The End of the World Survivors Club

by Adrian J. Walker

  Ed switched off the radio. I made for the deck, pushing through the others who were listening at the ladder. I looked around, heart thumping. The wind was still up, the moon bright, we could see everything.

  ‘He’s behind us,’ I said. ‘He’s coming.’

  ‘How far?’ said Maggie.

  ‘I don’t know, but he was in the same wind as us today, and he knows we’re at the Azores.’

  ‘Why the hell did you tell him that?’ said Richard.

  ‘I didn’t fucking tell him, he just knew. I don’t know how.’

  I ran to the stern and stared out at the eastern horizon. There was nothing but black and stars. I turned.

  ‘It’s bright tonight, and the wind’s still strong. We could sail.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous, especially with these rocks. We don’t know what the rest of the islands are like.’

  ‘Then we go around them.’

  ‘Beth,’ said Maggie, ‘you said it yourself, this is the last dry land until we reach Florida. There might be supplies on there, fuel, water.’

  ‘Fuck the supplies, we’ve got plenty between us. ‘

  Richard rubbed his neck. ‘I agree with Maggie. It wouldn’t take long to search that town. We could get up early.’

  I faced him. ‘Listen to me. I don’t want to go onto the island. I don’t want to go on one of your scavenging trips. I feel stupid that we’ve even been sitting here chatting and eating fucking nuts and drinking when we could have been pushing on. That’s what I want to do – push on. No stopping, just moving. I won’t eat, if that helps. I won’t eat, not until I find my children.’

  The deck was silent.

  ‘You stay, then,’ I said at last. ‘We’ll go. Maybe it’s better that we do this on our own anyway. Right, Ed?’

  I turned to him. Looking back, I think I was expecting some hesitation, but he was already on his way to the Elma. ‘Right.’

  Richard breathed a sigh. ‘And wait here for that maniac to catch us up? No thanks. Come on, everyone, let’s get ready to sail.’

  Dani and Josh immediately snapped to their tasks, while Maggie tidied away the table and candles.

  Richard turned to Bryce, who was still sitting on the bench. His face had turned white. ‘I’m going to need everyone’s help though. All eyes ahead to watch for obstacles. OK, Bryce?’

  Bryce looked up, and gave the smallest shake of his head. ‘I can’t, Dick. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I help,’ said Carmela. ‘Bryce OK on his own.’

  Richard clapped his hands. ‘Right. We’re going to motor round the coast and hope the wind’s still strong enough to carry us west. Chop-chop!’

  Ed started the Elma’s engine, and as we motored away he took the helm from me.

  ‘You’ve had whisky,’ I said. ‘It’s safer if I drive.’

  He glanced at me with one steely eye. ‘I didn’t touch a drop.’

  Chapter 23

  We left the Azores in the opposite fashion to how we arrived – in darkness, afraid and uncoordinated. Our anchors snagged on weed, our ropes and muscles were stiffer, our movements sluggish. By the time we finally pulled away I was sure I could hear the drone of a distant engine beneath every zip, clang and rattle the two boats made.

  After a hurried scan of the chart, we made a plan to pass south between the island’s west shore and its neighbour, São Jorge, a sliver of land far enough away not to pose any problems. We followed Terceira’s northern coast, keeping our distance from the rocks. The Buccaneer roamed ahead, and Ed and I stood silently at the helm listening to Richard’s frustrated rumbles and slurs across the water. Bryce had retreated to his room, and Carmela was attempting to help Maggie but seemed only to be getting in her way. Josh’s nerves, and the dark, made his fumbles worse than usual, and even Dani moved with less confidence.

  ‘It’s not too late to turn back,’ said Ed.

  I turned to him, our faces clay-white. I wanted to test him; a strong and familiar urge, I realised, though I couldn’t decide whether it was to prove him wrong or right.

  ‘Do you want to?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he replied, looking straight ahead. ‘I want to keep going, with you.’

  ‘I’ll sit at the front then,’ I said. ‘Keep a lookout.’

  I picked up my broom and pulled myself up onto the deck. As I did I brushed his shoulder and I sensed his hand reach for me, but I had already passed before it could make contact. I glanced back with an awkward half-wave of acknowledgement. He smiled in understanding and I found my way to the stern, where I looped my legs through the guard rail.

  I was secretly relieved to be away from the helm. My foot and ankle were both buzzing like live wires, and the prospect of standing through the night was not something I wanted to dwell on. I stretched out my leg, massaging the thigh and trying in vain to work the blood into an even flow.

  I knew there was something wrong. It just wasn’t a priority, though part of me suspected it wouldn’t be long before it was.

  We were still only halfway along the northern coast when I felt us veering to port.

  ‘Why are we turning?’ I called back.

  ‘We’re not.’ The engine strained. Ed braced himself against the wheel. ‘There’s a current; a strong one.’

  The Buccaneer was banking in the same direction, and the water was marbled with thick eddies.

  ‘Something …’ Maggie’s nervous voice drifted across. ‘There’s something ahead.’

  I strained to see past the bigger boat’s hull, but there was only a dark patch in the water.

  Maggie made a noise. ‘Oh – oh, my goodness.’

  Just then, Dani shot across to the starboard side and ejected an arc of vomit over the side. She held her mouth, still heaving, then stifled a sob.

  Josh and Richard stood looking over the starboard side.

  ‘Don’t look,’ he said, but it was too late.

  We were passing by an enormous clump of what looked like rotten green weed, timber and tangled netting. A small cloud that had been smothering the moon drifted away, and in the fresh light we saw the entirety of the object. Human bodies were embedded in the weed. They were not yet skeletons. What had been flesh and clothing hung in tatters from torsos, limbs and skulls, and we could see quite plainly the features on every face that passed. One – a woman’s – sat waist-deep in the wet, furry matter with her arms before her and her head lowered, as if reading in bed. One of her eye sockets still had an eye, looking sadly down at the space where the book should have been.

  I pulled in my legs. The current was dragging us towards it.

  ‘Ed. We need to go starboard, now.’

  ‘The current’s too strong, the engine’s not powerful enough to escape it!’

  ‘Then I’m raising the sail.’

  ‘Too dangerous, the wind’s strong and if we lose control then we’ll plough straight into the rocks.’

  ‘We don’t have a choice. Carmela?’ I called across to the Buccaneer’s stern.

  ‘Si?’

  ‘Tell Richard and Maggie –’ I performed a hoisting mime ‘– I’m raising the sail.’

  ‘Si,’ said Carmela, and hauled herself across to the helm.

  Progress with the sail was slow, my lower leg having resumed its vibrations, but I managed to raise it and the wind took it. The current, outraged, fought back. The Buccaneer was already clear, its mainsail carrying it away without protest, but the Elma was now stationary, caught in a furious tug of war between the opposing wills of wind and water. The hull groaned and the mast creaked. The floating graveyard lurked near, seeming to call us to it and the rocks beyond.

  ‘Beth? Beth, what do we do?’

  I looked at it all – the balance of forces within which we were snared. The wind was constant, free of gusts. The water, however, was full of moving parts. I gripped the guard rail, following the moonlit contours of the current’s swirls around the boat.

  ‘We have to go nearer,’ I said. ‘L
et go. Hard to port, when I say.’

  ‘But we’ll—’

  ‘Ed, trust me.’

  He paused, but not for long. ‘OK.’

  ‘Now.’

  I let the boom swing, Ed released his grip, and the little boat spun helplessly towards the weed.

  ‘Please,’ I said, watching the current’s course. ‘Please.’

  As I had hoped, the current veered sharply to the right, rocketing us away from the weed. I let the boom swing starboard once again, and locked it with my feet against the cabin wall. I cried out in pain as my leg jarred.

  ‘Starboard, Ed. Now!’

  The wheel spun, the boat lurched, and with a fresh gust of wind our course was locked. We were free of the current and I could feel the island’s monstrous grip relinquishing as we sped towards the Buccaneer.

  I tethered the mainsheet.

  ‘That was amazing,’ said Ed.

  I looked back, breathing hard, and smiled.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  I smiled, nodded and crawled back to the stern. My leg felt better stretched out, so I lay on my front like a sniper, with pools of water cooling my neck as I looked ahead. There was a storm on the horizon. Distant flashes of lightning reflected in the water, as if the sky and the sea were locked in an embrace, sharing a memory.

  I must have slept because night became day without me noticing. I lifted my head. We had stopped, and all around us was a flat, yellow-green haze of sky and sea. The horizon was obscured but one half of it was engulfed with black, flashing cloud. There was no wind. The water was deathly calm. Its surface steamed like the reedy banks of a pungent lagoon. The Black Buccaneer floated alongside us, sails down and empty decked, like a ghost ship.

  Ed was still at the Elma’s helm, heavy-eyed but awake. He leaned with his forearms on the wheel.

  ‘You’ve caught the sun,’ I said. ‘You look brown.’

  His brow twitched. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No, I mean it. You’re pale. Do you feel all right?’

  No. I did not. The cold prickles on my skin were not just because of the moisture in the air. The painful shivers in my back were not because I had been lying outside all night. I could no longer feel my toes. Not a fizz.

  But I didn’t want to talk about it.

  Apart from a brief period in Arthur’s first six months when I believed he had every condition known to medical science, I am the opposite of a hypochondriac. It’s not that I’m in denial; I’m well aware of the biological cataclysms ready to drag me and my loved ones into the grave as soon as possible, and I’m not suggesting that mere positive thinking is going to save me from them. But there’s one thing I’m certain of – you give something a name, you start talking about it: it exists.

  And right then, whatever was going on south of my sock did not need to exist.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘You should get some rest.’

  ‘No, I’m all right. You go.’

  ‘There’s no point both of us being tired. One up, one down, remember?’

  We used to say this after Alice was born. You take shifts, one sleeps while the other’s awake.

  ‘Besides,’ I said, looking around at the still water, ‘doesn’t look like there’s much happening right now.’

  Ed pushed himself from the helm, smiling. ‘One up, one down.’

  As he passed, our shoulders brushed and I pulled his neck towards me, kissing him on the soft, stubbled flesh between his ear and jaw. He breathed out, and it felt like something departed him. Or us.

  There was a noise from the other boat, and Richard emerged from the cabin with a steaming mug in one hand and the chart in the other.

  Ed squeezed my wrist. ‘Wake me when things pick up, OK?’

  I nodded and he went below deck.

  Over on the other boat, Richard slurped coffee with his head buried in the map.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I called across.

  He didn’t look up. ‘Asleep.’

  ‘Any idea where we are?’

  He blew out in frustration. ‘It was hard to keep track of our bearings last night, but I’ve got a fair idea. The currents around those islands took us all over the place, and we must have been sailing for three hours before the wind fell, after which we just drifted. I think our bearing needs to adjust by … two degrees south.’

  I checked the compass and scanned the horizon.

  ‘That puts us right into that,’ I said, nodding to the storm clouds in the west.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it does … Beth?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He kept his eyes on the map and his voice low, like somebody making a passing remark while reading a newspaper.

  ‘I’m sorry. About last night. I’d like to blame it on the whisky but that’s no excuse. I was thoughtless and clumsy, and I’m sure it –’ he puffed again ‘– whatever it was, was the furthest thing from your mind. Please, forgive me.’

  He gripped the map tight, and his jaw tighter.

  ‘There’s no need,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to forgive. So don’t think on it.’

  Only then did he look up.

  ‘Christ,’ he said when he saw me, ‘you don’t look well.’

  I held up a hand before he went further.

  ‘Just tired,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure? You look like death on a plate. Come on.’ He put down his mug and chart. ‘Let me make you a coffee, at least.’

  ‘I can do it. You keep looking at the chart. I’ll come across if that’s OK; I don’t want to wake Ed.’

  We tethered the boats and I clambered over the guard rail, ignoring the numbness in my foot as I scaled the ladder down into the cabin. Below deck was dark and stifling, full of snores, so I moved quietly in the galley.

  ‘Morning.’

  I jumped and nearly dropped the kettle.

  ‘Jesus, Bryce. I didn’t see you.’

  He was sitting in the shadows with his great arms stretched over the table.

  ‘Sorry.’ His voice was like gravel. ‘Just needed to get out of that room.’

  ‘Why don’t you go out on deck?’

  He shook his head, folding his fingers together.

  I put the kettle down. ‘Bryce, what’s going on? I know you’re not really seasick.’

  He said nothing, looked away.

  ‘Bryce, you can tell me. I won’t think any less of you.’

  He stared into the corner for a while, then, finally he released a mountainous sigh.

  ‘It’s the water, all right? I just don’t like the water.’

  ‘You can’t swim?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can swim just fine.’

  ‘Then why?’

  He gave me a nervous glance. ‘Remember Piper Alpha – the rig that burned?’

  I remembered. The deathly quiet in our kitchen that morning when I came down for breakfast. My father at the table, face the same colour as the ash in the tray before him. Wondering what was going on, why my mother was weeping, and then seeing the television, the weary reporter and the flames in every picture.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Bryce, ‘my uncle died on it. I watched it all from home. Never been the same around water since. I thought I was getting better, on the Unity, you know? Getting used to it. And then that bloody great flaming rig came and … Christ.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Bryce, that’s nothing to feel bad about.’

  He slammed his fist on the flimsy wood.

  ‘I can’t go out there, Beth. I can’t help you. I can’t help Ed. I want to, but …’

  He fumbled with his fingers, then stood and clumsily made for his room. I stepped in front of him.

  ‘Bryce, stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened between Edinburgh and Falmouth, and to be honest I don’t want to. But I do know that before Ed met you he could barely drag himself to the shop for a packet of fags, let a
lone across a country.’

  ‘I told you, you should have more faith in him.’

  ‘I do. I do now, at any rate. And it’s down to you. He’s never had a friend, Bryce, not in the time that I’ve known him. So thank you, and just remember that we’re your friends too.’

  He looked down at me, those dark brown eyes casting more shadow than they did light, and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Aye,’ he said, loping back to his room. ‘Aye.’

  The door shut, leaving me alone in the dark, snore-filled room. I filled the kettle and lit the stove, but as I waited for the water to boil, there was a crackle from the radio. The LED was still on.

  Another crackle.

  Music.

  This time I recognised it; it was the same song I had heard walking into Tony’s camp that night – piano, pizzicato, a female voice …

  Tony’s voice joined it as verse swept into rapturous, sizzling chorus.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, what a tune.’

  I stared at the blinking light. The kettle began to roar.

  ‘I honestly don’t know what happened to music,’ said Tony. ‘I really don’t. They say most great artists only have one honestly great piece of work in them – the Macbeths, the Mona Lisas and the Ninth Symphonies and what have you – I wonder if that’s true of musical genres? Did pop peak in the mid-eighties? Certainly feels like it to me, Beth. Jesus, I mean just listen to it; all those synths, the reverb, the sax solo – makes me feel like rolling up my suit jacket sleeves. Know what I mean, Beth?’

  The kettle began its nervous whistle, and I took it from the hob, switching off the burner.

  ‘Beth?’

  I limped between the bunks and sat down before the radio. My back was to the rest of the cabin, so all I saw was a dark void with a red dot in its centre, from which Tony’s voice seemed to be emanating.

  He sighed. I can’t explain it, but he knew I was there. I could feel it.

  ‘I was twenty-two when this song came out, just starting out, house share in Fulham, hadn’t made my money yet but happy as a pig in shit. Friday nights at the King’s Arms, Saturdays in Notting Hill, brilliant days. This song takes me right back there. That’s what they do, songs, connect you to times, places, things that happened … people, though … they’re different. I find them harder to connect with. Don’t you?’