The End of the World Survivors Club

by Adrian J. Walker

  I had to stay focused. Stay awake. Stay present.

  263 … 263 … 263.

  Not days. Not nights. Just light and dark switching like slides in a projector.

  There was little wind at first. Time and awareness played tricks on me. One moment I would be staring ahead, eyes flicking between the compass and the water ahead, the next I would be asleep and hanging from the helm. At one point I discovered I had been staring at a bulb of condensation on one of the cockpit’s glass panels for what seemed like hours. Snapping to, I made a grasp for it and slavered it into my mouth before it ran.

  I moved Josh and Dani’s empty bottles to the cockpit, lashing them to ropes and railings with some cable ties I found. I experimented with heights and positions – some in shade, some in sunlight, some at angles, some high, some low – reasoning that at least one might gather enough condensation to create a drink. But they remained empty.

  I took to licking the boat. There were places where moisture still hung; in the cracks and crevices beneath seats and wooden runners, and I lapped away at every drop I could find, ignoring the tastes that came with them. It was as I was doing this to the underside of the boom that it began to move. A wind was picking up. I returned to the helm.

  263 … 263 … 263.

  I grew to love that wind.

  I blew kisses to it. It grew steady and strong, but never wild and never malicious.

  It’s hard to explain unless you’ve been at sea, but every stretch of water, every wave and every breath of wind, from breeze to hurricane, has a character of its own. Some want to dash you against the rocks, some want to help you, and others couldn’t care less whether you prosper or perish. And I know – we see faces in things, don’t we? They’re not real, just the products of our imaginations. It’s a hangover of our infant brains, hardwired to seek the safe image of a mother.

  But I dare you. Try it; head out into the ocean alongside those things with no faces, and tell me there’s nothing there. Tell me there’s no life, no soul, no consciousness apart the one you’re having right now. You’ll find the opposite, I promise you. It’s everywhere, this thing, whatever it is. Everywhere.

  How I loved that wind.

  There was an absence to it, nothing like the gleeful spite of the storm. It was as if it cared nothing either way for what I was doing and just happened to have stumbled into my sail; a bored and stoic westward draught that couldn’t have topped 20mph.

  I liked the darkness best. It was cooler for a start, and though there was no moon the stars soared over me like a snow globe. I’m sure I could see them turning in their own orbits as I turned in mine, and as they did I thought of my children. I allowed myself little fantasies. Not too much – I didn’t want to get dragged into that undertow – just shapeless flashes of hope. Where would we live, once we had found them? Would it be warm? Would there be people, or just us? What would Arthur’s first word be?

  Just flashes, appearing and disappearing like shooting stars in those milk-sprayed skies.

  I woke up to rumbles and a cool feeling on my face. I was surprised to find myself lying on the bench and Ed slumped over the wheel, asleep.

  I almost stood on both feet, but froze before my stump hit the deck. As I pushed myself up with my now-trusty boat hook, I realised what the cool feeling was – drizzle.

  ‘Ed, wake up.’

  I shook him and he woke, snapping robotically to attention and gripping the wheel. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s raining! Get the bottles.’

  We took all the bottles we could find and offered them to the sky as if in prayer. We opened our mouths but the droplets were so fine that they only coated our tongues.

  When the rain had stopped we inspected our haul. There was barely a dribble in each bottle, but we had our share and Ed took the rest downstairs to the others. There had been no sign of them since I had woken.

  ‘I cleaned Maggie’s shoulder again,’ he said, ‘but it’s getting worse.’

  The pain in my stump became manageable. It screamed whenever it hit something, but mostly it was dormant and I learned how to protect it. That afternoon, as low thunder sounded far away, Ed took the helm and I found fresh dressings in the cockpit’s first-aid kit. These I took to the stern. As I peeled off the old bandage I expected to see a mess of infected flesh, but Carmela had done a good job. The skin was neatly stitched, and whatever excess rags of skin had remained after the appendage had been torn away were trimmed and pinched into a squat tube, like a sausage link.

  None of this looked like it belonged to me. My calf was withered and pale, like some poor creature cowering beneath a lifted rock. It was dotted with dark specks of blood; the dried spray of some severed artery which, I imagined, had hit Carmela too.

  I extended an exploratory finger towards the thing which was not me. It twitched, so I thought better of it and dressed it in the fresh bandage.

  We skirted the thunder and whatever storm it belonged to kept its distance. Like the wind it had no interest in us, and apart from its uncertain grumbles the only evidence it gave us of its existence was the occasional drizzle that showered the boat. When this happened we fumbled for our bottles and drank whatever we could catch, splitting the takings with the rest downstairs. I never saw them, and from the look on Ed’s face whenever he returned, I was glad.

  Whenever the water was gone, we set about licking the yacht. This activity became as commonplace as scratching or sniffing, and whenever a patch of moisture was found upon a rope or a beam, or a section of deck, we called the other over and passed our tongues over it until it was dry.

  It was never enough.

  One time, as we feasted upon a rivulet Ed had found upon the mainstay, our tongues slipped together in a warm, fleshy collision. We stopped and smiled at this, then finished the job and returned to the helm.

  Late one afternoon there was a scream from downstairs. Dani.

  I looked for Ed but he was already halfway down the ladder. There were protests, scuffles, more screams and, finally, Dani’s muffled sobs. I made my way gingerly to the hatch and hovered over it, already knowing what had happened.

  At Dani’s request we buried her mother at sea. The only other place she would have wanted to be laid to rest was Gibraltar, she said, and there was no chance of that. We managed to rouse the others and they stood on deck, ragged and pale, swaying like trees. We wrapped Maggie in a sheet, Dani said some words, and we let her slip over the side. We watched as she floated away and finally sank.

  The others were too ill to remain on deck, but Dani stayed with Ed and I from then on, taking up watch at the stern.

  ‘How are you?’ I said, uselessly.

  She stared out at the place where her mother’s body had. ‘She always thought of herself as this lone wolf, you know? Just her against the world. But it wasn’t like that.’ She gave me a weak, red-eyed smile. ‘I know you think she was a single mother, but she wasn’t, not really. I spent just as much time with her friends and cousins as I did with her. That place –’ she shook her head ‘– she relied on it so much she couldn’t leave it, even for a holiday, even if I had wanted to go and—’

  She broke off, eyes glazing.

  ‘I have a father out there somewhere. She never even considered that I might want to find him.’

  After a pause, she shook from her trance, sniffed and wiped away an unwanted tear.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘she wasn’t a lone wolf. She relied on her friends.’

  ‘And how about you?’

  She looked up, eyes brightening. ‘I feel like I finally have some. I hope that doesn’t sound strange.’

  ‘It’s not strange, Dani,’ I said. ‘Not strange at all.’

  On the third day things took a turn. I had been asleep and having a bad dream – not a nightmare, but one of those in which everything is impossible and never resolves. It was about my mother’s face, and I woke from it to find that I had kicked out with my stump and made contact with the helm, at which Ed was
standing.

  I screamed and fell off the bench, and Ed helped me up.

  ‘Fuck!’ I yelled into the dawn. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s not all right!’ I snapped, and snatched my boat hook.

  He looked back at me, swaying, eye drooping.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Get some rest.’

  He fell to the bench and immediately closed his eyes.

  There was no moisture to lick and no water in the bottles. The storm had slunk off, taking its drizzle with it, and leaving us with a different wind. This one was not so lovely; it was blustery and more aware of us, worrying the sails with vicious gusts that made keeping the compass needle on the magic 263 a far more troublesome task than it had been. By the end of the morning I was exhausted.

  ‘Ed,’ I said, but he didn’t move. ‘Ed, I need to go to the toilet.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Fine.’

  I jammed my hook in the helm and used the rigging for support as I made my way astern, where I pulled down my cargo trousers and squatted over the rail.

  I had peed over the side many times on the journey, but only passed faeces twice. Neither was what you might call a satisfying experience, but they were heavenly compared to what came out this time.

  My stomach cramped and rumbled as an unhealthy, hot squirt hit the water beneath. As a few more similar ejections took their course, I looked grimly down at my underwear – the very same Maggie had given me, what, a week ago? Two? The sight and smell reminded me how long it had been since I washed. Using my elbows to steady myself on the guard rail, I squirmed out of them and used them to wipe up, jettisoning them in the sea behind.

  Ed was awake when I returned to the helm.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, rubbing his face. ‘I think I slept longer than I should have.’

  He took the helm and I sat down, resting my stump on the table. I looked around. Apart from the wind, something else seemed different. Then it dawned on me. My neck prickled.

  ‘Ed, are we sitting low?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The boat. It feels like we’re lower in the water than usual.’

  He frowned and scanned the water. ‘Here.’

  Giving me the helm, he walked gingerly up and down the guard rail, looking over the side.

  ‘You’re right,’ he called back from port side bow. ‘And I know why. Shit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have a hole.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s only small, looks like something hit us, maybe in the storm or the whirlpool, I don’t know.’

  ‘Fuck, Ed, what are we going to do?’

  He returned to the cockpit and opened the hatch.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, disappearing inside.

  ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere,’ I mumbled.

  I heard some banging downstairs. About an hour later he returned looking haunted, covered in grime. By this time the wind had disappeared completely and the sun had broken through the cloud with a relentless, sticky heat.

  ‘It’s coming into the hull through the front berth,’ he said. ‘I managed to patch it a bit, but it’s not enough. I think I need to get the bilge pump working.’

  ‘What’s the bilge pump?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  He opened the engine compartment and began rummaging inside, then searched papers and manuals on the cockpit shelves. His hands shook as he leafed through them.

  ‘No … no … nope.’

  I was nervous now. I felt a chill on my back and glanced behind, imagining I could make out shapes on the dim horizon.

  Ed looked up momentarily from his papers.

  ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘We lost him ages ago.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘What do you mean, “doesn’t feel like it”?’

  I looked back him. I hated this. We had been coexisting quite peacefully for days, and now all of a sudden we were snapping again. It had always been this way, I realised. Our moods swung like pendulums month to month, and I supposed their frequencies and amplitudes were dictated by the chemistry of our bodies, or upon external events that were out of our control. At times our orbits would meet in happy places, other times in gloom or frustration. It was impossible to predict.

  But I suppose discovering that you’re on a sinking boat in the middle of the Atlantic might be a good indicator of mood.

  ‘It means I think that man will do anything he can to find me.’

  His eyebrows twitched upwards. ‘Is that right,’ he said flatly.

  I frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He shrugged, still leafing through the manuals and shaking his head at every one. ‘Why is he so interested in finding you?’

  ‘You heard him. He’s insane and he blames me for losing his fight with Maggie. And I stole his boat. Apparently it’s special to him.’

  ‘Or you are.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘What did you promise him anyway?’

  ‘Ed, what the fuck?’

  ‘You said you asked him to help you, and he said he would in return for something.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. He was lying.’

  His hands were a blur now, tearing through the pages with barely a glance.

  ‘But what would you have done if he had?’

  I thought about telling Ed of Tony’s lies, of all that rubbish he had spouted about loyalty and trust. But no, I decided. Fuck him.

  ‘I would have done anything if it meant finding my children. Wouldn’t you?’

  He stopped and looked up, right eye wide. His jaw shut tight, and for a second I thought I saw something in him I hadn’t before – something free from the shackles of human behaviour. But it left him as soon as it had arrived. His brow softened, and his face was overcome by sadness. He dropped the remaining papers to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Ignore me.’

  With that he turned and made his way to the bow, where he sat with his brow on his forearm.

  The hatch opened, and I was surprised to see Bryce squinting at the sun. He nodded at me.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, and crawled out. He stretched and stood with his hands on his hips, looking about, not quite sure what to do with himself.

  ‘You feeling better?’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Aye, I am as it happens. What can I do to help?’

  ‘Don’t suppose you know how to work a bilge pump, do you?’

  He frowned. ‘A what?’

  ‘We’re sinking.’

  He stared at me and blinked. ‘Right. ’Course we are.’

  He looked around the deck, spotting Ed at the bow. He looked between us.

  ‘Funny time for a tiff, don’t you think?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s not a tiff.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ask him.’

  He nodded and rubbed his chin like a mechanic over an open bonnet. His hair wavered in a breeze. ‘Wee man got a touch of the grumps, eh? Well, you’ve got to remember, Beth, you girls aren’t the only ones who have your ups and downs, ken?’ He glanced at me and winked. ‘Periods and all that, know what I’m saying?’

  I made no response.

  He held up his palms. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong, I regard the menstrual cycle with as much fascination and esteem as I do everything else about the female sexual system, and that goes for all those wee fucking annoying mood swings you – and us – have to go through every time you’re about to be up on bricks. I mean, Christ, Beth, I’ve known Carmela for three months so I’ve seen at least two of those bad boys go off already, and believe me, it’s not a pretty sight. But I dinnae lose my fucking rag over it –’ he smiled amicably ‘– so to speak, because I know full well I can turn into just as much of an arsehole at certain times of the month as well. When I’m a little tense, if you know what I mean.’

&
nbsp; He waited for me to acknowledge what he was referring to, but I was too distracted by something in his hair. He put his hands on his hips and bounced on his toes.

  ‘When I’m a little full,’ he went on. ‘When the pressure dial’s into the red. When there’s no more room at the inn. Understand?’

  I narrowed my eyes, which he took to mean a warning and raised his palms. But it wasn’t a warning. I had stopped listening ages ago.

  ‘I’d be happy to flesh this out with you, Beth, if you like—’

  ‘Bryce.’

  ‘I mean it, I’m not scared of a conversation about how over-full ballsacks might cause just as much chemical and psychological impact as the hormones released during PMT—’

  ‘Bryce.’

  ‘I will happily have that conversation with you. But in the interests of the current situation regarding your good self and Mr Grumpy-pants over there, all I’m saying is—’

  ‘Bryce.’

  ‘Have you tried a blow job? Or failing that, a good old-fashioned tug?’

  ‘Bryce, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘What is that in your hair?’

  I pointed and he raised his eyes to his scalp, upon which something was crawling. I had been watching its progress along his hairline since he had emerged.

  ‘Piss off,’ he said, swatting at it. It flew off.

  ‘That’s a fly,’ I said, and as I did, a second landed on my head. I shooed it away. ‘Do you usually get flies at sea?’

  Bryce opened his mouth to speak but was stopped short by Ed, who was on his feet. I looked across.

  ‘Beth,’ he cried. ‘Land!’

  I peered into the distance, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare. On the horizon was a smear.

  ‘Holy shitbags,’ said Bryce. ‘He’s right.’

  I looked closer. I thought I could make out squat, blocky hills covered by low clouds, and some kind of shoreline, but everything disappeared at the edges.