Days of the Python (Python Trilogy Book 1)

by David Jurk

  Surprised at how steady my hands were, I slowly reached down and pulled the rifle up off the seat, bringing it to my shoulder and deliberately swinging it up at his head. I tried to make my voice hard.

  “You,” I told him, “won’t be taking shit from me, much less my fucking boat.”

  In the silence that followed, in the moments that it took his face to lose the leering ruddiness, to pass from confusion and doubt to fear, I silently – and ironically – thanked Donald Trump for his idiotic pro-NRA stance that had driven Hawaii to adopt the most stringent gun laws in America. For the past decade, it had been impossible in the islands to buy anything more deadly than a BB gun – or a flare pistol. He very slowly lowered his arm.

  “Move that boat away from me and leave,” I said. “Go out around the breakwater, and if I see this boat again, I won’t even wait to see your face - I’ll just start putting holes in it.”

  He seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the rifle. Neither of them moved. For several long seconds I stood there, rifle to my shoulder, my finger alongside the trigger guard.

  Finally, he leaned forward, his face contorted.

  “Look man,” he whined, “I’m truly sorry. We’re hurtin’, man. Ain’t got nowhere to turn, y’know? I go out there,” he nodded toward the sea, “I ain’t got enough gas to get nowhere safe.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” I replied, and even though there was already a round in the chamber, I worked the bolt, wanting him to see the cartridge spinning from it, brass gleaming in the sunlight, as another took its place. I motioned with the rifle toward the breakwater. “Thirty seconds, then I start putting holes in your hull.” He stared at me, glanced at the man in the shadows.

  “And throw the fucking flare gun overboard,” I added. “Right now.” I slid a finger over the trigger, loudly clicking the safety off with my thumb.

  He flinched, instinctively ducking. The flare gun arced out of the tower and I watched it splash into the water and sink. Again, I motioned with the rifle.

  Without a word, he clumsily backed the boat off ten meters or so, then shouting something at me I couldn’t make out, accelerated out around Windswept and headed for the end of the breakwater. As the boat gained distance, I saw him raise his fist to me, extending his middle finger and shouting; and noticed the name on the stern; Witch’s Brew.

  They made the breakwater, turned south into the open ocean and in moments were out of sight around the coast. I considered the possibility they’d try coming back and left the Winchester on the cockpit seat, leaving it loaded and ready.

  I sat down in the cockpit; feeling a wearying heaviness, as if the day had come and gone without me. What elation there’d been at my arrival had left me; the hope I’d had that I might find a place of shelter and respite in Kauai now seemed stupidly naive.

  I thought about the long journey I’d made, from the uncertainty of San Diego, the fear of setting sail, the long days across the Pacific, all that I’d experienced and worked through. To reach Kauai only to encounter the Witch’s Brew left me feeling flat and soured. The joy I’d felt at arrival faded into a feeling of bitter disappointment, as if I’d thrown a birthday party and no one had come. I suppose it was childish.

  I’d been uneasy about going ashore before; now I had no desire at all – I’d stay on board Windswept for at least the rest of the day and just wait and watch. Tomorrow would be soon enough to consider exploring, and in any case, I wanted to be damn sure that if Witch’s Brew returned today, they’d not find Windswept unguarded.

  The day continued warm and breezy. Dark cumuli mounted the peaks to the north in late afternoon and a heavy shower eventually drove me below. It occurred to me as I waited it out in the cabin, that if I lived long enough, the water maker would probably eventually wear out. Watching the rain water run in heavy rivulets across the porthole glass, I began thinking of ways to build a catchment system. The problem was interesting, and as I began considering all the alternatives I might try, my spirits lifted, and I pulled a precious bottle of beer from the icebox and toasted my own survival. Fuck off, Witch’s Brew – here’s hoping you run aground.

  My mind having turned to the sort of design process that I find so enjoyable, I instinctively began contemplating the problem of the radio as it stared balefully at me from across the cabin. It abruptly occurred to me that conditions had changed; we were now very near land and not completely without an antenna – there was still the internal loop antenna meant for local reception. It would need to be an AM signal, and quite powerful, but there was a chance.

  But what was the point? If the island was without power, there’d be no broadcasts of any kind or any strength. Maybe, but didn’t most stations have independent backups? There’d been a real trend in the twenties for commercial plants to back up with Tesla power walls and solar cells. So yes, there was a chance.

  Likely? I imagined not, but it was something to do. I got up and ambled over to the set and switched it on, pulled up the menu and selected AM and Scan.

  In seconds, I froze as a woman’s voice broke the silence of the cabin.

  “…at 1100 hours. All citizens are strongly encouraged to stay in their homes and avoid contact with any persons unknown to them, or persons having travelled beyond their immediate area. The Department of Emergency Management on Oahu are directing KEMA – and all island emergency agencies – to instruct residents that inter-island travel is strongly discouraged. The flu virus has appeared on every island, and at present, there are no known sanctuaries verifiably free of contagion. Repeating – there are no verified sanctuaries known to the government on any of the Hawaiian Islands. Marine travel between islands, especially in small watercraft, presents extreme risk to life and will not result in safety from the flu virus.

  In particular, the rumors surrounding Ni’ihau are false; there are confirmed cases of plague there. Repeating, no safe encampment exists on Ni’ihau. The many boats converging there and on Moloka’i have created a very dangerous situation and promoted panic and extreme violence.

  For those considering travel to Kaho’olawe, as well as any of the uninhabited islets – Ford, Lehua, Ka’ula and others, be advised that similar scenarios of massive amounts of marine traffic are occurring and these islands either have little fresh water or none at all.

  Efforts are being undertaken at the State and Federal level to distribute food, water and medicine to all of Hawaii’s citizens, but this will take time. You are safest at home practicing self-quarantine.”

  There were a few seconds in which the only sounds were low-level white noise from the speaker. Then, it began again.

  “This is the voice of KEMA – Kauai Emergency Management Agency - providing a recorded broadcast 8 March 2025 at 1100 hours. All citizens are strongly encouraged…”

  I reached up and turned it off. March eighth. What was today’s date? I had to think about it; it must be the eighteenth - so ten days since this broadcast had been recorded. Unless the incubation period was mutating to a shorter duration, this meant that the Hawaiian Islands had been infected at least as early – and probably earlier – than San Francisco had been. And it meant that the progression of the plague had likely reached the saturation point.

  For a long time, I sat quietly in thought. It was probably safe for me to go ashore – people had either died, left, or were in hiding. Of course, I might still encounter an unlikely survivor – like the lovely pair on the Witch’s Brew - but I had the respirator and I had weapons, which taken together gave me an immunity against almost anyone or anything I was likely to come across. And I needed to stock up on food; it was as simple as that.

  I decided I’d eat a modest dinner, perhaps read for a bit, then turn in early. The radar could be set for close range - about the most effective alarm against anyone approaching I had, other than staying awake all night.

  Tomorrow would be another day. Then it would be time to take my chances ashore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE FIRST
THING I thought of as I opened my eyes was how odd it was not to feel the quickening movements of Windswept beneath me, as I would’ve felt on the open sea. It took a few moments to remember we were moored inside the breakwater on Kauai, quietly swinging with the tide. I could hear soft rain overhead, a typical morning this side of Mount Waialeale, which controlled so much of Kauai’s weather. I could expect a morning rain followed by hours of sunshine until the afternoon clouds gathered and a second rain briefly arrived to freshen the air. This followed by a perfect evening. Paradise. Well, almost.

  I ate quickly – keeping it to a bit of rice and the last of the smoked salmon. I had coffee, not tea, because I could stomach black coffee better than I could black tea and I was saving the last of the creamer for an emergency.

  As I ate, I planned for the excursion ashore; I’d wear the Tyvek suit of course and take the Beretta in a holster. The respirator could go in the backpack until I needed it, along with extra ammunition. I’d take the smaller of the sail bags to carry whatever food I found. I considered taking one of the explosives, but the thought of it banging around inside the backpack filled me with dread, and I just didn’t think I’d need it. I added a knife and a compass. That was it; already the morning rain, which had been unusually heavy, had ended. It was time to go.

  Putting on shorts and flip-flops, but no shirt, I pulled the Tyvek suit on and within seconds began to sweat. It was better on deck, with the light trades providing some cooling and I untied the kayak and slid it into the water. I looked at it critically for the first time since lashing it I place in San Diego; it was streaked with the stains of saltwater but otherwise seemed unaffected by the long trip. I put the backpack in the aft seat and watched it rocking quietly in the sheltered water. It was now just past ten; I’d give myself four hours on shore and then start back, no matter what.

  As usual, at the last moment I thought of things I’d forgotten and swearing at myself in irritation went back below and grabbed a flashlight and binoculars. Passing through the galley on the way out, I grabbed food as well; a small piece of cheese from the icebox, a chunk of smoked salmon, and half of the last loaf of bread I’d made. Along with two bottles of water, it would make a nice lunch – somewhere, I promised myself, with a nice view.

  Finally seated in the kayak, I took one last look around, pulled the paddle from the cords and gently shoved off. Reveling in its quick agility for the first time since San Diego harbor, I swung out wide of the ama, around the bow, and started across the two hundred or so meters to the inner harbor jetty – a secondary breakwater that served as entryway to the marina.

  In a matter of minutes, we were alongside, and I immediately discovered that it wasn’t at all suitable for landing. Formed by a steep foundation of rock with no easy path up out of the water, there was no place to tie up to, and no walkway. I had no choice but to circle back out around it, and head for the dock that ran alongside the boat launch.

  Once there, I tied up to a piling, and grabbing the backpack and hoisting it up onto the dock, raised myself up out of the seat and climbed out. The dock was soaked from rain. Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I took one last look at the kayak, swept my eyes out over the harbor to Windswept, and turned and started walking toward the parking lot.

  I took no more than two steps before I lurched sideways, completely off-balance, and almost fell. I reached out to catch myself and ended up squatting on the deck to keep my feet under me. The dock seemed to be moving; swaying invisibly - small motions, but enough to fill me with vertigo. What the fuck is this? And it occurred that I was land sick; after a month on the water, after a month of ceaseless movement to which I had completely, totally adapted, my inner ear was rebelling. Things should be moving, but weren’t, and my brain was still compensating. For a few minutes, I squatted there, shifting from foot to foot, letting the nausea slowly subside. I stood, shaking, and took a few exploratory steps – it was a little better. Still, even after I made the end of the dock and traversed the parking lot, sloshing through the puddles with my flip-flops, I felt as though the Earth was wobbling slightly and it took an effort to stay moving in a straight line.

  The parking lot was jammed with cars, all parked willy-nilly; so bad that at times I had to circle out around whole clusters of them to make progress. I imagined a family arriving, frantic to get away, parking anywhere they could, grabbing whatever they’d brought and heading for the fishing boat or the family sailboat – whatever they had. Would they have turned and looked at their car, imagining they’d be back for it? And how many of those people – how many entire families - were now dead?

  I walked north along the jetty road toward the west end of the beach, the main body of the bay on my right. Reaching Waapa Road, I had a choice to make; head left to the tourist shops across the road from the harbor or stay right on the harbor road leading to the hotel. It really wasn’t much of a decision; I headed towards the hotel. There were the hotel shops to search and perhaps the hotel kitchen, which must, I reasoned, have a huge amount of stored food. But in truth, I was drawn to the hotel for other reasons.

  As I approached Nawiliwili Park on my left, I encountered the first of what I imagined was likely a countless number of dogs left to run wild. Twenty meters ahead of me, they were gathered around what appeared to be a pile of feathers – probably a chicken carcass. Nothing too surprising there – wild chickens and free-ranging peacocks were everywhere on Kauai.

  There were five dogs in the pack; two smaller terrier-types and three larger, nondescript beasts, all of them were gaunt and wild looking. As I approached, they froze as one, eyes on me and I impulsively raised my arms and lunged a step forward, yelling, “Go!” They slunk back a few tentative steps then stopped. I walked on, forcing myself not to run – but I watched them; in moments they lunged forward, descending back on the remains of the chicken, snarling and fighting over the scant meat. There must be a lot of dogs on Kauai not being fed anymore - a lot of dogs everywhere. And cats for that matter; weren’t feral cats supposed to be dangerous?

  Past the park, I reached the first of the tourist shops - several clothing stores, a restaurant with wood benches against a wall and a sporting goods shop advertising “Snorkeling” on a sign shaped like a palm leaf. They were all set onto a raised wooden boardwalk and as I climbed the few stairs up to it, I imagined rounding one of the corners and encountering someone alive and contagious. And wouldn’t that end it poorly, the mask that could keep me alive sitting unused in my pack? So, I pulled the respirator out and put it on. It was confining and uncomfortable – but better than risking infection.

  The two small clothing shops fronting the boardwalk were locked and seemed intact, but the glass door of the sporting goods store was shattered, and I peered inside; other than a little disarray it looked normal. Whatever someone had hoped to find, they’d been neat about searching for it. At the end was the restaurant, apparently little more than a take-out shack, with its back wall oddly facing the boardwalk. It held a locked door and a sign depicting a thumb pointing around the corner, and I followed it. The front of it was destroyed; counter, windows, walls - everything smashed to kindling and the interior gutted, as if a giant hand had reached in and just ripped. I stood looking for a moment, disheartened at the pointless violence and walked on.

  I reached the beautiful crescent of Kalapaki Beach and walked out onto it, hearing my flip-flops squeaking in the damp sand, an achingly familiar sound. Rachel and I had walked along this part of the beach often, holding hands, walking slowly with all the time in the world. But nothing here was the same now; the beach seemed alien and foreign. And Rachel was gone.

  Duke’s was up ahead of me on the left and I found myself smiling, a sudden rush of memory filling me with images of waiting for our table with drinks in hand, complaining about the crowds and prices with humor and patience because we loved it, loved the warmth and the light and the babble of sound, loved the very feel of it. But by the time I’d gotten within ten meters of it, it
was sickeningly evident that there would be no more steaks or salmon or crab claws, no more martini’s as we waited; there would be no more anything at Duke’s because it had become a blackened shell, fire-bombed into nothingness. Poking along through the rubble of what had been the front wall, I came across a framed picture, the glass cracked and streaked with soot. It was one of many ancient old photos of Duke Kamehameha that had hung on the walls, showing him standing on a beach with a surfboard that towers over his head. There was something unimaginably sad about it; the proud Hawaiian so tall and strong, looking as though he’d live forever. I glanced around, saw a palm tree nearby and walked the few steps to it. Wiping what soot I could from the glass, I carefully propped it against the base of the tree, and stood looking down at it. Take care, Duke. Thanks for all the good times.

  Within a few steps, I reached the hotel grounds and turned left along one of the paved walkways, emerging into the central courtyard with its huge pool and sculpted gardens.

  From on board Windswept, my view of the hotel grounds had largely been obscured by the lush foliage surrounding it, and what I’d seen had appeared unscathed. But as I moved forward, it became clear I’d been optimistic; the hotel shops lining the beach side of the property were heavily damaged – glass doors and windows shattered, and remnants of their contents scattered about the grounds. I’d hoped the sundries shop might have snacks or candy left – but it was stripped so bare, the shelves torn off the walls, the racks ravaged, that I hardly bothered to do more than poke my head inside.

  It was all that way, blown out and ransacked. Even the jewelry store, which completely befuddled me. Why would someone searching for food break into a jewelry store and take diamonds? Did they think this was all just temporary and when normal life returned, they’d be rich or was it just that they could?