On the second night, we started sleeping in the large shack we’d built on the raft, and in Doc’s cruiser, and posting guards on the pier. I bitched at the idea of standing watch, until in the middle of the third night a group rushed the pier. Mrs. Liu and I were on watch and fired over their heads, but they wouldn’t stop, so we fired into them. A couple shots came back in our direction, but they didn’t seem to be very well armed or organized, and soon fled into the night. I went out and found two bodies. One was our county deputy sheriff, dressed in regular clothes. The other was Tommy, from my old bunch. I guessed I wouldn’t miss this place as much as I thought. Mom was horrified that my watch had put me in such a dangerous situation, but quieted right down when she realized that we all were all in the same situation, regardless of what we were doing.
On the fifth day, the first brightday of a new week, we finished the raft and loaded up. I was standing on the bank below Ferguson, and looked up and caught him grinning in what looked like pride. He saw me looking at him and the smile disappeared.
“What’re you staring at?” he snarled as he pointed over toward the people handling lines. “Get over there and get busy helping them.”
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
. . . It looks like things are going well. But I can’t let them know it. They’re green and undisciplined enough that if I let up now, they’ll just slack off. After all, it’s just me and a somewhat motley crew of 19. Here’s a chart of what I’ve got to work with . . .
Name Age Occupation
Carmen Alvarez 71 Retired widow
Carlson Family Farmers
Kjell 53 Father
Sarah 39 Mother
Freya 16 Student
Jon 7 Student
Terri Jackson 20 Wife of merchant seaman (pregnant)
Doctor Mikhail Lampson 62 Retired sociology professor
Liu Family Farmers
Arthur 33 Father
Nila 37 Pharmacist, mother
Heidi 18 Student
Christopher 11 Student
Samuel 8 Student
BMCM Timothy Ferguson 68 Imperial Navy (Retired)
Slimak Family Farmers
John 61 Father, millworker
Ludmilla 55 Wife, farmer
Cindi 9 Adopted daughter
Schmidt Family
Katherine 42 Millworker, mother (widow)
Jim 17 Student
Nikko Tomek 24 Church’s mentally retarded caretaker
Sonya Thomas 56 Accountant, widow
Not a lot of able bodies. Widow Alvarez is competent as hell, and would be a real asset, if only she weren’t so long in the tooth. The Carlsons are good people, but simple. Kids are cute, but like most kids these days, pretty useless. Mrs. Jackson could be a problem, since we won’t have any of the type of things she might need if her pregnancy goes wrong. Lampson is a nice guy, real intelligent, but a thinker, not a doer.
The Liu family is a good bunch, always seem to be happy and smiling. Arthur is quite a farmer, known throughout the county for having a green thumb. Nila, as a pharmacist, has some medical training, although not as much as I wish one of us had. Their kids, although they’re nice too, probably won’t be much help either. The Slimaks are a quiet pair, who like to keep to themselves. And their daughter is a spooky little thing. That could spell trouble on the raft, where we’ll all be living elbow to elbow, with no privacy to speak of.
Mrs. Schmidt is pretty frail. I’m afraid if things get rough, she won’t last a minute. Jim Schmidt, like I’ve said, has potential, but it’s mostly wasted. Nikko is dependable although he’s more than a little slow. And Sonya Thomas is a shy little wallflower, Carmen Alvarez’s roommate. I get the impression that Carmen calls the shots in that house.
Anyhow, not much to work with. With times on Haven being hard, most able bodies have gone elsewhere, leaving the old, young, and stubborn behind. I wonder if this is how Moses felt, when he dragged that gaggle of former slaves off into the desert . . .
Old Reverend Quinnel had shown up a couple of times during the building of the raft and had gotten into some ripsnorting arguments with Ferguson and the others. Each time he stalked off in disgust. But just before the raft was ready to leave, he showed up again with a paper bag in his hand. Ferguson went ashore, already turning red in anticipation of another confrontation. But after exchanging a few words with the Reverend, he turned and motioned us all ashore.
“Lissen up,” said Ferguson, “the man has something to say.”
“I won’t even try to convince you to stay,” said the Reverend, “but since you are so intent on killing yourselves, I just wanted to do something before you left.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out his hymnal, a loaf of bread, a bottle of grape juice, and a plastic cup. He ran through the communion service quickly, with tears running down his face. Before long, everyone was bawling. With all the excitement and tension, the old words took on a meaning that I had never noticed before. We tried to convince him to come along, but he wouldn’t budge. When we finally slipped our lines and moved out into the channel, our last sight of home was old Quinnel, standing on the shoreline alone.
It made me feel funny. I never even liked the guy, but I thought I would miss him.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
.. . Well, we’re off. I hate to say it, but I feel bad for Quinnel. I’m not sure he’s putting his faith in the Lord as much as he is just scared to do something risky. The communion ceremony made me realize something funny. This is the first time in my life I’ll be sailing on a vessel where my religion is the prevalent one. I spent over thirty years in the Navy with them trying to push their state-sponsored version of Christianity on me. I guess that’s one of the things that made me go through the trouble of shipping back to Haven when I retired. Like I never really felt comfortable with a different religion, I never really felt comfortable anywhere else . . .
If I thought Ferguson was an asshole at home, it wasn’t half as bad as he was on the raft. He spent all his time telling us what to do and how to do it. Watch lists and work lists were all the guy seemed to come up with. And when we weren’t busy with that, he was running us through drills. Fire drills, collision drills, attack drills, navigation drills. He had us practice pushing the raft upriver with the cruiser, even though the direction we wanted to head was down. Even little seven year old Jon Carlson had a post for the drills, and jobs to do. And to my surprise, the older people just went along with all this like a herd of sheep.
“Trust him, Jimmy, he knows what he’s doing,” my mom would say. I couldn’t believe someone didn’t just pop off and deck the little jerk.
It finally came to a head between me and Ferguson on our sixth day out. Doc Lampson and I were coming off watch, and Ferguson and Kjell Carlson were coming on. I decided to stay up to watch Cat’s Eye set, and snuck into the pantry to get myself a little snack. When I came out with a candy bar in my hand there stood Ferguson, hands on his hips.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he snarled.
I was in no mood to take any shit. “Nothing that’s any of your business.”
“Like hell it’s not,” he replied, “We don’t have enough food to get us half way to where we’re going. And that candy is the kind of thing we want to save for an emergency.”
I didn’t even answer, just tried to push past him. Before I even knew what hit me, I found myself on my back with his knee in my chest and an arm across my throat. I tried to tell him to get off, but all that came out was a wet gurgle.
“Lissen up, you little shit, and lissen good,” he hissed. “You think you’re too smart and too good to cooperate with anybody. I’ve got twenty people on this raft to keep alive. And if I have to make a choice between that and making a spoiled brat like you happy, you don’t even have to guess what I’ll choose.”
He got up and went to put the candy bar away. I went at him again, but got a fist in my groin.
As I went down gasping, he said with a nasty grin on his face, “I can keep this up a lot longer than you can, boy.”
He was close enough, so I took one more shot. This time he got me in the nose, and I went down hard, my eyes stinging and my face feeling like it was on fire. I didn’t really decide to stop at that, but he walked off, and that was the end of it. No one had seen us and he never mentioned what happened to anyone. When I showed up at breakfast with a mashed up nose, and Mom asked me what happened, Ferguson chimed in to suggest that I must have slipped on my way to my rack. And when the new watch bills went up, I found myself on watch with Ferguson.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
. .. Had my first run-in with the Schmidt boy today. Not sure we even have enough food to survive, and here he is munching on a nice little snack. Gave me a chance to prove who’s boss, though. Have to keep on him. He’s got potential, I just have to pick through the shell he’s got built up around himself. . .
Our progress in those early days was slow. We moved only on dimdays and during bad weather. Ferguson claimed that was the hardest time for the invaders to spot us. During brightdays, we stood out like a sore thumb. And he claimed that during the chill of truenight, we’d stand out to anyone with infrared or night vision equipment. Problem was, the times we were hardest to see were also the hardest times for us to navigate. The riverbanks tended to blur into the surface of the river, and it was hard to tell where we were, even though we had nightscopes of our own.
At the other times we pulled into side channels or tried to pull up near steep banks where trees hung over the river. We even cut down trees to lash to the raft and help us blend in better.
The older people had it toughest. Especially my mom. She’d always been a little frail, and I was afraid some of the others, especially the farming families, resented how little she was able to help out. I tried to help her when I could, but my own duties kept me pretty busy.
But despite how hard it was, we soon fell into the pattern of our new life. Our days were controlled by our watchstanding; who we spent time with, what we did.
Ferguson continued to drill us constantly, and we learned a new language, one he claimed hadn’t changed for hundreds of years; heave around, avast, lively now, port and starboard, up behind, belay that. We learned to pronounce things the way Ferguson wanted us to; forward became for’ard, forecastle became fo’c’sle, and boatswain became bos’n.
Weather became one of our most important topics of conversation, especially with winter coming on. Weather is your life on the river. Rain is misery, especially with wind. Cold bites you to the bone. And clear days and nights are like heaven. The water surface became a guide to us. Every ripple had a meaning; a bar ahead, an eddy in the current, a change of wind. We learned to pole the raft past sand bars, and more than once had to free ourselves from a snag or reef.
The banks of the Shangri-La Valley rivers are still mostly wilderness, forests and fields with only an occasional house or farm. It just shows you how undesirable Haven is. Even after 500 years, the most hospitable part of the planet is still mostly empty. It was a good thing for us it was, though. The one thing we wanted was to be left alone, and fortunately, most others we saw seemed to have the same idea.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
. . . Starting to make some progress. Our first major hurdle, passing Falkenberg, went without a hitch. We shut everyone into one of the bunkrooms, and sealed it off as best toe could. We set up a fan and filter to bring in air that was as clean as possible. I got in one of our antiradiation suits and sat on the bridge of Lampson’s cruiser to conn us through. I put John Slimak in the other suit and stationed him on top of our raft with the chain gun ready. He’d had some militia experience, and during drills had shown some aptitude with firearms. I hoped that meant he’d be able to fire if he needed to.
We went through the city at night, using infrared goggles to see. Wanted to go though at twilight, but we needed to see ourselves. I pushed the cruiser’s engines as hard as I dared, and we cut through the water about as quick as such a bulky craft could. The city wasn’t in as bad a shape as I thought it would be. At least most of the waterfront buildings were still there. It looked like the city had been hit by tactical neutron weapons-- kill the people and leave the buildings for plunder. I prayed to God that the plunder hadn’t started yet, and that we’d be left alone. We didn’t see a soul, and I suspected that the rapid click of the radiation counter on my suit indicated why. Within a few hours we were west of the city, and John and I unbuttoned the others. I left him to answer all of their questions about what had happened, and stayed on the bridge alone. I was still shaking from the adrenalin. Mrs. Alvarez came up and handed me a cup of cocoa. When I tasted it, I found it was laced with alcohol. I smiled at her, because that was exactly what I needed at that point.
Maybe there is hope for this bunch after all. . . .
It was thirty-seven days since our journey had begun, and ten since we’d passed Falkenberg. I was still upset at Ferguson for locking us up. I had really wanted to see what was going on. But it was hard to be upset on such a nice day. It was beautiful and the sky was clear, with Cat’s Eye up along with the sun to form the double shadows that used to fascinate me when I was a kid. We were moored to the shoreline of the river, our lines secured to the thick conifers that lined the bank. I was lazing on the foredeck daydreaming about Freya Carlson. Even though Heidi Liu was older, she was a fat little busybody, a real goody two shoes. Freya, on the other hand, was a fine looking little thing that smiled at me in a way that made me suspect she kind of liked me too. I wouldn’t mind ...
Suddenly the watchstander’s whistle began to blow, short blast after short blast. Attack drill. I turned and was running for the fantail where my rifle was racked up when the shooting started. I dove for the deck and stared in surprise at a hole that had appeared in the bulkhead beside me. The whistle stopped short and someone started to scream. I turned to look at the shore, and saw a bunch of people burst out of the woods and jump onto the raft. I was too far away from the fantail, so I reached up and grabbed an ax that was racked up next to me. Ferguson came bursting out of his cabin with his laser rifle firing in short bolts. Mrs. Alvarez poked her head out of another door, an automatic pistol bucking in her hand. A young guy came at me, leaping off the cabin, and I caught him in the belly with the ax. Blood spurted from his mouth, and he looked surprised as he fell into the water, taking the ax with him. I picked up the hunting rifle he had dropped and tried to lever another cartridge into the chamber. The damn thing was jammed so I reversed my grip on it like Ferguson had showed me, and used it as a club. I bashed another guy in the head as he tried to jump aboard. Suddenly there was a gigantic crash and I was pushed into the water, my ears ringing.
By the time I struggled back on board it was over. The crash had been a grenade or explosive shell hitting the cabin, smashing a good portion of it to bits. There were bodies and blood everywhere. Nila Liu was working with the wounded, but some were beyond hope. I saw Ludmilla Slimak with the side of her face blown away, her husband John near her with a hole in his back the size of a plate, and Heidi Liu almost torn in half by the explosion. I started to scream when I looked into the cabin because my mom was in there, torn to bits. Arthur Liu and Ferguson passed me, stripping weapons and ammo from the bodies of our attackers, and throwing the bodies over the side. Mrs. Alvarez came over and tried to shush me, and I buried my head against her chest and bawled like a baby.
Before I knew it we were under way again. They brought those of us who had lost someone into the bunk-room to get us out of the way and calm us down. Mrs. Jackson was so shook the other women thought she might have her baby right there and then. Somewhere along the line, somebody handed me little Cindi Slimak to hold. And I thought I had it bad. The kid was only nine years old, and had just seen her parents ripped to shreds before her eyes. I held her and rocked her until she cried herself
to sleep.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(RET):
. . . I may as well have pulled the trigger myself. There are at least a dozen things I could have done to prevent it. . . .
We never did find out who the people were who attacked us or why they did it. They weren’t soldiers, that was for sure. That kid I had put an ax in was no older than me. We figured they must have seen the raft, and decided we had something they wanted. Our party had been reduced from twenty to fourteen in about ten short minutes. Besides Mom, John and Ludmiila Slimak, and Heidi Liu, who I’d seen, John Carlson was dead from a stray bullet, and Sonya Thomas had been killed on the fantail. It was her blowing the whistle that had warned us. When we stopped the next day to bury them, Ferguson had some special words to say about Sonya dying at her post. I hadn’t seen him cry before that, but his voice caught when he talked about it.
We all approached our drills with a new and grimmer sense of purpose. Two things had convinced me that Ferguson knew what he was talking about. One was the way an old fart like him knocked the shit out of me without even breaking a sweat. And the other was the way we operated when the bunch attacked us. Without Mrs. Thomas doing what she did on the fantail, and the rest of us at least trying to do what we were assigned to, we all would have been dead. Ferguson might still be an asshole, but at least he was an asshole who knew what he was doing.
Excerpt--Personal Log--BMCM Timothy Ferguson, I.N.(BET):
. . . One thing I stopped having to do is rag on people to stay on their toes. After the Slaughter, as they have come to call it, no one complains about watches and drills as much. But even still, I’m keeping on them more than ever. Hard work can be therapeutic. . . .
War World IV: Invasion Page 14