Humanaty's Blight

by LeRoy Clary

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes, it is. We arrived here yesterday and found they have a couple of fast motor cruisers just around the point, out of sight. We watched two boats try to slip past. Neither made it. The blockade acts like a funnel and takes you right to the others that are waiting.”

  Shouting across the distance was getting harder on my throat. It seemed the same for him. He said, “They sometimes come this far south in the speed boats, I’m surprised they haven’t come yet today. We were anchored at the south end of Marrowstone Island and watched you sail past. We’d have warned you but didn’t know if you were with them.”

  “Marrowstone?” I shouted.

  He pointed to the land almost beside us on the west side. I hadn’t realized it was an island, it looked like part of the mainland. The GPS would probably display it if I knew enough to enlarge or shrink the screen properly. We still didn’t want to mess with the settings too much for fear of losing what we had displayed. I’d made the choice to leave it alone since it showed what we wanted.

  He pointed south where they had anchored and called, “Sheltered place to anchor down there, and out of sight of those blocking that passage. Interested?”

  I was. Sue nodded her head eagerly. We turned and followed the other boat for five or six miles, then turned west where we were not exactly hidden but we were out of the main channel, and mostly out of sight. The trees and a tall hill helped hide the masts of both boats. The other boat anchored. I ran into the cabin, hit the power switch on the panel that said “anchor” and then went to the bow. Sue had the wheel and tried to keep us stationary.

  The anchor went over the side and the up and down controller was on a lead so I could hold it and watch as the anchor went down. It splashed into the water and chain fed out, then rope. It went slack when it hit the bottom. I let out more and then touched the stop button. The boat swung with the tide as it pulled against the anchor rope.

  We ended up closer to the other boat than intended. I wore my pistol but felt comfortable and most at ease with another boat and someone to talk with that knew the waters and how to sail. The same man called, “Can we come aboard?”

  If he was an enemy, he could have pulled a rifle or shotgun on us. It was a chance we shouldn’t have taken, but I felt semi-confident—and Sue had her shotgun ready. Without asking her about it, we were prepared for a gunfight.

  “Yes,” I called back. To Sue, I whispered, “Sneak into the bow cabin. Put your pistol between the seat cushions and make sure you sit there next to it. Wait inside, with your shotgun pointed out here and don’t be scared to use it. I will always stand to one side, so you won’t hit me.”

  The man said, “We think we are immune to the plague. Are you sure about yourselves?”

  That was a considerate statement and question for him to ask. The speed the flu had spread was incredible. One day it struck, and three days later nearly half the people in Arlington had been dead. After that . . . I reviewed what little I knew. It seemed that there hadn’t been any new people struck down after that first week.

  By then, I’d been in my mine tunnel, so things became confused since I hadn’t seen any more get sick. The bodies I’d seen had all died at about the same time. There were no fresh ones unless they’d been shot. I called back, “People got sick and died for about a week, then no more new cases of the flu that I know of. Am I right?”

  The man hesitated, then nodded. “No new cases after that for me either. I hadn’t thought of it until you mentioned it, but you’re right.”

  I motioned for him to come over while calling, “Come aboard.”

  On the other boat, he started to untie an inflatable. A small man joined him—the unseen partner from inside the cabin. While the tall man I’d spoken to seemed to be nautical in his movements, the shorter, wider man was giving the orders.

  They let the rubber boat slide off the top of their cabin roof, telling me they didn’t have the solar panels we did, or the boat would have blocked the sunlight. It splashed, and the man that had done the talking got nimbly in first. He wore a gun at his hip.

  The other man, the smaller of the two, wore a light jacket. When he tentatively attempted to step off the deck of the sailboat, the wind bloused out his jacket and revealed a shoulder holster. He awkwardly climbed into the inflatable and more fell than sat in his hurry to get in. The other took the oars and rowed.

  One sailor. One landlubber like me. They pulled up to our stern and I tied the little rope off and received an odd look from the taller of the two, the sailor I’d talked with. A squint of his eyes and a furrow of his brow that quickly disappeared. I assumed I’d either not used an approved sailor-knot or had tied it to the wrong thing and he disapproved.

  They came aboard, the taller man moving like a cat, the other almost falling into the saltwater with his awkwardness. Neither made a move to the cabin where Sue was hopefully in the bow sitting on the Vee-berth, the shotgun on her knees. I gestured at the seat across from me.

  The seating was in a U shape, the stainless-steel helm in the center. I sat to one side to give Sue her line of fire and told them my name. They sat in the rear, together. The taller of the two pulled a semi-automatic from his waistband, using only his thumb and index finger. He held it out to me. I took it and placed it on the seat beside me. It was a gesture of sincerity and I appreciated it.

  The sailor said as he jammed a thumb at his chest and then to the other, “Steve. That is Micky.”

  “Friends before the flu?” I asked, puzzled because they didn’t seem to fit together at all. Steve was over six feet, mid-thirties, slender, and comfortable in boats. Micky was five inches shorter, heavy, and older. Maybe nearer fifty. Micky didn’t talk much, and his attitude was sullen.

  And he had a hidden gun in a shoulder holster I’d seen under his windbreaker. One he hadn’t offered to me. For that, I distrusted him. And Steve hadn’t said anything about it, so again I wondered.

  Steve said, “No. I found him two days ago floating out in the bay in an aluminum boat with a small outboard, out of gas, no oars. He had the right idea about getting away from others on land, just didn’t know how.”

  The story made me think more of Steve, and less of Micky, who didn’t seem inclined to talk. Since Steve had surrendered his gun as a show of trust and was probably aware of Sue’s presence, I still waited for the other to offer the same, in which case I decided to refuse it and hand the other back to Steve. Trust must work both ways.

  It didn’t happen. Micky glowered and peered inside the cabin a few times. Sue was in his line of sight but in the dim interior, he couldn’t see her. She had probably partially closed the door to the bow-berth, leaving only enough for the shotgun to poke out. I decided that small talk was not my thing. Never had been. I wasn’t feeling like it now. “What can I do for you?”

  Steve said, “Maybe we can work together. There’s safety in numbers, and you may know things I don’t and the opposite.”

  The offer made sense, if true. However, a few things bothered me. “What can you help us with?”

  “May I be blunt?” Steve asked as Micky leaned back as if stretching, his eyes thoroughly searching the cabin without really trying to conceal his intent. It was insulting.

  “Please, do,” I said, shifting my position slightly so I could reach my holstered gun easier and faster, and the movement put me more out of the line of fire from Sue.

  “My boat is small and poorly provisioned. It was built for afternoon sails for my wife and me.” His voice choked when he mentioned his wife and his eyes watered. He went on, “I know how to sail. You don’t. I could teach you and you could share your boat and supplies with us. We’re out of water, food, and almost out of fuel.”

  I didn’t like the idea of two strange men moving aboard the Truant. I was jealous that Steve knew how to sail, and I didn’t trust the other who was still more interested in finding out of there were others aboard than joining in the conversation. I looked at Mikey and said, “What do you
bring to the party?”

  “What?”

  “Steve knows how to sail. I have a boat. You have offered nothing, and you seem distracted and unfriendly.”

  “Who’s here with you? I saw you talking to someone,” he demanded. “A woman holding a rifle, right?”

  My hand eased closer to my holster as I turned to better face him. “Listen, this is my boat. What right do you have coming here and talking to me like that?”

  Before I could react, he reached under his jacket and pulled his gun free. He swung it to point at me as I fumbled for mine. A shot rang out, a sharp crack right next to me. Neither Sue nor I fired it.

  Steve held a small gun dwarfed in his hand. A compact twenty-two or similar. He let it fall to the floor as he turned and barfed over the side. He was on his knees, his head puking into the water, his exposed back to me. My gun was in my hand.

  I looked to Micky, who was now slumped on the seat, arms held at odd angles, eyes wide open and lifeless. A tiny red hole just above his ear. Sue crept outside; the shotgun ready to defend me. She silently took in the scene and waited, the barrel on Steve.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his bare arm and turned, not surprised to find Sue there. His complexion had faded under his tan.

  I glanced meaningfully at the gun he’d surrendered to me when coming aboard, and then at the one he’d shot Micky with.

  “About that. I didn’t trust him. I kept a second gun in an ankle holster and palmed it when we came aboard. I had a feeling.” He kicked it across the floor in Sue’s direction.

  She remained stoic, her shotgun centered on his chest.

  “He would have killed me?” I said to Steve.

  Steve sighed. “Probably would have killed all three of us and lived aboard your boat right here until things quiet down. Plenty of supplies for one. As soon as I rescued him from that little outboard, he pulled a gun on me. He emptied the magazine of mine. Check it if you like. Did you hear all the gunfire earlier?”

  “It sounded like a small war.”

  He settled back and asked, “Have you been listening to the air?”

  “To what?” I asked.

  “The radio?”

  I ejected the magazine of the gun he had surrendered to me. It was empty. “Only Asian music and foreign talk are all that we can find. Do you know how to operate it?”

  He seemed puzzled. “CB? Marine?”

  I shook my head in confusion, then said, “Well, we did hear a little conversation just before you arrived, maybe a dozen words.” There had been talking on one of them, but with at least three radios to choose from, we needed common ground. His eyes went to the dead man. Mine followed.

  He said, “Can we work out a few things between us?”

  Sue growled; her shotgun still pointed at him. “Like what?”

  “No matter what else we agree to, or what we decide to do in the future, that body needs to go over the side. I’ve never shot a person and can’t think with it laying there accusing me of murder. It will take two of us to lift him.” He stood and stepped to where he could grab the dead man under his arms. I took the feet. Without thinking about it, we lifted him slowly over the side. He barely made a splash.

  Steve used his foot to slide Micky’s gun to the feet of Sue. I noticed it was another nine-millimeter semi-automatic, like ours. I realized we should have searched his body, and at least, taken the shoulder holster off him. He may have had other valuables.

  Steve reached down and thumbed a compartment I hadn’t noticed. A flap opened. He pulled a small hose wound on some concealed spring-loaded reel out and pushed a rubber green button. A small stream of water flowed. He quickly washed the blood away. “Saltwater,” he said as he shut it off and let the nozzle follow the hose back into the storage space.

  He said, “A boat this nice needs to be regularly washed with fresh water to keep the corrosion down, but we don’t want to waste the freshwater that’s in your tanks. No telling when you can replace it.”

  Sue flashed me a stern look. She was not ready to give up her shotgun yet.

  Steve ignored her. “Can we go inside and check out the radios?”

  “You asked if we were listening. That meant something,” I said.

  “The CB. Those boats ahead with the blockade have been chatting on it. That’s how we knew you were there. And how they knew.”

  “They were waiting for us?”

  “Wagering on when you’d make a break for the opening, is more like it. One group bet you’d try to run it in daylight, the other thought you’d wait until after midnight.”

  I’d planned on making my run at three in the morning. The second group would have won. We’d have lost.

  Sue lowered the shotgun. “Can you show us how to use it? The radio, I mean.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Steve went into the cabin first. I picked up the other nine-millimeter and slipped it into my waistband. From the heft, it held a full magazine. He eyed everything appreciatively and turned directly to the desk area where the radios and electronics were. He stood and admired it all, then said, “Do you have any inkling of the kind of boat you’ve stolen?”

  The word, stolen didn’t sound negative. I answered, “No.”

  He waved a hand over the mounted electronics as if he was a priest blessing it. “This is my dream.”

  He reached out and turned on a radio after pointing to the solar panel. “Thirteen-six volts charging, two batteries?”

  “Four,” I answered.

  He whistled softly in appreciation. Nothing came from the radio. He changed a dial, made an adjustment or two, and turned to the one above it. He said, “Nothing on that one. Not even the marine broadcast of weather. Tell me about the music.”

  Sue pointed to the shortwave.

  His eyes almost glowed when he realized what it was. He played with it and got snips and bursts of odd music, strange talking, and nothing else. The CB he’d turned on first, suddenly burst forth, “Where is it?”

  “Went south with another sailboat,” a different voice answered.

  “Send someone down there if they don’t show up by dark.”

  Steve said, “They’re talking about us. We can try to hide or sail away. I doubt they’ll go too far south looking for us. Fuel will be a concern for them. Hard to replace.”

  “Hiding our mast is hard,” I said. “Not many coves and sheltered places along the shore where we can pull in and hide.”

  “Against the land, like we are, you’d be hard to see us at night. But better to go south where you’re out of their sight.”

  Sue said, “They have those boats lined up in a row to force us to go past them on the left. They probably don’t even have people on them. Just anchored them and probably have chains from one boat to the next.”

  Steve said, “The water there is about thirty fathoms. You’re right. They anchor or tie the boats together and leave them. Funnel any boats past the point of land where they have the ambush set up. The people on the radio are also talking with spotters on land and other boats, and their attack-boats are hidden around the point. Lying in wait. We think they were talking about your boat earlier. It’s worth ten of the others.”

  “Fathoms?” I asked. The word was familiar, but I had no idea how much one was.

  “Six feet,” Steve replied in a tone that sailors seem to use when they have to explain something to those of us who live on the land.

  “Then just say it in feet. I don’t know why you sailor-types have to use language like that. The water is like a hundred and fifty feet deep.”

  Sue cried. “Never mind that. What makes them want to ambush us?”

  Steve faced her. “Think about it. They have fast motorboats, probably cruisers. They need fuel, food, water, and whatever. Lots of fuel to run those boats. Most people going up to the islands have those things required for survival. They prepared and filled their boats with all they need but can’t defend their boats against a fast cruiser with eight or ten armed men
. It’s a lot safer to be a pirate than being on land and not knowing what’s waiting for them around the next corner.”

  “If the boat going north has enough men and guns to protect themselves, they just speed away,” I said the words while thinking that a sea battle might be our only hope. “They prey on the small and the weak.”

  “Exactly. They have set themselves up nicely to steal what they want. Eventually, they will probably run out of food or water, or patience, and kill each other while drinking whiskey. Or new leadership will cause internal strife and they will assassinate each other. Men in a group like that won’t last a month.” He almost spat the last words.

  “We don’t have a month to wait,” I snapped in a harsher tone than intended.

  His tone changed slightly, becoming mysterious. “Then, why not go to the islands another way? You seem so sure they are your sanctuary, right? Why try to go past the blockade and face them?”

  That had my attention in several different ways. Reaching the islands where we wanted to hide meant passing the blockade, and I was not going to attempt going around on land. That was far too dangerous. Besides, we wanted to live on the boat. He also seemed to doubt our intentions as he had stressed the word, sanctuary. I decided to tell the truth. “We want to live on the boat until things settle down. Avoid others.”

  He sat in the chair at the desk, his eyes roaming the displays, switches, readouts, and the like, most of which I knew nothing about. He seemed to recognize and understand most, if not all. Besides my inadequacies in sailing, he was a few years older and more at ease in the presence of others.

  It made sense to join together—except for two items. He had hidden a gun from me and used it to kill another human sitting a few feet from me. Those two things were hard to overcome. While I was beginning to like him, the doubts persisted.

  I said, “You mocked sanctuary as our destination. Why?”

  He held up empty palms as a way to apologize. “Hey, your idea is a good one. Better than almost anybody who stayed on land—but it’s not original.”