James McKinney stands accused of killing Robert Fulson in Louisville, Kentucky. The two men had argued over Fulson’s intent to fill four five-gallon containers at a local gas station. New rules allow residents to pump up to five gallons per week for neighborhood activities such as maintaining home generators and mowing yards. When Fulson refused to stop, witnesses said McKinney walked back to his vehicle, returned with a handgun and shot Fulson dead at the pump. Shocked on-lookers said McKinney then retrieved his own container, filled it with gasoline, and paid for it before leaving the scene.
Christine took a deep breath. “Enough of that,” she said. “Let me find something else a little less depressing. Here’s a piece from Dollar Watch that says world economies and stock markets will take a century to recover.”
Her counterpart, the man who sounded as if he rolled a joint every morning on the way to work snickered.
“Ya think?” he snorted. “Maybe it’s because all the investors are dead?”
The woman sighed. “Maybe so, Jimmy. I think I’m going to wrap this up with a story out of North Carolina. This is from the Charlotte Observer.”
Police in the small community of Rosman, North Carolina are standing by a report that winged creatures of demonic proportions attacked several homes in the area last night. Officer John Jacobs said that he personally saw and shot at several of the monsters which he said were at least seven feet tall and had wingspans of fifteen to twenty feet. Officer Jacobs responded to a 911 call from residents who were reportedly battling the flying beasts. Two people were apparently dragged from their homes and devoured during the confrontation. Police are searching for bodies and say they will present evidence to the world when they find it.
Finally, as if flying monsters aren’t enough, officials in Sylva, North Carolina said that the base of Whiteside Mountain has begun to bulge in what appears to be volcanic activity. Geologists, who cannot travel to the area due to the ban, say the southern Appalachians are not near any active faults and doubt the reported rise in ground level is due to magma being forced upward. Residents point to two small earthquakes reported in recent weeks as evidence that the geologists are wrong. One man also noted that farther north, Hot Springs has been delivering heated water from underground springs for centuries.
She paused and evidently leaned closer to the microphone. Her voice poured out of the speakers, louder and clearer than before.
And that, folks, is the news as best as I can give it. I’m Christine Arapaloe, hoping and praying that all of us manage to have a good and safe day ahead of us.
Elsie turned the radio off. I looked at the faces seated at the table. Fear played openly across some. Others carried a blank look, as if the person simply could not process what had come across the radio. I could deal with most emotions, but not the lack of them. I knew what stunned meant already. We’d just spent nearly a week with half the group frozen in place like deer staring at headlights.
I glanced at Keith. He looked ready to fight. Out of all the expressions around the table, that one I could identify with most.
“How long on the chicken coop?”
He shrugged. “A couple of hours, I guess.”
“When you’re done, check out the back porch. See what you can do with the landing back there,” I said and then noted dryly, “I’m sure someone loved that screened-in porch years ago, but it won’t stop much more than mosquitoes.”
I pointed toward the upper level. “You might as well go ahead and start on shutters for the upstairs windows too.”
He held up a thumb. “Will do, boss. I’ve been looking at those windows every night. Kind of makes it hard to go to sleep.”
I slid my chair around so I could face the rest.
“Kelly, you put together the watch list, didn’t you?”
She nodded. Her big eyes bobbed along with her short hair.
“Then put together another. Here’s what goes on it,” I said and started ticking items off on my fingers.
“I want two people in here with Elsie. She does most of the cooking and cleaning. She needs help.”
Eyes shuffled in front of me. A few faces frowned. I didn’t care. They could like what was coming or not, but the days of simply waiting had disappeared. We couldn’t afford it from any point on the survival triangle in front of us. We needed food. We needed to bulk up our fortifications. We needed to gather up all the supplies we could find. We were damned well going to whether they liked it or not.
“Second, we’re eating off supplies when the ocean is full. I want two people fishing, clamming, out with the cast net looking for shrimp, something, every day. Those two will be responsible for providing the evening meal.”
Joshua leaned back in his chair and tugged at his beard. I couldn’t tell if he looked surprised or daunted by the work being laid out.
“Third, I want two people out looking for the ranger station. I want to know what’s in it, where it is, and what we can use from it.”
I looked around the faces staring back at me.
“I don’t care who does what. You can work that out among yourselves, but bottom line, we all contribute.”
Silence fell over the room.
“That only makes six people,” Kelly said with a frown. “What about the rest?”
“Actually, that accounts for everyone,” I told her. “Keith doesn’t go on the list. He’s got work to do already and he’ll need a helper. Elsie and Daniel hang around the house.”
I shot her a wry grin. “And I’m not going on the list the first couple of days.”
Joshua tugged harder at the wild scrabble of hair hanging off his chin. Somewhere along the line, the look of surprise had turned sullen. “I’m not sure I like being forced to work.”
I locked gazes with him. “I’m damned sure I don’t like taking care of people who won’t take care of themselves. If you want to argue, do it from one of the other houses, not this one.”
No one moved for a long moment. Then Kelly raised her hand. The student-teacher feel of the motion left me irritated.
“Yes?”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
I couldn’t stop the sigh from sliding out. “Sure.”
“How about we do it like the watch, on a rotating basis?”
“Whatever floats the boat. It just needs to float.”
“What about you?” Elsie asked. “You still planning on going to the south end of the island?”
I nodded. “Yes, tomorrow. I’ll pack up today and let the buggy charge—which reminds me. I’ll be taking the windmill. If the battery here gets low before I get back, pull the extra off Angel.”
“You’re set on going, then?”
“Yes.”
Elsie sighed and grunted “Fool man.”
She left it at that, which was fine by me. I didn’t feel like arguing with her.
The rotation came out odd, at least by my way of thinking. Kelly and Jessie opted to stay at the station and help Elsie. Joshua and Kate paired off to hunt the ranger station. Tyler and Denise decided they would do the fishing. Keith pulled Devon to work with him. I’d expected Joshua and Denise to go together. The sight of him trudging off with Kate looked strange.
I took Denise and Tyler down to the boat. The cast net still lay draped over the boom. I set them to working it free while I gathered up a bait bucket, a couple of rags from the locker where Dad stored his fishing supplies, and a pair of needle-nosed pliers.
Gear in tow, we worked our way back to the point where I gave them lessons with the cast net—which was mostly teaching them how to hold it before they spun it out in front of them. We practiced on the beach. Within ten minutes, both could produce an acceptable spread.
We moved back to the sound side of the point then. I held the net and watched the water, waiting for either the telltale swirls and grooves of bait fish schooling or the boil of shrimp popping across the surface. I didn’t have to wait long and brought in a handful of finger-sized shrimp on the first cast. Den
ise clapped her hands at the sight.
“God, I love shrimp,” she exclaimed as she picked the little gray crustaceans out of the net and tossed them into the bait bucket.
I left her there to play with the net and took Tyler back to the point. The fishing poles and tackle boxes still lay where I’d left them the day before. I handed him the spin caster and loaded him up with jig heads and Berkley grubs. Once he had the lures ready, I passed over the needle-nosed pliers.
“What’s this for?”
I grinned. “Sharks aren’t the only fish in the ocean with teeth. Use the pliers when you take the hook out. Your fingers will be happy that you did.”
With both of them set, I headed for the dock, conscious of the little brass key in my pocket. If Gabriel had family, I needed to let them know what had happened. Plus, as much as I hated the thought of scavenging from the dead, any food on the little boat would spoil if I didn’t. Gabriel had said he’d rather go out fighting. I had no doubt that he’d have done the same if the funeral had been mine.
Those reasons should have been enough. They weren’t. Gabriel had chosen his death, not just the timing of it, but the manner. I barely knew the man. Yet he had impressed me as one who did things for a reason. I’d check out the food supplies and look for phone numbers, but Ark Angel beckoned because I hoped I would find answers.
The lock slid over easily when I turned the key. The pilot house couldn’t have been more than four feet across and four feet deep. Like the rest of the boat, the structure seemed blocky and looked like it could withstand a bomb blast. Near the helm, a row of switches stood out like black teeth rising out of the bulkhead. I studied them, found the one marked cabin and flicked it over.
Light washed through the space below. I eased down the steps into a surprisingly large room that looked more like a den than a boat cabin. He’d done the walls and floor in the same teak he’d used for the decking on the stern. Bookshelves lined the far side. A bed that looked big enough to fit with double-sized sheets sat underneath. Instead of dome lights, he’d mounted sconces along the walls. The soft glow gave the cabin a warm and comfortable feel. The room had close to six feet of headroom as well. The boat might look ugly outside, but it had been built for comfort and strength.
I spent nearly an hour inside. Gabriel had some food, but not much. That didn’t fit the image he had imparted. I wondered if the travel ban had caught him off-guard and left him unable to restock. I found no phone numbers or cell phones, but did run across some mail. I stuck a couple of the envelopes in my pocket, hoping one of the others might be able to use the addresses to locate a contact using their cell phone. The odd thing about them was Gabriel’s address. He didn’t have one. All of them had been sent to different cities and marked General Delivery.
The books on the shelves spanned everything from fiction to navigation guides. Only one looked like it had been used recently. It lay on a bottom shelf next to a pen. The other books stood neat and tidy, held in place by a bar across the front.
I picked up the book and read the title: The Religions and Prophecies of Man. A quick glance through revealed several passages that he had underlined. I read a few but they seemed so scattered that making sense out of his intent only offered another puzzle. I set it back on the shelf and moved across to a small table that served as a plotting station. A chart of the North Carolina coast lay beneath the glass surface. A pair of grease pencils occupied the tray. The course he had plotted arced in from the ocean below Cape Lookout and slid straight up the middle of Core Sound. Two points on the back side of Portsmouth Island had been marked with a large black X.
A thick leather-bound logbook perched high one side of the table. I picked it up and leafed through the pages noting latitude and longitude marks and reading his comments. Most related sea conditions, course changes and land approaches. The names next to some of them surprised me. He had noted anchoring off Monte Carlo, tying up in Crotone, and railed against filthy harbor conditions in Barcelona. A month back, I found a reason that probably explained the meager supplies. The man had left Gibraltar heading west. The note in the margins read “Time to go home.”
I flipped ahead and found the page where the imps had attacked his boat. Unlike the rest where notes had been written in neat block letters, his description of that day had been recorded in a wild scrawl. The next few pages contained a confusing jumble of navigation notes mixed with what looked like prophetic writings and text references. The last entry had been recorded the day I found him sitting on the dock. Four lines had been written across the page. All appeared to reference apocalyptic predictions.
When I finally closed the log, the answers I’d hoped to find seemed as elusive as ever. I folded the book in half and slid it into my back pocket. Only one person on the island might be able to find meaning in the writings. Even if he did, I wasn’t sure he would understand them. Daniel often came across as mature beyond his years. That didn’t mean he would comprehend the man’s intent or understand how it tied in with Gabriel’s death.
When I emerged from the pilot house, I caught sight of Denise wading in the shallow bay. She seemed intent and happy so I passed on by and made my way up to the point. Tyler looked hot and sweaty. A quick glance at the line we used as a stringer revealed one fish. The black spot on the tail fin identified it as a redfish.
“How’s it going?”
He shook his head. “Not good. Nothing is biting.”
“That’s odd,” I told him. “They were tearing it up yesterday. Let me give it a try.”
He passed the rod over and wiped his hair out of his eyes. The move proved useless as the wind whipped it back just as fast.
I sent the lure flying out over the inlet and brought it in slow and steady. When it came out of the water, I stepped down the beach three or four feet and repeated the process. On the third cycle of cast, reel, move down, I pulled in my first flounder. It looked to be about eighteen inches long. Four casts later, I pulled another in.
Tyler stood up on the beach watching me.
“Why do you keep moving?” he finally asked.
I glanced back at him. “Flounder are ambush fish. They flatten out on the bottom and wait for something to swim by. If they’re in the water and you’re not catching them, odds are you’re fishing where they aren’t. Just move until you find one.”
He came off the sand and reached for the pole. “Here, let me try that.”
I sat down in the sand and squinted against the sun, watching him work his way down the beach. Two fish later, I rose and headed back to the station, confident we’d have supper. I wanted to stay. Fishing ran stronger in my blood than any other sport. I didn’t need much to be as happy as anyone sitting ringside, courtside, or square in the middle of the fifty yard line. A day on the water, something cold to drink, and a fishing pole pretty much summed up my idea of heaven. The rest of humanity could wolf down hotdogs, guzzle flat beer, and watch professionals do things they wished they could.
As much as I wanted to stay, I still had to pack for the trip. The plan floating through my mind had nothing subtle about it. Head down the beach, stop at every campsite along the way, and do my best to convince everyone I found to come to Portsmouth.
I could make the southern point easily in one morning if the batteries held out. If they didn’t, they would at least get me close enough to walk the remaining distance and still make the trip by mid-afternoon. Either way, I figured I’d be driving for three hours at the most. The little windmill might not charge the vehicle back to full overnight, but it should generate enough power to bring me most of the way back the following day.
Inside the station, I packed enough clothes for two days, throwing in warm clothes for the evenings, shorts and T-shirts for the daylight hours, and rolling everything up inside my sleeping bag. Along with the clothing, I added Gabriel’s revolver, a handful of bullets, a belt knife, my toothbrush, and a bar of soap. From the kitchen, I took enough coffee to make two cups, a bit of creamer, a gal
lon of water, two packets of instant oatmeal, a handful of tea bags, and several packets of artificial sweetener.
Elsie had loaded the cabinets with the food Charlie had sent over. The new supplies had bulked up the cupboard enough that opening the door didn’t look scary. Even so, we had, at best, another week to ten days. The old woman had been right about the types of food he’d sent. We could eat for a while, but if we wanted variety, we’d have to pull it from the ocean. Ark Angel had a few more supplies we could add to the meager stores, but all combined, we had a two-week window at best.
I stepped back to close the cabinet door and caught the thin dark shape hovering at the edge of my vision. When I glanced sideways, Daniel stood at the end of the bar.
He wore a shirt too big for him, long dark pants, and sneakers. His hair looked windblown and hung down in his eyes. The boy stood silently, as still as a statue. A shaft of light piercing the kitchen window illuminated his lower half, leaving the upper half gloomy and dark. Tiny particles of dust swirled in the bright white beam of light.
I stared at him.
“Hello, Daniel.”
“Hello, Mr. William.”
His voice was soft and high pitched, lacking the depth more years would bring it. Silence hung thick in the kitchen.
“Where’s your grandma?”
“Upstairs.”
“You’re usually with her.”
“I needed to tell you something.”
The boy was six years old. His head came halfway up my chest. He couldn’t weigh much more than fifty pounds. He presented about as much of a physical threat as a paper cut. Despite all that, I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck.
The Island - Part 4 Page 2