others. For so long I’d thought we were the only ones left, but now it seemed there were other survivors out there.

  The voice on the radio came again.

  ‘Tristan calling Stanley. Come in Stanley ...’

  ‘Should we answer them?’ Andrew’s eyes flicked from me to Jack and back again.

  I picked up the microphone.

  ‘Tristan, this is ...’ I wondered what we should call ourselves. Even though we could no longer call it home, I figured it should be Hope Town.

  ‘Tristan, this is Hope Town, can you hear us?’

  There was silence, then the voice came again. ‘Hope Town, this is Tristan, we can hear you. We’ve not had contact with you before. Where are you?’

  ‘We’re at twenty-six degrees north, seventy-seven degrees west.’ It wasn’t quite accurate, but it was close enough. I didn’t want to go giving away our exact position until I knew a little more about who was listening.

  ‘That’s somewhere off Miami, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, about 200 miles east.’

  ‘You’re the first we’ve heard from in the Americas.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Thirty-seven south, twelve west.’

  I thought about this position. It would be somewhere west of the southern tip of Africa. ‘Wait, Tristan. You’re on Tristan da Cunha?’

  ‘Close enough. We’re on Gough Island.’