by David Jurk
As for finding food, it became apparent after trudging endlessly through gloomy aisle after gloomy aisle, my flashlight revealing one depressingly empty shelf after another, that it wasn’t going to happen. What wasn’t canned or sealed in bags was spoiled and what had not needed refrigeration all seemed to have been looted. After finishing with the last of the grocery aisles and finding nothing worth taking, I stood leaning against a row of solar-powered dryers and cursed the wasted time and energy. I was hot and frustrated and having worked my way to the very rear of the store began slowly walking along the back wall, intending to leave. But something reflected back from the beam of the flashlight and I saw that it was the glass of two small windows, set into a pair of steel doors. The doors were not marked, but it suddenly occurred to me that the store must have a loading dock, where there might be food still in shipping containers that had been missed by the looters.
The doors were locked and apparently, I wasn’t the first to want to get through them; they were badly pock-marked from blows to the metal. The windows themselves were badly starred from blows, but intact, reinforced with heavy wire. I shone the flashlight through them and saw pallet after pallet of full of crates and cartons. Surely some of that had to be packaged food. Eureka!
Certain that I was about to reap a bounty, I raced over to the hardware area, found an axe and returned to the doors – and for some reason ignored the fact that no one else had managed to break through. Half an hour later, having literally worn myself out hammering on the doors, mocked by their impunity, they remained solidly shut. I slumped to the floor and the first thought that came to me was that it would take an explosion to break through the damn things. Explosives. Why hadn’t I brought them? Sighing, I heaved myself to my feet and headed toward the entrance, then back past the man skewered with glass, and I was outside. Exhausted and frustrated, I took one last look and headed for the Porsche. Underway, I continued threading my way along the sidewalk, occasionally bumping carts out of the way and made my way to the far end of the mall to Costco.
It was not as bad in terms of dead bodies as Walmart – I saw only two - but in terms of getting my hands on any viable food, it was equally unrewarding. Perishables were spoiled, and other food had long ago been looted. I spent an hour inside, climbing up onto the upper shelves with a rolling stairway, opening carton after carton only to find paper goods, electronics, clothes or toys. Unlike Walmart, the receiving area was wide open – and it was also empty. In the end, it came down to the same thing; for all this effort and time, I had found nothing.
And what now? Back in the Porsche, I was hot and tired – and very conscious that I’d left Windswept unattended well past the four hour limit I’d set for myself. I thought of the Witches Brew and the woman still alive in the hotel; I had to assume there were others as well. A tide of anxiety similar to the near panic that had overtaken me on the deck of the Mare Oriens swept over me, and I started the Porsche and took off as fast as I could, weaving my way out of the mall. But I found myself on an unfamiliar road, not entirely sure how to get back to Rice Street, and in my anxiousness to be back, just headed in the direction I thought I needed to go.
In minutes, reaching a completely unfamiliar neighborhood, destruction everywhere, it felt as though I was traveling through a war zone. It grew more and more difficult to work my way around the abandoned cars, and to add nature to the mess, the afternoon rains began. It hammered down, rendering visibility so poor that despite my anxiety to be back, I stopped the car until the worst of it had passed. Sitting there unsure of where I was, helplessly waiting out the downpour, left me feeling that this excursion had been folly from the start. Had I really believed others hadn’t had the same concern over food that I had? What had everyone done when they still believed they could wait it out by leaving or by quarantining themselves? Headed for the store, of course, to stock up on food. How foolish I’d been – and now I was putting my lifeline at risk, leaving Windswept vulnerable for nearly the entire day. I sat and fretted or nearly half an hour on someone’s front lawn and waited it out.
And finally, the rain eased enough that I was able to continue my way along this god-forsaken street, hardly able to get out of second gear, crawling around trash and bodies and cars. Then an intersection appeared, a broad avenue leading out of here and I took it, swinging east. It was a short road, ending at a large church. The road cleared somewhat, and I accelerated.
Nearly to the church, the sweet-sickening smell of rot began to permeate the air and I raised the windows, preferring the closeness and heat to the smell, but it hardly made a difference. And as I reached the church, the cause of the smell stood before me. Stacked like cordwood, one on top of another, a snaking mound of bodies was piled alongside the church building, wrapped in sheets, flapping in the breeze.
There were hundreds of them; no, probably thousands. The piles extended around the back of the church, out of sight. Had they been placed there waiting for burial? How do you bury thousands of bodies? I slowed the car and stared at them as I turned onto the road fronting the church.
And that’s when I realized they weren’t alone. They were attended by birds, countless birds in huge flocks - over the grounds and in the air – but mostly massed on the piles of bodies. Seagulls mostly - feeding on them. I could see them pecking at the human meat within.
It was a scene of unspeakable horror, of Poe and Dante, a nightmare from hell here in paradise. Without planning it, I lowered the passenger window, grabbed the pistol and fired wildly into the midst of them. One shot, then a pause, then two more, quickly in succession. And the birds, as though they were a single organism, rose as one into the air, swinging left, then sharply right, coordinating their flight through some unimaginable communion – raising so raucous a protest as they left their feeding that I could hear them even through the roaring in my ears. I put the window back up, set the gun down and accelerated hard. In the mirror, I watched as the huge flock wheeled, banking downwards, gradually settling back again to their feast.
It was too much, it was just too much. I lost all desire to look for food. I just wanted to get back to Windswept and the sweet air of the bay. I realized I was crying and stupidly told myself I just needed a cup of tea.
What a mistake this all was! What utter hubris to have set sail across four thousand kilometers of Pacific Ocean in the belief that salvation – or at least a respite – would await on Kauai. It was a momentous lapse in judgement, driven by emotion instead of reason. I should have known, should have seen ahead of time what would be here; it was all so obvious now that it was too late. Hawaii was a nexus – the crossroads of the Pacific, a touchpoint for international travel. Had I thought because it was lovely, because I’d loved it, that it would somehow weather the Python gracefully?
Rachel would have chosen Polynesia – I’d known that when I left San Diego; known it in my heart and rejected it out of fear. Yes, the plague would also be in Tahiti, Samoa, the Marquesas, Tonga, The Cooks; all of them, yes - but not like this. Not ransacked Walmarts and stacks of bodies left to rot, left for the gulls.
The road reached a wide intersection and I wiped at my tears with the back of hand, so I could see the road sign. Rice Street. I swung onto it gratefully, aimed the Porsche and stepped on it, hard. The car leapt forward, back in its element, and as the speed rose so did the exhaust, deliriously rising and rising in the still afternoon.
Perhaps it might not all be a loss. Perhaps that cup of tea and being back on Windswept would ease the horrors of the day. Perhaps tomorrow a quick trip back to Walmart with one of the explosives; blast the doors and just get what food was there and get out. Perhaps tomorrow would be better. Perhaps.
When I reached the hotel grounds, I drove past the hotel, heading straight for the harbor. I had intended to search the marina when I got back, perhaps look for some spares, maybe look for fishing gear. But there wouldn’t be any of that now; I’d had enough. I idled into Nawiliwili Harbor and made my way as close to the d
ock as I could. I was out of the Porsche almost before it had stopped rolling, respirator in hand, still wearing the Tyvek suit and ran for the pier, the Beretta slapping against my hip. With each step I felt as though I were re-emerging further into a world I knew, a world I understood. One that was, if not entirely normal, at least a world of reason. And a world of the living. I was not at home here; not on Kauai, not on land. My new home, my real home, had become the sea.
But the anxiety of the last hour was not done with me and I began wondering if the kayak would still be where’d I’d left it. What if it were gone? What if someone had taken it, gone out to my boat with it? I couldn’t remember how well I’d tied it to the pier; I’d been in a hurry to get underway, perhaps it had broken free and floated away on the tide.
I reached the spot where I had left it tied it to the pier and as I looked down into the water, I had convinced myself I’d see a cut line hanging impotently to the water with no kayak in sight, penalty for my folly, karma at long last being wreaked on me. But below me, the kayak floated peacefully, just as I’d left her. Overcome with relief, I dropped to my knees on the hot pavement, waiting for my heart to slow.
Struggling out of the Tyvek suit, I raised my eyes to the harbor, to the breakwater, and saw Windswept swinging gently on her mooring, light and powerful in the sun, poised for flight. I was filled with pure gratitude for her; more than that, I felt love. She had become something animate to me, vital and real, had become both home and transport, a refuge, a place of safety. I realized how much I yearned to be back on the open sea, to feel the simple reality of the boat and the ocean. No dying women, no corpses, no feeding birds – just the clean sea and my boat.
And then, at the edge of my vision, I sensed a splash of color moving on the water and I turned and stared, frozen into stillness, then scrambled in the pack for the binoculars.
The colors came into focus, separated into their individual forms; three paddleboards on the water of the inner bay, some fifty meters from shore, heading out away from the beach. Their colors were vivid and bright against the blue water. Two of these boards each held a single man standing and paddling, the third had two on it, one clearly a man standing, and a woman sitting on the board in front of him. They all looked like surfers out for a day of fun; dressed in baggy shorts brilliant with bright designs in rainbow hues. They were bare-chested, tanned and fit and each of the men had some kind of strap over one shoulder, something hanging from their backs. Were they carrying packs?
They seemed determined, focused – taking long, sweeping strokes, the boards surging forward with each one, gliding, then surging again with the next. It struck me, as it often has watching these things, how awkward they were with their high center of gravity and poor maneuverability. But however cumbersome they were, they were being pushed hard.
I wondered at that; was there a threat, some danger they were fleeing from? Something nagged at me, tried to force its way into my consciousness. I lowered the glasses, looked at them from the wider perspective of the bay at large. Where were they going? I swung my gaze to Windswept, then back to the trio of men on their paddleboards moving in ragged formation. Then again back to the boat.
And the realty of their destination finally bubbled to the surface of my consciousness, finally coldly coalesced into words in my head. They were making straight for Windswept; they wanted my fucking boat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IN WHAT SEEMED agonizing slow motion, I wadded the Tyvek suit into a ball and crammed it and the respirator into the backpack. Then jumping carelessly down into the kayak in frantic haste – mindless of its tendency to flip - I nearly managed to overturn it. Only with a desperate grab onto the dock and quickly spreading my feet out onto the gunwales did I manage to keep it from spilling me into the bay. Keeping a tight grip on the dock piling, I lowered myself into the aft seat and laid the pack and the pistol into the forward one, then secured them in turn with bungee cords. Pulling the paddle free, I worked at the knot holding us fast to the dock, cursing it, cursing myself and my carelessness, cursing going past my own time limit, cursing leaving Windswept alone, cursing everything. Finally untangling it, I shoved us viciously off the dock, taking up the paddle with long, sweeping strokes, desperate to build speed. I paddled for what I feared was my very life.
In moments I accelerated into a familiar rhythm, the kayak quickly up to speed, rocking side to side with the long alternating sweeps of the paddle. In half a minute we were past the jetty, Windswept before me, little more than one hundred meters away. To my left, the paddleboards floated at the very edge of my vision and I saw in my mind an aerial view of the harbor, the paddleboards one side of an unequal V, the kayak the other, the shorter; Windswept stood at the apex.
The paddleboards had three great disadvantages; they were slower, they had further to go, and the incoming tide flowed at an angle that worked more against them than me. I recognized instinctively that I would beat them to the boat, and the relief was so great that I needed to choke back sobs rising in my throat. From that moment of realization, I hardly looked at them; my eyes were on Windswept, my mind focused on maintaining my rhythm, maintain as much speed as I could.
I reached the ama in what seemed like seconds, tied off the kayak and scrambled out of the cockpit onto the netting. I pulled the holstered Beretta free of the bungee cord and ran across the net to the main hull in great bounds. And only when I reached the cockpit did the possibility occur to me that there may have been others, that I might already have been boarded. I pulled the pistol free of the holster and searched her. Windswept was as I’d left her; I was alone.
Feeling secure, I watched the paddleboards; they were still twenty or thirty meters away and seemed to have finally noticed me – they’d grouped their boards together and slowed. Right, I thought, talk it over and just stay the fuck away from me, and from my boat.
But no, they weren’t going to let it go just like that. They split up, coming slower now; one continuing forward, coming straight, the other two swinging wide in flanking moves to either side. It seemed unlikely they had any notion whatsoever that I had a gun and hoping to scare them off I raised the Beretta into the air and fired. When you want to get someone’s attention, there’s nothing quite like the sound of a gun, and this was no exception. The echo of the blast came back from the northern cliffs, sweeping across the water and as it died away, it was if all sound and movement froze.
I stepped up to the top of the cabin, fully in view of the three paddlers, the Beretta held plainly in front of me. I could see them all clearly now; young, in their twenties, arms and shoulders muscular and covered in tattoos. They sat silently watching me; the gun had given them pause, but apparently not deterred them. It was very clear to me that what they’d come for, they still planned to take. The paddler in the center, the one carrying the woman, began slowly to come ahead, using small but steady motions. The woman lay curled onto her side, motionless, and I wondered if she were sick. If so, it hardly took a leap of insight to imagine with what. I raised the pistol and pointed it straight at him. They were at roughly twenty meters and that was a ridiculously long pistol shot, at least for me. I doubted I could actually hit him unless out of sheer luck and hoped he wouldn’t realize it.
And he did stop, looking over at the other two; something seemed to be exchanged between them and I watched as they both slipped the straps from their shoulders. What they’d been carrying on those straps finally became clear, and I stepped quickly down from the cabin roof, back into the cockpit. Keeping my eyes on them, I reached through the hatch for the Winchester. They had crossbows, loaded with arrow bolts; the newest ones were carbon fiber and travelled at near-pistol speed – and they probably had better accuracy at this range than I did with the Beretta.
I pulled the Winchester free, swung it out with one hand while I laid the pistol on the cabin roof with the other, then made a show of working the bolt, clearly ratcheting home a cartridge. I looked at the guy in the center, call
ing out in a voice I hoped was hard and cold.
“There are ten rounds in this clip. And trust me, I’ll use them. So just leave.”
It was as if I hadn’t spoken, and I saw that the two flanking boards continued to drift forward – in another ten meters they’d be positioned at ninety degrees on either side of me, no more than a fifteen-meter shot for either of them. I’d have to shoot one, rack another shell and swing completely around before the other guy nailed me with a bolt, and I had no illusions about my abilities.
I swung the rifle to the one swinging out around to our port side, centered the crosshairs on his board and pulled the trigger. The .308 sounded like a cannon after the Beretta, and again the noise of it seemed to freeze all action. I saw a great chunk of fiberglass and foam disintegrate where the bullet struck but realized immediately there’d been little damage done. I quickly worked the bolt, and swung the rifle up, straight at his chest. He held his hands out in front of himself, crossbow in one, paddle in the other. He slowly bent, eyes never leaving me, and laid the paddle down, then stood with the crossbow.
“Hey, easy mate,” he said. “No worries, yeah?” An Australian.
“Back away and leave, mate, and we’ll all have no worries.” He just grinned at me, standing easy and confident.
Some slight vibration, faint on the breeze behind me, registered in my head and too late I thought about the other flanker. I started to turn but the vibration became a hiss and I flinched as a bolt flew past my neck. Instinctively, I dropped to my knees, using the cockpit coaming as cover.
But I was pinned and needed to do something quickly. The center paddler was no immediate threat – he had no way to reach me with the cabin in front of me, and he was also the furthest out. The shooter on my right now needed to reload, so I had a few seconds in that direction. The Australian, however, had only to find a way to angle his shot into the cockpit and I’d find one of those bolts sticking through my chest. With no time to find him in the scope, I aimed instinctively and fired just as he was releasing a shot. The bullet went higher than I’d intended, striking him in the upper chest, spinning him around; the bolt he was shooting released wildly into the air. I whirled, saw the paddler on my right making for the starboard ama and instinctively grabbed the Beretta and fired three shots at him in quick succession. Even from no more than ten or eleven meters, two missed, but the last one hit him in the jaw. It didn’t kill him outright but took away the lower half of his jaw in a wet, red explosion and he dropped with a muted scream into the water, flailing for the board, blood spreading around him. Watching as if from above, I saw myself lay the Beretta down, pick up the rifle and chamber a round, watched as I aimed carefully and shot; watched with complete detachment as the back of his head mushroomed with the impact. In the stillness, he floated free, face down, trailing a stream of blood.
