Paula motioned for Aiko’s own belly. “When are you due?”
“Early in the new year. A couple months to go.”
“Is it your first?”
“It is. And it terrifies me.” Normally Aiko wouldn’t have been so forthcoming with her feelings on such matters, but she felt the response slipping out before she could stop herself. She quickly changed the subject. “Is this your first, too?”
“Yeah. But I feel like a pro. Both my sisters and my aunts have seven kids between them. I was there for all the births and helped raise every one of them. At this point, it feels like just another day at the office.”
“That’s good. I could take some inspiration from you.” Aiko put her clipboard down and helped Paula rise to a seated position. “That’s it for today. Make sure you’re getting plenty of fluids and remember to take a break from time to time. It wouldn’t kill those stuffy assholes upstairs to fold their own sheets occasionally.”
Paula smiled. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
Jeremiah rifled through the prescriptions cabinet, looking for a specific pain medication that he knew was there just yesterday. “Nia, have you seen the oxycodone?” he asked while holding the cabinet open. “No one has come in in need of it, and now it has suddenly gone missing.”
“I haven’t, no. Ask Jonah,” she replied. “The pharmacy is his department and I don’t mess with that man. He gives me the creeps, and quite frankly, I think he’s an asshole.”
“Noted. Thank you.”
If Nia’s assertion that Jonah was at the very least unpleasant to be around raised any suspicion with Jeremiah, he kept it to himself—as he did with most things.
Jonah wasn’t easy to track down; he never was. Since the day Jeremiah and Aiko were offered positions of authority in the infirmary, Jonah became a phantom. He came and went at odd hours, never really making himself present when the Navy medics were on duty. The man had a way about him like he was perpetually up to something. He was like the child who always looked at you side-eyed; you wouldn’t be inclined to think he was up to no good if he didn’t telegraph it for you.
Today, Jonah was in fact where he belonged. He was sorting fresh inventory from stowage: plastic bins full to overflowing with precious medications and other supplies meant for the infirmary. Jeremiah wasn’t one to mince words. He came right out with it and asked Jonah if he had any knowledge of the missing stock. As usual, Jonah was standoffish, again raising red flags that would otherwise be nonexistent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m extremely busy.”
“As you were,” Jeremiah said as he stepped aside to watch Jonah’s attempt at inventory-taking.
“As you were?” Jonah repeated through a sideways glance and a curled lip; he was disgusted. “Like you run the place,” he muttered under his breath.
Jonah began sorting the bottles with more vigor until reddened in the face. With Jeremiah looming silently above him, he finally stormed out of the infirmary, cursing all the way. In his rage, a case of medication fell to the floor.
Jeremiah, for his part, scrutinized the display in silence while taking mental note of the untimely fit.
Nia quickly began putting the spilled bottles where they belonged. “See what I mean?” she commented. “If you ask the guy the simplest of questions, he flies off the handle. If you ask me, there’s something going on with him. But far be it from me to gossip.”
Jeremiah offered no reply.
~~~
On Joelle’s recommendation, Sam and Markus were moved over to the fishery full-time. She had a soft spot for the old-timer and wanted to keep an eye on him. It wasn’t as if he needed looking after, but having him close by made her feel better. Truth be told, she had also developed a crush on Markus, but he was spoken for. He and Samantha had made it official; they had finally moved in together a few months back.
Joelle was spoken for as well; she had been with Petrova since long before the Pepperbush survivors joined the crew. She wasn’t the type to stray, but that didn’t make her blind. She loved Petrova, but Markus had something she desired, and if she had her way, the four of them could somehow work it out. She knew that Petrova was always open for experimentation, but this Samantha, whom she had not yet met in any way that mattered, might prove to be a hindrance.
His new job at Haven’s fishery worked out well for Sam, as the fishing was usually done by noon. This gave him time to go back to his and Nisha’s quarters before his night shift began as a barback at Trix’s.
Nisha wasn’t doing so well of late. She left their room infrequently at best. She could still be spotted around the ship, dining by herself or having a drink alone, though as soon as anyone approached her, she would find an excuse to leave. Lillian often tried to get through to her, but to no avail. It was all Sam could do to get Nisha to acknowledge his presence anymore. She still worked, though Doctor Nazneen insisted that three-day weeks was all the woman could handle. Casandra picked up the slack along with Samantha. Casandra found herself living alone after Samantha moved in with Markus; she suggested that Nisha room with her but was always refused. Nisha felt safer around Sam but wouldn’t admit that to anyone but him.
~~~
Salty spray blanketed Sam and the fishermen with every list of the ship. The opening from stowage out to the open sea was dangerously slick at times. For that reason, and for the fact that early on more than one person was swept right off of the boat, the fishermen were tethered to the ship’s superstructure. No one had been lost to date, but waiting for the ship to stop and perform a rescue wasn’t exactly high on anyone’s list of priorities. A hand-cranked winch hauled in the latest catch as Sam and Markus guided the net into the boat. Dozens of fish spilled out onto the floor. This was a sizable catch, but unfortunately, the net dragged a carrier from the watery depths. The entire catch would have to be thrown back.
“Goddammit,” Sam cursed. “Third wasted haul today.”
“It’s because we’re too close to shore,” one of the more experienced fishermen noted. “The nets are dragging along the bottom.”
The bloated water-logged carrier was disposed of and the wasted catch was pushed overboard.
“We’ll go half the depth this time,” said Sam. “Our catch won’t be as big, but we’ll avoid any of those things lurking around down there.”
The net was restrung and allowed to fall back beneath the waves. The other fisherman at the winch controls counted off. “One-one-thousand… two-one-thousand…” When he reached ten, he yanked the winch closed. The net would be allowed to drag behind the ship at a fraction of the normal depth for an hour, leaving Sam and Markus time to try their luck with the fishing poles.
Markus casually baited, then threw out his line. “You know, before coming here, I never even held a fishing pole in my life,” he said.
“This place is chock-full of firsts.” Sam peered across stowage toward de-cons and Krysler’s crew lounging around.
“Don’t let them get to you, man,” one of the fishermen cautioned. “You’re letting that piece of shit live rent-free in your head. Fuck him.”
The fishermen held no love for Krysler and his goons. Like Sam and Markus, they too began their lives aboard Haven as washouts from stowage. It took a certain kind of person to work under a man like Krysler, not the least of which was the capacity to eat shit on a daily basis. If you weren’t willing to take it and dish it out in equal measure, you weren’t going to cut it in stowage. Luckily for the fisherman—new guys included—Captain Kayembe suggested that a fishery be set up after Haven came across a derelict fishing vessel. Its crew was gone—there was no sign that anyone ever manned it—but the boat’s gear was intact and brought aboard.
One of the more seasoned fishermen had some sage advice to lessen the sting of the wasted catch. But more than allaying fears, he wanted to change the topic of conversation to anything but Krysler. “Even if we threw back half of every catch daily, we wou
ld still bring in enough fish to sustain the ship indefinitely.”
“That’s right,” the second fisherman chimed in. “Anything short of catastrophic mechanical failure and Haven and its people can safely ride out this mess until someone figures it all out.”
“That’s a comforting thought,” Markus added with a sereneness about him; the life of a fisherman suited him. He tugged on his fishing line to goad any fish in the area into striking at his lure.
Sam nodded in approval. On the surface, things aboard Haven seemed relatively well put together. It was truly a self-sustaining community at sea. Not too dissimilar to what they had back in Pepperbush, only they had traded the berm for the open sea and the occasional wild game animal for a plethora of fish. To live aboard Haven was to be safely cut off from the trials faced by the rest of the world, and that realization instilled a sense of calmness ship-wide.
Sam often found himself pondering just how long so many different types of people could coexist. Haven was at its core a floating city complete with the routines of society prior to the collapse, but in Sam’s eyes, it was all a facade. For every kind soul like Joelle and the fishermen, Haven seemed to sport just as many Kryslers lurking at the periphery.
Sam wasn’t always the pessimistic type, but he was a realist. His shipmates could ignore the clear-to-see existence of class separation all they liked, but Sam couldn’t shake what that divide represented and what it could portend for the future of Haven. He wondered how long this microcosm of society would take to implode if the fishing nets came loose and drifted to the bottom of the ocean or, worse yet, became tangled in the prop and had to be cut loose. Losing that food source would certainly test just how sustainable this lifestyle really was. He prayed they would never find out.
~~~
Isaac was content to lose himself in his role as custodian. The less responsibility, the better; he hated the idea of people counting on him. For him, giving up the badge was a relief. He spent his days toiling away, cleaning other people’s messes, and he spent his nights with his new boyfriend. It was a simple existence, and that was just fine with him. Isaac met his significant other, Julius, at the pool bar about two months into his stay on Haven. Julius had been handling the day shift, as Chelsea was fully committed to nights.
Julius was a Jamaican cocktail mixer in training at Chelsea’s poolside bar; his cool demeanor and good looks made him popular with the ladies. Flowing dreads and the fact that he never buttoned his loud tropical shirts didn’t hurt, either. He and Isaac hit it off fast and could often be seen tangled up in each other around Haven.
Isaac had just finished another long shift in janitorial. In Marisol’s absence, he was training the new guy, Walter. Isaac asked the new hire if he’d care to join him for drinks by the pool—on this uncommonly warm December afternoon—and introduce him to Julius. Walter was thrilled at the prospect; he was thrilled about most things.
Walter was picked up two months back when he was hiding out in a home for special needs patients. He was in his mid-fifties and a former resident there, and when the world went to shit, he stayed in the only place that made him feel safe. The staff had long since abandoned the facility, and those under their care were taken with them or picked up by family before the crisis hit its apex.
But Walter hid; he was good at hiding, as most of the staff could attest. He thought it was a game and that no one could find him. When he eventually emerged from his hiding spot, he found that his friends—the staff and the patients—were all gone. He wandered the halls of the facility for days and weeks, searching and scared, until he forgot what he was even looking for. In time, Walter developed a routine. He would start his day in the common room and do puzzles or paint until lunchtime, when he would fix himself a meal. Early on it was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and when that ran out, there were plenty of canned goods on hand to sustain him.
Walter would wander the halls of the facility, eating all the snacks he could get his hands on. There was no one around anymore to tell him that he could only have one and only one after dinner. He often made himself sick and didn’t touch the sweets for days at a time; then he would forget and do it all over again. Luckily for Walter, Cortez’s team was in search of a portable ventilator, and the home’s location on the outskirts of town made it a prime spot to hit. As they were leaving, a large group of the dead overran the home. Walter would have surely met his demise that day. Instead, he was integrated into Haven’s community and he had never been happier.
By chance, Nisha happened to be out at the pool bar. Isaac tried to make small talk and introduce her to Walter, but she was distant, as had become the norm. Julius, on the other hand, was a trained bartender; he always tried to cheer her up whenever he could. He made it his mission to bring her back into the fold.
“You look a little glum this afternoon. What seems to be the problem?”
“I’m fine, Julius. Just tired.” Nisha sat with her back to the crowd. Around her, dozens of people frolicked in the sun. Their laughter and conversation made no impact.
“Here, let me cheer you up,” Julius said as he leapt over the bar. He spun her stool around so that she was facing the pool and the majority of the crowd.
“I really just want to be alone.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “If you really meant that, you wouldn’t be out here in the sun.”
Nisha shrugged and refused to make eye contact.
Julius put his arm around her and gestured to the vast sea of people before them. “You know, there was this one guy in here a few weeks ago. He had his eye on this pretty girl. Not as pretty as you, not even close. The guy was a little out of shape and his confidence was just out the window. So he asked me for some advice. He said, ‘Hey, Julius. Man, this girl is awesome, but I don’t know how to approach her. She’s always surrounded by her friends. What do I do? I mean, look at me, then look at her.’ I told him, ‘Look, man, stop that right now. If you don’t love yourself, how can you expect anyone else to love you back? Now you get your ass over there and you talk to this girl. If she shuts you down, it’s not the end of the world.’”
“But it is the end of the world,” Nisha clarified.
“The point is, he went over there, and they hit it off. They’ve been inseparable ever since. End of the world or not.”
“You made that up.”
“Did I?” Julius gestured across the deck to a slightly overweight guy hanging out with a group of girls. The bunch of them were lying beside the pool on a giant blanket. A pretty redhead was snuggled beside the man.
~~~
Markus had been sporadically visiting Damon in Underworld over the preceding months. Even so, his trips had become less and less frequent, and the door only swung both ways if you lived upstairs. Markus’s work in the warehouse with Sam wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it was a far cry from the uncertainty and constant danger of life in Underworld, at least from his perspective.
Despite Markus’s opinion of Underworld, Damon thrived. He was in his element among the dregs of society, as Sam was apt to say. Damon had acquired a bit of a following in this grimy place. Others that didn’t belong or were too afraid to get involved with the gangs latched onto him. He had been dealing for the Vatos in a limited capacity. They supplied him with just enough heroin to keep his growing customer base coming back for more but not enough for him to start an empire of his own. Or so they thought.
The disillusioned masses of Underworld flocked to him. Rejects from the Haitians, the Hooligans, and the Vatos alike also sought out Damon for peace of mind, for a sense of belonging in a place where your friends meant everything. Unbeknownst to any of the gangs, Damon already had the numbers to match the Vatos in manpower, and that number far surpassed the Hooligans. He had accomplished in a few scant months what his father had held him back from for so long back home in Baltimore. Damon had his own crew, and he answered to nobody but himself. Perhaps the difference this time was that it was all done in secret.
&nb
sp; Damon’s living quarters were about as nice as it came for someone who wasn’t an official leader of anything in Underworld. He had multiple TVs set up for an equal number of gaming systems and DVD players. A dozen or more people could be found passed out around the room at any given hour of the day. It didn’t matter if these people hung around out of loyalty or fear or if they truly felt a connection with him. All that mattered was that they were there and Damon didn’t have to be alone.
He kept the area around his bed separated by a drawn sheet; it didn’t block out the sound, but it offered the illusion of privacy. It was enough to know that his hangers-on were there even if he didn’t feel compelled to have to stare at them at all hours of the day. Two girls lay in bed with him, fast asleep, still passed out from the night before. He had been sharing his portion of the spoils with his new friends. Free drugs attracted a certain kind of person, ones with fewer compunctions than those who tried to stay on the straight and narrow. Observing what lengths people would go to for a free hit amused Damon. So watching the girls fumbling around in his bed, pretending to be into each other as they clumsily caressed one another’s bodies for his benefit, gave him a sense of power. Other people looking to score, the ones he wasn’t interested in so much, could occupy their time performing menial tasks like cleaning up his place or fetching his laundry or meals.
As far as Damon was concerned, he had peaked. After a few months aboard Haven, he had found his calling. He was a tiny cog in a machine that he understood all too well. Most in his position could have been content with what they had amassed so far, but Damon always needed just a little more. One more hit, one more lackey, one more person under heel. These people weren’t exactly what he would consider hard or even soldiers in the broadest sense of the word, but he would make the best use he could of the hand he was dealt.
Damon had ambition, no matter what his father’s thoughts were on the subject. One way or another—no matter what it took or how long—Underworld would be his.
~~~
The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise Page 25