I ended up using a pile of long, pointy auger shells left over from one of the old man’s soups. Twirling them with two palms, it was slow going in the light of a half moon. I broke four or five shells getting the hang of it. The key was to be patient and hardly put any pressure at all, just keep turning until the point wears down and you hafta switch to a new shell. After about an hour I hit pay dirt with a hole just wide enough for me to spit water inside. After spitting about a gallon, the last half with my lips pressed tight over the warm hole, I called the fire dead.
It’s the third night in a row that Gray Beard’s been gone. I’m glad he missed my fuckup, but do wonder where he’s off to. Can’t blame him for wanting to stay the hell away from this smelly camp. What were we thinking when we picked this lagoon? Who gives a shit if the tar is nearby? Here it is more than two months in and we’re nowhere near coating the hulls.
I was going to say we just made things miserable for ourselves, but who is ourselves? We made it miserable for ME. I’m the only person working on the damn boat. To be fair, the old man does help when I need an extra pair of hands or gotta lift something. Other than that, he’s off wandering and I’m left alone to breathe the crappy air and beat my head against an impossible deadline.
Part of me wishes the fire did get Leilani. The old man and I could paddle to Egypt in the kayaks, there’s time, or rig up a little catamaran and sail there. North America would be out the window, but would that be so bad? We’d follow the coast back to Rome in the kayaks, see some sights and still make it back in under a year.
Thoughts straight out of my ass. They sure ain’t from my head. The only thing I want less than a destroyed canoe is to disappoint my wife. For Maria’s sake, I’ve got to keep pushing forward.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Maria, even if you can’t hear me, maybe someday you’ll have a chance to listen to these transmissions and know how much I missed you. I think about you all the time. Even when I’m up to my eyeballs in the canoe project, juggling five things at the same time, you’re never far from my thoughts.
“If there was anything I could do to bring you back, even something crazy like burn the Leilani into a pile of ashes, I would do it in a heartbeat just to hold you again.
“The old man has talked me into going on a scout. I guess I complained too loud about his latest haul of tool-making materials. He told me he could not read my mind. ‘Show me what to look for,’ he said. I need a break so we’re going to go up into the hills to see if we can find some flint and sandstone.
“We’d have a better chance if you were going with us. I love you darling. Be safe.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Something’s bugging me. When Hunter, the asshole, said we had 135 days to meet him and Maria, was he talking 135 days from when he made the recording or 135 from when I heard it? He’s the one who delayed transmission for five days. I figured I had 135. Every morning I notch a palm stump to mark the days as they zoom by.
I can’t stop wondering if he meant 130. The son of a bitch, he never thinks about anybody but himself. I’ve listened to the recording a bunch of times and he never says for sure. To do this job right, I should have a crew of five or six guys and about eight months. I was going to say I only have half that time, but that’s not right either. We need to float her at the next big high tide and leave room to sail to the Nile and find the place he’s talking about.
My deadline for launch is 120 days from when we beached her at the super tide. That leaves 58 days from today. Damn it!
At this point, if we don’t count the six-inch-round hole I burned in her side, I haven’t done much more than give Leilani a good cleaning. The fire thing freaked me out, and the way my tools keep breaking has been a real bummer. I planned to mark out all the cuts I need to make and work on them at the same time. With the tools in the crapper, I’m concentrating on the rotten area where I burned my hole. If I can cut and scrape away the mushy wood to make a 26x7-inch rectangle, I’ve already got two nice pieces of redwood to glue in as a patch. As long as we went to the trouble to make all these blank inserts and bring them all the way from Italy, it would be a shame to not use at least two.
I’m not going to have time to mess with the other wormholes and cracks. We’ll repack them with cement before the hulls are tarred. All we can do is our best with what we have.
Old Man’s gonna learn to paint tar whether he wants to or not. He’s not a big fan of the project, grabs any excuse he can to bail out of here. He’s been after me to go on a scout with him. This month’s high tide’s already come and gone, my tools are shot, so I told him I’d do an overnighter up in the hills. He thinks he saw some flint flash up there and wants me to help him check it out.
I have all the flint I need. Hopefully we’ll find something else useful. The problem with my flint adzes and ax heads is they cause more harm than good. Every time I start whacking on Leilani, her cracks get longer and wider. The old gal likes the calm approach. Have I mentioned how much I wish I had a chain saw?
CHAPTER TWENTY
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “If Dirt Bag gives me any more backtalk like that, I will be forced to thrash him.”
Jones: “Must be tough being his stepdad, havin’ to set a good example and all.”
Bolzano: “I am not his stepfather.”
Jones: “Did I miss somethin’ or are you not shackin’ up with his mamma?”
Bolzano: “Show me a marriage license.”
Jones: “Just sayin’. . .”
Bolzano: “Go on, saying what?”
Jones: “Just sayin’ your stepkid is a real piece of work. Look at Mud Hen, squattin’ right next to him to piss. How many fucking times do we gotta tell these assholes? Goddammit, Mud Hen! Not in the middle of camp!”
Bolzano: “I fear your breath is wasted. Those two are dumber than a plate of risotto.”
Jones: “Fuck. Think it’ll rain today?”
Bolzano: “Not with these winds.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner
Tension abounds atop the dusty Palatine. The bellowing animal horde inches closer and grows more desperate to claim our water source by the day. At some point the riot will overcome its fear of our fires, flutes and spears.
Stress of the drought weighs particularly hard on our sulky natives. If I hear one more Mammoth Killer whine about evacuating north, I believe I might go insane.
As the importance of working together to maintain our tenuous hold on the water increases, the louts must practically be beaten to get them to leave the cave. Discord between us grows.
Our alliance began disintegrating the morning one of the newcomers had the grave misfortune of serving as breakfast for a mangy pride of lions new to Rome. The cats snuck in, grabbed him, ate him, and have not been seen since.
The boy’s two relatives have taken the loss very hard. The attack has put a scare into everybody. How could a brutal killing so close to home not inject a feeling of unease? The problem is, we cannot stop tending our fires or standing our ground. Jones and I may be witnessing Earth’s first sit-down strike.
The fearful brothers have convinced the Mammoth Killers the only proper thing to do is make a run to the glaciers of the north. Too incompetent and frightened to do it alone, they want us to come along.
Capt. Jones and I discussed their plan in private and agreed we would not cross the street with such a sorry bunch. It will be a long, treacherous trip through dry, denuded landscape only to arrive at the base of the Alps at the onset of winter where, I am sure, every cave and comfortable stand of pines will be long spoken for.
It must rain sooner or later.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Ticks me off, man! They shoulda left us one.”
Bolzano: “We discussed the matter before they cast off.”
Jones: “I know.”
Bolzano: “If
memory serves, you and I both signed off on Kaikane stowing all four kayaks.”
Jones: “What choice we have after he made his big speech?”
Bolzano: “Straight lines and lifeboats.”
Jones: “Fuck! We could really use a fucking water filtration system.”
Bolzano: “Even if you did have one, that would necessitate moving to the breezy, salty, carnivore-riddled coast.”
Jones: “Was thinkin’ the island would be a good place. Could paddle girls across one at a time, sit out the drought drinkin’ filtered water and eatin’ lobster every night.”
Bolzano: “You really have this little fantasy mapped out.”
Jones: “Sal, you ain’t the only one can think around here.”
Bolzano: “We could build a raft.”
Jones: “And end up in Africa.”
Bolzano: “I realized that idea was asinine while the words were still spewing from my mouth. What if the boors are right? Maybe we should go north.”
Jones: “Been thinkin’ about that too. Things get worse, might have to. Could write a note, tell Duarte and the gang to wait. We’ll be back.”
Bolzano: “We could draw them a map to the cave. Let them finish up, bury the computer and sail north to pick us up. They could rendezvous in Nice. It would be a lot quicker in the end.”
Jones: “And easier for us.”
Bolzano: “I had not thought of it that way.”
Jones: “Yeah, right. Ya trust the Mammoth Dicks enough to travel with ‘em so far?”
Bolzano: “I thought we might pull a Leonglauix.”
Jones: “Use ‘em and lose ‘em.”
Bolzano: “There will be many opportunities in the trek north to give them the slip.”
Jones: “Roger that.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner
Holy Macaroni, Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano needs a drink as badly as he has ever needed a drink. He does not want one, he needs one.
My hands will not stop shaking, which makes typing doubly hard. I do hope you readers appreciate my resolve to record today’s events while they are still fresh in my adrenaline-soaked brainpan. Mio dio, you are lucky I am alive!
Summer Wind and I were on firewood detail with Shitter and Pisser, collecting limbs shed by dying trees on the Palatine’s northern slope, when one of the louts directed our attention to the dusty flats. Following his point, we spied the red wolf leading a cloud of dust across Rome’s dry swamp bottom. Ears back, running for his skin, the red had less than 10 meters lead on a howling pack of gray and brown wolves. The pack is a relative newcomer to the region. It has been causing headaches around the waterholes since it arrived a moon or two ago.
My first instinct was to take Summer Wind by the arm and proceed post haste to the safety of Lupercal. Repeated blasts of a distinctive, piercing whistle forced me to stop and turn toward the edge of the swamp where Jones was running out of the brush brandishing his weapons.
Taking Summer by the shoulder, I said, “Find a tree to climb.” Shitter and Pisser received my sternest look. “Come with me.” I knew they would demur, but it was worth a shot.
And then I was running. Holding my heavy club in my right hand and three spears in the left, I parted milling bison, deer and other hopeful grazers with shouts and threats. Some 150 meters away from me and perhaps only 100 from the wolves, Jones slowed to a stop and prepared his defenses by arranging his bolts point-first into the earth. The red wolf and his pursuers were headed straight for him.
Stretching his throwing arm, rolling his shoulders, Jones loosened his aching joints and muscles for the battle to come. As his chiropractor, I knew just how much this was going to cost him. Undetected by the single-minded wolves, I approached the impending battle site from a 90-degree angle.
A scrape of feet to my rear caused me to whirl and find brave, valiant, steadfast Summer Wind running behind me with her stout walking staff clenched in one hand. As I had been expecting a pack of wolves when I turned, I felt far more relief than anger for her insubordination. Shitter and Pisser were nowhere to be seen.
There was no time to return her to safety. “Stay close,” I motioned in hand sign.
Jones let the pack get to within 40 meters before unleashing a barrage of seven bolts that brought down six wolves. Only his first bolt missed high. I expected the red wolf to . . . I really do not know what I expected the red wolf to do next, perhaps run past Jones and keep running. The massive beast had no intention of leaving my friend as a sacrificial lamb. Skidding to a halt in front of the captain, it turned to face the pack.
Three bolts Jones had held back were used to bring down what he identified as the alpha male, alpha female and the “biggest dog leftover.”
If the Captain thought eliminating the pack’s leadership would take the starch out of the rank and file, he was mistaken. The big red wolf met their charge head on. Slashing with his great canines, clamping down on attackers and killing them with violent shakes, he became the center of a snarling, growling whirlpool.
Grasping his atlatl two-handed like a cricket bat, Jones began bashing the beasts as they spun by. It wasn’t long before a portion of the pack peeled off to deal with him directly. Drifting to a stop unseen, I took aim. Two spear casts garnered two kills and bought Jones room to maneuver. How times change. When I arrived to the Paleolithic I could not throw a spear to save my life.
“You two, on me,” Jones shouted. “My left!”
Jabbing with spear and hacking with club, I led Summer Wind into the fray. I have a loathsome habit of grabbing more credit than I deserve. Summer Wind and her long shaft saved the day several times. Together, we fought our way to the storm’s bloody eye.
The wolves would pull back to lick their wounds, rally and charge once again. Abandoning their usual patience, vultures rained down from the sky to cover the dead and dying wolves. Small cats, dogs and other scavengers grabbed their shares.
Intermissions were used to gather atlatl bolts and spears in traditional Green Turtle fashion. Staying together, rushing forward as a group, we reclaimed our spent missiles in fits and starts. When he was not ripping out throats, the red wolf circled us, always ready to meet the attack.
He may have been twice as large as any of the remaining wolves, but they had him sorely outnumbered. Assaults came in waves of flashing teeth, narrowed eyes and bristling fur. The wolves would work up their nerve, yowling and snarling, fighting with each other, and then rush the red wolf. He was the prize.
Jones, Summer and I quick-launched whatever projectiles we had managed to gather, closed ranks, and did what we could to keep the pack from overwhelming our protector–basically bashing any scurvy wolf close enough to bash.
The first few skirmishes were pure chaos. My nearest brush came as I was delivering a two-handed smash to the crown of a wolf worrying Jones. Unseen by me, another had circled wide for a running leap at my back. With a wild jab of her staff, Summer Wind altered the wolf’s trajectory just far enough to keep his fangs from closing around my jugular.
Blindsided, I went from mid-swing to wrestling with a biting, kicking wolf. Instinct alone allowed me to grab its throat two-handed as it lunged for my face. Raking me with its long toenails, the wolf fought like a dervish to free its head and finish me off. Feeling it flinch beneath the pounding of Summer Wind’s staff, I held steady for her coup de grace to its spine.
As the enemy’s numbers and commitment dwindled, the red wolf began initiating the fighting. One of the milling wolves would circle too close and he would pounce. Our job became guarding his rear to assure there was no ganging up as he cleaned out all comers one or two at a go.
By the time the denuded pack tucked tail and ran, with the red alpha nipping at its heels, 24 wolf carcasses littered the cracked mud, some already flensed down to hide and bones.
On our return to Lupercal, Jones stopped by a wilted grove of trees to collect Flower. He was quite proud of her discipli
ne, how she listened to and obeyed her orders. “That’s what makes a good soldier,” he bragged.
Where would I be right now if Summer Wind had obeyed my orders? Holding a wolf by the neck, feeling its hot breath as long, yellow teeth gnash a hair’s breadth from my face, has left me with the shakes. If not for Summer Wind, my bones would be among those littering the flats. With just a wooden staff, she saved me.
Jones did not see me fall. Even if the leaping wolf did not kill me with the first bite, I would not have lasted long. Its mates would have pounced in seconds, ripping me to shreds and overwhelming Jones in the process. I can visualize just how it would have happened. Being eaten. What an awful way to die.
Like I said, I need a drink.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “What were ya thinkin? Bringin’ Summer like that?”
Bolzano: “I instructed her to climb a tree. She did not listen.”
Jones: “Lucky for us.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Rome Page 28