Cuddles

by Dennis Fueyo

  Sam pointed the gun at the golf cart’s hood and squeezed the trigger. A hammer popped. No cap fired. “Empty.”

  “You asshole!” Shaquan smacked Sam’s elbow. They jibed each other for another minute, peppering in some chuckles and non-obscene hand gestures before silence overtook the little cart.

  Shambles, lean-tos, and storage houses were empty; not a tribal soul walked under the cloud-streaked sky. Sam stretched his neck to capture stray sun rays, and Shaquan waved his hand over what little breeze could be felt from the sputtering vehicle’s blistering 15 mph speed.

  A jumbled voice vibrated the cart’s radio, “School House to Wanderer, come in?”

  Sam plucked the radio from his belt and replied, “Wanderer, go ahead, School House.”

  “We got a named storm crossing Bermuda. Tropical storm Ben. Over.”

  Shaquan hissed “figures” under his breath.

  Sam asked, “How many days, School House?”

  “About five, if it doesn’t swing north. Over.”

  “Do we have a Bermuda High?”

  “Affirmative, Wanderer, and a steady northern Jetstream. Over.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to reply by saying over?” Shaquan asked.

  Sam turned to Shaquan and deadpanned, “Whatever, over. Seriously, man, tell me what you think. If this storm hits Georgia first, they will attack soon. Maybe tonight. It swings towards the Carolinas, and they will wait for Ben to do their work.”

  “Maybe we should do Contingency Outpost 31? Those cutters smashed New Wrightsville like the buildings were made of sand.”

  “Maybe.” Sam ran his hand through his shaggy hair and hmphed. “We can always rebuild.” Handling the radio, he said, “School House, this is Wanderer. Notify the Elder, Contingency Outpost 31 is under consideration.”

  “Come again, Wanderer?”

  “Contingency Outpost 31. Over and out.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Juan Delgado led Lou and Tom off the dock to dry land. Each hunched over carrying two scuba tanks and neoprene rubbing between their thighs. Morning drizzle cleared, letting sun rays down over their backs. Gobs of sweat dripped off their chins.

  “I’ll give you guys a watercannon,” Juan said as he strained to rest the tanks on their sides. He unsheathed two .50 caliber pistols coated in a thick layer of plastic. “These are M1911s engineered to use underwater. Their owners no longer need them. These work above the surface as well, but on land, their accuracy is for shit.”

  Tom inspected the cartridge and asked, “Are these shells and casings plastic?”

  “Verdad patron. We make them on our 3D printers over at the library. A guy who designed plastics before the Wash made them. He worked at a factory near where I40 ends in Wilmington. Designed our tools, utensils—you name it, he made it.”

  “Incredible! Can I meet him later?”

  “Sorry, my friend. He’s dead.”

  Sam and Shaquan carted up in the little beige vehicle, waving to their friends. Hopping out, Sam gave Tom an enormous hug. “Hi, Dad.”

  Tom asked Shaquan, “How did you wrestle him off the pile of death?”

  “Oh, I have my ways, Dr. Mason,” he replied and rubbed the back of his head. “He’s a little piss-ant, but a survivor. How you feeling?”

  “Better, now.” Tom stroked Sam’s shaggy hair. “Probably was not Shaquan’s visit jogging your spirit, Son, am guessing. Someone else’s maybe?”

  “What the hell!” Sam squawked and poked his father’s belly. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “She is over at Med C, checking on the wounded.”

  “Whatever. Emelia is a Stone. Even if she is different, not like old man Arnold, I do not trust her. Juan, give me a sit-rep.”

  Juan tossed his gear into a vat of freshwater. “They’re waiting for something.”

  “You ok?” asked Sam. Juan looked tired, and his biceps spasmed when he lifted gear.

  “Been better, but yeah, I’ll live. Abu reported jackers are crowding the Cape Fear River’s shores, but no engagement. The hottest spot is still I17. Labs are all destroyed. Tawney’s purifying the last batch of antibiotics Shaquan prepped.”

  “We got it done,” Shaquan added.

  Juan continued, “Elder Chauncey’s at the university overseeing defense reinforcements. We lost most generators around the northern and eastern blocks. Power is strained too tight. Printers locked away in downtown are working fine, but the plastics worm died in the shelling.”

  Tom asked, “Worm?”

  “Worms are librarians or educators, but in his case, both an engineer and a professor. Keepers of knowledge, right, like a worm in an apple.” Refraining from delivering a scolding to Sam, he sneered as he went on, “Some pendejo set off our primary defenses the other night on the first assault and almost got me killed. That failsafe lit up a Christmas tree for those fuckers telling them most of our traps are sprung. Next assault will be up close and personal.”

  “Sorry, man,” Sam demurred.

  “Forget it. I say to them, bring it. Homey, I must have downed at least thirty jackers before they fell back, and Team Coral took out a fuck-ton of them.”

  Stroking his scruffy goat tee, Sam asked, “Any idea what those ships were?”

  “Yeah,” Shaquan answered, “Frank Patterson’s girl had some ideas. She used to be military.”

  “Who is she?” Juan asked.

  “Jennifer Patterson. She’s a Guardian over on river watch. Frank’s working kitchen duty on campus.”

  Sam tapped a finger glaring at Shaquan.

  Shaquan then prodded Sam’s rib, buckling him over in a giggle. “I know you asked a question, chief, I’m getting to it. She said those were Coast Guard cutters fitted with 5” cannons. If the military supported them, we would not be standing here having this conversation. Don’t know how, but they jacked the ships. Jackers, man.”

  Sobering up, Sam remarked, “They had help. Makes no sense, they turned their own soldiers to a pile of human wax. Who could possibly fund those animals?”

  Turning to Juan, he continued, “Well, we know what they have, and they may not need to bring their A-game. A named storm formed near Bermuda, Tropical Storm Ben. We have about five days.” He turned, steadied himself back to the cart, leaving a round of mumbled curses lobbed at Ben, and called in on the radio, “Wanderer to Med C, report.”

  A static voice replied, “This is Med C, what’s up, master hunter?”

  Sam thought, Why does this war press its elbows so deep down in my shoulders? My job is simple, fight the enemy. Am I nervous about being around…Sam, quit acting like a child. “Send Emelia Stone to Bridge Tender, over.”

  The others doled out sarcastic “ooo’s” and ribbing.

  “Shut it! Med C, did you copy that?”

  “Affirmative, Wanderer, she’s on her way.”

  Juan glibbed, “Need some alone time, jefe?”

  “We need her on the boat with us.”

  They stopped snickering.

  Sam’s friends, his father, they all could read his body language and knew he plotted something fierce.

  Cicadas chirped on, rising in pitch with Juan’s heartbeat.

  Shaquan blinked perspiration from his eyelids.

  Lou and Tom nervously exchanged glances.

  Ocean waves crashed down eroding the shore nearby. Even days away, Ben had started making its presence known to Wilmington.

  Juan asked, “Come again, master hunter?” Not jefe this time. Sam was serious.

  “Grab your gear and suit up,” Sam ordered, “we will head out into the sound.”

  Tom held out his arms, father to son: “Sammy, we will scout the coast, right?”

  “Dad, this is what’s going to happen. Those ships returned to Virginia, stocked up with ammo, and are heading back here. When they near Emerald Isle, the jackers will make a final push. They will draw fire away from the coast. Those cutters will get in close and shell further inland hitting our hospitals and research
centers. Weak and spread out, we will retreat into the university. Cutoff from resupplying, they will hold us until we starve to death. Or surrender.”

  “If hurricane Ben lands on Georgia,” Shaquan reminded him.

  “Too risky to wait. The jackers win either way as long as they steer those ships.” Sam placed both hands on Tom’s shoulders and said, “This is it, Dad. This is where we need your skills. Emelia sabotages one cutter, making a jacker shell the hull. You and us spotters take out the other. Lou takes care of smaller patrol boats.”

  Lou puffed air, flapping his lips. “Sam, I’m having trouble visualizing my role in this plan.”

  “Son”—Tom tilted his head—“Lou is good in a firefight, but you ask for a battle on the ocean. I agree with him, how do you picture this playing out?”

  Sam cracked his knuckles and asked, “You control animals, right, Lou?”

  “Sort of. I give them sensations, and they react.”

  Sam looked at his dad, the movie buff, and handled the radio, “Wander to Guardian Fear, over?” Holding a palm over the receiver, he murmured to Tom, “The jackers are going to need a bigger boat.”

  Tom raised a cartoonish smile acknowledging Sam’s plan.

  A deeper voice piercing radio buzz replied, “Guardian Fear to Wanderer, receiving.”

  “Send over Abu Zaid and Sheila Briggs to Bridge Tender. Request military-grade weapons. Seven, well supplied. Over.”

  “Received, Wanderer. Understood.” The deep voice paused and added, “God speed.”

  Chapter 16

  Ocean swells increased as the hurricane crawled closer to the Southeast Coast. The thirty-foot charter boat rocked its passengers across the deck, sending loose gear sliding under donning chairs and into the cabin. Soft rain swirled into Sam Mason’s face while he viewed a radar screen; a boat-shaped icon pointed north on the display.

  Juan Delgado and Shaquan White scrambled to clear dive weights off the deck. Abu Zaid sat in a donning chair sharpening his knife, not bothered by the buffeting whitecaps. Tom Mason and Sheila Briggs grasped metal bars affixed to the cabin ceiling, tilting in synchronization. Emelia Stone squatted holding the center deck handle with eyes closed, mentally searching for distant ships.

  Lou Frasier slammed against the starboard walkway handle and vomited over the side. “This is hell, Doc. When are we getting in the water?”

  The ocean breeze wafted smells of vomit and breakfast into the cabin. Sheila bolted out and hurled opposite Lou over the port railing.

  Sam remained fixed on the screen. “They might be waiting near Surf City. Or docked at old Camp Lejeune.”

  Abu hollered, “If they’re not at Surf City, we need to turn back. The New River delta is an ideal defensive position. That mass of thunder cells is blowing in from the southwest. Sam, even Surf City is too far from Wilmington—we should turn around at Topsail.”

  “If the jackers are going to wait out the hurricane, they’ll be in the New River delta. We need to get a closer look. If they wait at the river mouth, we can call in Contingency Outpost 31 without risk to our people.”

  “Are you out of your mind!” Abu yelled and hobbled over to him. “Outpost 31?”

  Juan sat into a donning chair looking as if peering into his own grave. Shaquan sat down next to him and set a comforting arm around his shoulders. Juan then pushed face down into his hands.

  Stumbling towards the captain’s dash, Tom asked, “What is it? What is this Contingency Outpost 31?”

  No one responded, slipping into a numbing silence.

  “Son? You mean like in the movie, The Thing? They were stationed at Outpost 31. Is that a reference to the end of the movie?”

  Abu shook his head and replied, “You are a movie buff, aren’t you, Dr. Mason.”

  “So, what does it mean?” Tom asked.

  “It means”—Sam spat out salty residue from his mouth—“we evacuate and destroy Wilmington before the jackers begin the next assault. Blow the purifiers, demolish the labs and library, and raze the greenhouses. If carried out before an attack, the tribe can evade the jackers and those bastards will conquer nothing but sand and wood rot.”

  Tom drove a thumb into his forearm, speechless, rubbing tendons.

  Sam continued, “We knew this day was coming, Dad.”

  “Where will your people go?”

  “They will head to Raleigh and apply for government assistance. There is a guy there, Commander Andy Ochoa. He offered to set up our tribe with assisted living in Asheville, should this day come. If the Divers show up in Raleigh, he launches a massive airstrike on Wilmington to retake the city.”

  “Ochoa, huh?”

  Lou shook awake from motion sickness and rocked over to the huddling group. “Andy Ochoa? What about him?”

  Tom asked, “Does he know you plan to do this, Sammy?”

  “In the event Outpost 31 may occur, the old college will radio ahead to Fort Dix. Gives them notice we plan to evacuate.”

  “No, I mean, does he know you plan to immolate the city?”

  “He thinks the city will be intact, so he will execute strategic strikes. If I told him we were going to destroy Wilmington, he would never help us.”

  “He is a dangerous man, Sammy. You are playing a dangerous game.”

  “He is a God dammed idiot! If he were smarter, he would have taken the jackers at the Virginia border. All those HP109s? He had tribal currency, Dad. That dumb-ass could have taken back Carolina a year ago.”

  Tom stumbled backward in shock, caught by Lou. Softly slapping Tom’s arm, Lou asked, “Doc? Doc? You ok?”

  “Lou, did Jonathon Stone ever consider drafting friendly tribes for a direct assault on the jackers?”

  “I never heard him mention it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Isn’t it generally accepted knowledge all tribes hate the swamp stompers?”

  “In recent days, but one or two years ago?” Tom leaned over and massaged his neck. “It would not be like Jonathon to sit idle. He is an ass, but I remember Emelia said he is a humanist. And he prefers a knife fight to political subterfuge.”

  Lou asked, “Maybe he did think of it and was ordered to stay put?”

  “Hard to imagine a Stone listening to anyone. Maybe someone has a leash around him?”

  “I think so,” Lou gravely replied.

  Sam yelled out, “Here they come!”

  Dozens of small sportfishing boats rigged with armor and machine guns dipped through white capping waves speeding towards the charter boat. In a flurry of movements, Sam increased throttle and twirled the wheel, setting a course congruent with the oncoming menace. Behind the armada, two Coast Guard cutters, engines patient and calculating, approached flashing deck lights in Morse Code.

  Sam yelled, “Gear up, you know what you have to do!”

  “Yeah,” Juan bellowed, “Lou and Emelia do, but we can’t get close to those things! That’s a fleet of leisure boats, homey.”

  Sam’s stern look scanned the jacker fleet. “We will pick them off, one by one!”

  Tom looked up to Sam as if facing defeat.

  “Come on, Dad, I need you at your best! Juan, cover Emelia. The rest of you prepare your gear!”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The surprise attack was Sam’s defining moment, and he knew it. He was master hunter, chosen for quick thinking and fast reflexes. His team was superior, each capable of taking out fifty jackers before falling, and he had Tom’s reinforcements—each as strong as a hundred of the enemy. The sweet taste of their skills two days ago still lingered in Sam’s mind. What his dad litigated back near Elizabethtown was correct; facing jackers in Wilmington was the tactically superior solution. Defending Raleigh would be a mistake.

  Clearly, someone more cash-flush than the United States government funded the horde. Dominating the water trade, the enemy could pinch Raleigh off from Asheville and Charlotte. Then, shave away armaments at their leisure. Here, the Divers could dent enemy forces, making a stand in
a familiar environment and commencing Contingency Outpost 31. Maybe his father’s observations of Sam’s behavior were also correct.

  Sam observed Emelia shielding her eyes from ocean spray as she assessed the approaching jackers. Flashes of lightning from the approaching thunder cell reflected off her cheeks. She caught him ogling her and laughed. Then, a voice seeped into his thoughts, Don’t worry Sam, I like you, too.

  You do?

  Once a person gets past that cocky, macho shell, you’re quite pleasant. I have been in your dreams.

  “What the hell!” His lips twisted into a frown. Are you kidding? What did you see?

  I saw a sunrise, golden and bright. Under it stood elders from all the tribes shaking hands. Your mother stood behind you, gleaming. I watched my father present himself and hug you.

  Sounds nice. You did not see anything — you know — unsavory?

  Nothing sexual, if that’s what you mean. But there was something else. Something dark, in a fog. It kicked me out of your dream.

  What was it?

  I don’t know. It was not evil, but it felt irritable. Expecting something.

  I wonder if-

  A crackling, fuzzy voice announced, “Hello? Are you on this channel?”

  Sam swiped up the handle, “This is Wanderer, over?”

  “Wanderer,” the voice remarked. “What, like in that video game, Fallout?”

  Sam’s brow furled. “Who the hell is this?”

  “This is the man who is going to end your life, Samuel Thomas Mason.”

  “Bring it, you f—”

  “Put Emelia on.”

  “What?”

  “Put—Emelia—on. Are you both stupid and arrogant? Run along, Sammy. Time’s a-ticking.”

  Emelia reached over to take the handle, but Sam pulled it away and berated, “Now, you listen to me, you motherf—”

  “Fine, we’ll do this the hard way.”

  Sam screamed, dropped the handle, and pressed both hands into his head, holding his brain from shattering. It felt as if two school buses had rammed against each eardrum.

  Abu, Juan, Shaquan, and Sheila all bellowed in pain, wrapping arms over their heads. They struggled, holding their ears as though keeping their brains from exploding outwards. Emelia, Lou, and Tom were unaffected.