by Frank Perry
brushing his teeth, he pulled the bed sheets up and went downstairs.
To his relief, Mary wasn’t around. She was a school girl visiting for a short break with no reason to be up early. The kitchen smelled of freshly cooked bacon and Gort’s wife was finishing a stack of pancakes for the two men, ready on the breakfast table. Why do fishermen always get up before dawn! He smiled at the lady of the house as Gort stood over the table with his first cup of coffee. John smiled at his wife, “Good morning Mrs. Swensen.”
She smiled back, “Hello, young man, (she didn’t remember his name), I hope you slept well.”
He almost choked on the first gulp of black coffee, “Oh, yes, ma’am, I really appreciate you taking me in last night.” Did she know about Mary? She gave no signals, which was fine with him. He didn’t want Gort using him for lobster bait.
The clock read 4:25 when Gort swung on his heavy foul weather coat over his high bibs and rubber boots. John couldn’t have looked more out of place, but Gort didn’t mention it. As they walked in the dark toward the dock on the other side of the bay, Gort said, “The storm passed last night so the boats’ll be all goin’ out early. We got a lot’a bags to fill.”
What’s a bag? John just hoped he wasn’t in one of them.
The Swensen “plant” was a large one-room shed with three garage-type doors in the middle of the short pier, extending into the harbor. The pier had just enough dock space for two or three boats to tie up. “In half an hour, the boats will be fightin’ for dock space to get goin’ out. We gotta get ‘em loaded and out as fast as lightenin’.” Behind the shack, which was built along the edge of the dock, Gort’s large commercial boat was tied up with several covered crates on deck. “Okay boy, you jump down on the deck there and fix the winch cables to each o’ them crates so I can lift ‘em.”
John did as instructed, slipping on the slimy steps of the wood ramp leading down to the boat. It was nearly low tide, and the walkway was steep. On deck, he found the cables hanging directly over the first crate as Gort controlled the rusty winch boom from above. He yelled over the winch engine noise, “Just hook the cleats there at the corners.”
All three crates were on the dock by the shack when the first boats arrived. John followed Gort’s example, removing the tarps from each crate. They were filled to the top with rock salt and herring. Gort then lifted the overhead door of the first stall, revealing an old counter top and a massive number of boxes of mesh bags. “Okay, Son, these here cardboard boxes all have a dozen bait bags. You give the skipper whatever number’a bags he wants, and you record the name of his boat on this ledger.”
The sound of diesels began filling the placid harbor a few minutes later and lights began appearing on board some of the earliest boats, maneuvering toward Swensen’s. One by one the crewmen got their bags, and Gort scooped out enough herring to fill them with practiced precision using an old net. The boat crew would fill the bags as they went out into the ocean in darkness. Some of the crew had their own bags, but John recorded their number anyway to pay for the bait. The sky was barely crimson when the last boat departed. One of the large crates was empty and the other two would be ready for use tomorrow. They had worked for almost two hours selling bait. John’s hands felt crusted from the constant exposure to damp salt and his feet hurt from the same thing in his sneakers. A white briny stain covered his jacket and pants. Gort looked at him, “Okay, that’s it for now. Let’s go back up to the house and get us a cup; then we’ll get the tanks ready.”
Once again, John was happy that Mary wasn’t around the kitchen yet. They sat for a while drinking coffee then walked back down to the shack. It was the first time John saw the small harbor in the early light of day. It smelled and sounded like a fishing harbor with rocks uncovered from the tide and gulls picking away at tidal creatures. Gort lifted all three garage doors along the front of the shack, exposing large holding tanks filled with salt water being circulated from the ocean below the dock. “We got four tanks here that we sort the catch by. This one’s for chixs and the rest is for heavier ones. You’ll get the hang of it when the boats start returnin’. Right now, I gotta check the mainland for pricing.” Gort used his mobile phone and punched a single number. He listened for less than a minute, writing some notes on a pad. “Okay, we sort the catch by size and weight. Chix, standards and mediums and premiums all got different prices. I’ll do all the sorting and tallying; you’ll just help the crews get ‘em in the right tanks where I tell you.”
“Yes, sir. I can do that.”
“Good, since any idiot can do it, I’d expect a smart college scientist to figure it out.” Gort smiled at his own jibe.
The first boats began returning around noon and continued throughout the afternoon. Gort’s wife brought them lunch around eleven o’clock to sustain them for the hours ahead. As the boats continued arriving throughout the afternoon, it was apparent that Swensen’s would stay open until the last boat off-loaded around sundown. Somehow, Gort seemed to know when the last one had arrived. The tanks were filled nicely after a few stormy days had prevented fishing. John was feeling the effects of constant hard lifting while Gort didn’t seem tired at all as the last door was closed and locked, “Tomorrow or the next day, dependin’ on when the bait’s gone, we’ll pack ‘em up and cruise to the coast to deliver.”
On delivery days, john figured they would get almost no sleep. John couldn’t imagine Gort doing this alone. “So, Gort, am I good to go here for a while?”
“You got any better offers?”
John smiled to himself, “No, of course not, I just need to know if I’m sleeping in the church tonight?”
“For now, let’s see how it goes. You know the house rules, and I can sure use the help, but I can’t pay you nothin’ except for bed and keep.”
“How about some better duds?”
Gort looked at him askance, “What, you don’t like the schoolboy preppy look?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Go see Ben tonight and get fixed up, put it on my tab.”
“Thanks, Gort.”
Regrets
Jules had a lump in his throat while stopping in front of Lorne’s house. He and Nancy had been there often before she died but he hadn’t been back there since. Somehow, driving his new Mercedes onto the driveway seemed out of place under the circumstances. He walked slowly and thoughtfully along the walk to the door. He’d known Carol Bridger for over thirty years. She’d comforted him when his wife died and had spent several weeks visiting her toward the end. Now, he was unsure what to say; how could he tell her this news? He had no idea what to say. He didn’t have to know. When she answered the door, Carol saw immediately that something was wrong, something awful. It must have shown on Jules’ face. He stuttered without entering, “Carol … I …”
“Jules, what happened? It’s Lorne isn’t it! What happened?”
It was easier with her opening, “Carol, Lorne died this morning. I just got the message…I …”
She nearly collapsed and Jules stepped closer, letting her rest her hands on his forearms. “Oh my God! Jules, this can’t be true. I just talked to him last night.” The expected tears began flowing. She shuddered and stepped into his arms, resting her head on his chest, then backed away, brushing his lapel with her hand, then using it to brush her cheeks.
He shook his head while staring into her eyes, “No, Carol, it’s true, I wish it weren’t, but it’s true. I don’t have many more details and arrangements need to be made to get him home. I will get you more information when it becomes available, but you need to start making … arrangements.” He hated the expression.
She stepped closer to him again and cried on his shoulder. It comforted him to know that she didn’t throw the blame on the Institute, at least not yet. He would talk to her about her new role at a future time.
Race Against Time
In Guinea, the makeshift morgue was sealed off. In a few minutes, a crew of men
wearing hazmat gear would arrive to spray the entire facility, including the corpse, with diluted chlorine. Outside, members of the WHO team and local authorities were discussing protocols for treating everyone exposed to Lorne Bridger during treatment and now dealing with his remains. Containment of the disease was vital at this point.
Dr. Abagael Van Acker was on her satellite phone to GHI near Baltimore. She was standing with a mob of locals and other members of the World Health Organization. She had been near Dr. Bridger when his symptoms appeared. She had diagnosed his condition quickly and worked with the hospital staff to isolate him and tried to protect as many people as possible from exposure to his ailment. It was only a matter of hours before her suspicions were proven; she’d seen this too many times. As a compassionate professional, she had dedicated her life to helping people in underdeveloped circumstances, even at the expense of a private life. Her greatest joy was the knowledge that she had saved lives. Now, one of her closest friends in this quest was dead. She hadn’t had time to mourn yet; that would come later.
