by JK Franks
“No, let’s just keep drifting for now.” Jack stared intently into the inky blue darkness. “If they throttle up or turn in our direction, be ready. Otherwise, let’s try and get out of earshot before we do it.” This was what they had agreed upon as their contingency plan earlier in the day, but he didn’t mind Scoots checking. He was anxious to get out of here as well.
Thirty minutes later they heard the unmistakable crackle of a radio somewhere ahead of them in the dark. Jack had been just about to give the order to crank the engines and head for home. Instead, they kept drifting—until they stopped.
The boat lurched as the front of it beached on a hidden sandbar. There were sounds of grunts and surprise as the boat came to a sudden stop. “Shh,” came hushed commands from Jack and Abe. The tides out here changed regularly, and even though the Marco Polo had a shallow draft, they’d known there was a possibility of running aground on the shoals even out here, almost ten miles from land. Scoots and Abe shuffled over to Jack.
“I make out a large ship about 100 yards to stern. It has to be the mother ship,” Abe whispered.
“I’m going over the bow and into the water to see if I can free us from the shoal. We may have to go to engines to reverse us out,” added Scoots.
Jack whispered his okay, but suggested Scoots take a couple of the others as well. It would help lighten the load a bit, as well as provide extra muscle. “Do it quietly,” he reminded him redundantly, “no talking and don’t bump anything.” Scoots disappeared into the dark. “Abe, what can we do about that ship?”
Abe was nothing more than a hulking shadow in the darkness. “I can’t say without knowing what we are up against . . . I’ll go check it out, and if you get free just anchor within earshot.”
“What the fuck do you mean you’ll go check it out?” Jack asked before realizing no one was there. Abe had vanished, and moments later he heard a gentle noise as the big man slid over the side and into the cold water.
Scoots and the others were now rocking the boat to free it, but the current kept pushing it back toward the shoal. Jack could vaguely see that the men were up to their chests, and obviously having trouble getting leverage in the shifting sand.
“Jack,” came Scoots’ low voice, “She’s beached good, we have to lighten the front more to get her free. We gotta do it fast, too, this water’s too cold to stay in.”
Unsure of what else could be shifted to lighten the front, Jack began moving the heavy ammo cans to the rear while trying not to make any noise that might alert the other boat. The men who had remained on board joined him in moving cargo.
Jack looked up at the sound of a radio transmission in the darkness ahead. He made out the glow of what must have been a cigarette. Freezing mid-step, he strained to hear what was being said, but it was too faint for him to make out. Seconds later, though, the unmistakable sound of the smaller boats returning became evident behind them. Jack guessed the mother ship had recalled them from examining the wrecked boat. Lovely, he thought. Now we have the bastards on all sides. What a fucking perfect plan. Leaning over the sides, he whispered, “Ladies, you might want to get this operation moving along. We are about to have a lot of company.”
A face Jack assumed was Scoots came close, “Preacher, bring me the emergency life raft.”
“Are you abandoning ship?” Jack asked. He didn’t wait for a reply but did what the man asked. Scoots was a fixer. He had been one of Bartos’ shop hands and probably knew more about practical engineering solutions than anyone. He took the small bundle from Jack and slipped back beneath the water. While the men could not free the boat, they had managed to make a foot-wide tunnel in the sand beneath the keel. The emergency raft was a tight bundle with a pull cord that unleashed a CO2 cartridge, which would inflate the rubber raft almost instantly. With another crew member positioned on the other side to help keep the raft under the keel of the boat, Scoots popped his head above water to tell the other guys to get ready to push. Just at that moment, all the lights flared to life on the mother ship.
A large spotlight swept the water, rapidly approaching their location. Teeth chattering, Scoots whispered hoarsely to the men, “In five,” and dove again.
Jack manned the aft machine gun as soon as the spotlights came on. It was an instinctual move: if the light found them, they were dead.
He considered starting the engines, but he would still have to wait for all the guys to board before pulling away, and he had no idea where Abe even was. No, it was time to fight. He spotted splashes of white surf between them and the mother ship, then heard a small pop and felt the front of his boat suddenly lurch upward. The boat quickly settled again, but Jack felt the slight backward movement as the boat was freed from the sand.
The sounds of the approaching boats were loud now; three or four of them, he guessed. Scoots slipped over the bow rail, and simultaneously he heard one of the other men hauling Abe in at the stern.
Scoots glided silently into the cockpit and started the engine, putting her in a slow reverse as Abe took over the rear gun. Jack gave Scoots a thumbs-up—“Well played, man,”—and then ran to help the others struggling to get back aboard. The cold, wet men were exhausted, though none made any complaint. As Jack returned to his gun post, Abe remarked, in an eerily calm voice, that they should head due south: the water was deeper there.
The spotlight from the mother ship found them just as the engines engaged. Rifle fire started up from the large vessel almost immediately. Jack charged the gun he was on and was about to fire when Abe told him not to. Jack looked at him in surprise. The young man was pointing behind them at the plumes of white sea spray: “Concentrate on the patrol craft,” he called to his captain.
Jack was confused. The mother ship was the main target. But he trusted his old friend’s assurances, and so he followed Abe’s instructions. Both men held fire as the others hid below deck or behind the gunnels, and each put his ear protection on. They had to get the patrol boats in close to be able to hit them, and for that to happen, they had to keep the pirates in the dark about the weapons they had onboard.
The pirates, on the other hand, began firing as soon as they could see the Marco Polo. Bullets began to ping off the metal hull, and one clipped Scoots’ shoulder. To his credit, he held the wheel steady. The course they were on would take them dangerously close to the large mother ship, but they couldn’t risk getting beached again.
Two of the small boats caught up, one on either side. They were indeed heavily modified cigarette racing boats. The long, sleek crafts were powerful and sexy, as boats go, in their design. Each contained six or seven guys. Everyone but the driver aimed a weapon at them. Jack tried to make himself small behind the protective shield of the machine gun. Looking back, he saw Abe, pointing his at the one on the other side, glance toward him.
Both he and Abe began firing at nearly the same instant. The boat Abe was firing at suddenly listed badly as its pilot was shot and the enemy all went into the water. Jack hadn’t hit anything except the ocean, but the other boat had taken notice and pulled farther away.
Jack’s first belt of ammo had emptied frustratingly fast. Abe had turned his attention to the two boats coming directly from aft. He stitched a line of shots across both bows, but the boats stayed in pursuit. Finally reloaded, Jack hit the charging handle and began firing at his target again. This time he took more care to aim and follow the path of the rounds. He realized he had to elevate and lead much more than he expected. The other boat crossed in front, and Jack had to swing the gun past the bow to fire. In the darkness, it was difficult to know what part of the boat he was firing at, but as it entered a circle of light from the mother ship, his bullets found home. A round hit one of the three outboard engines, causing it to seize and to be set ablaze. The next round must have hit a fuel tank because the entire rear of the boat promptly went up in a small mushroom cloud of flame.
Jack suddenly became aware of the rounds hitting the protective metal shield in front of him. The men
on the mother ship had never stopped firing, though they had been thwarted so far by the distance. Jack could see some survivors from the attack boats struggling out of the water and climbing cargo nets into the large ship. Only one boat remained in pursuit, but it was falling back quickly. Jack had no firing line on that one, so he crouched and ran to Abe who had ceased firing as well. “Why didn’t you want us to go after the mother ship?” Jack spoke above the muffle of his earplugs.
“No need,” Abe answered with a smile. “I jammed her anchor cable so they can’t move, and I left them a present.” In punctuation of that, a thunderous boom echoed across the water. The huge mother ship listed sideways, and all her lights went out.
Jack looked at the big, young man with a look of admiration. “What kind of present was that?”
“I was certified in underwater demolitions in the Marines. We included a few bricks of Semtex in our gift bags for you,” Abe grinned now from ear to ear.
“You took a brick of plastic explosive with you when you swam over?” Jack laughed incredulously at the Marine’s bravado. “Damn, you are handy!” The rest of the crew had begun to resurface in the wake of the explosion, curious to see what had gone on. Jack shook hands with Abe as he surveyed the scene. “Thanks, brother. I’m not even gonna ask what else you’ve got up your sleeve.”
Jack took over the piloting duties now that the danger was behind them. The others went below to change into dry clothes and warm up. Scoots was having his wound stitched up, and a few of the others had various cuts and bumps from the brief battle. The boat itself seemed fine: a few bullet holes, but no other problems. Jack sighed a heavy sigh of relief as they made their way back towards home. No way that should have worked that easily. Thank you, Jesus!
Chapter Eleven
Present Day
Harris Springs, Mississippi
Bartos’ dog, Solo, trailed behind the two men. He stayed in the shadows, as was his habit, while his owner spoke. “Scott, listen man, those guys are bad, like pure evil kinda bad. We’ve got to keep listening to see what they do next. We already heard them talking about taking their message to the coast. Dat be us, man.”
Both friends had a lot on their plate. Since being forced to move to survival footing the previous fall, every day had been focused on the once mundane details that now meant life or death: clean water, waste disposal, food, medicine and always, always the other bastards who wanted to take it away.
In some ways it was getting easier; nearly all the freeloaders were gone by now. Sadly, most of the preppers were dead as well. Those people who thought you could prepare enough to survive any catastrophe had hoarded their supplies and themselves only to run out over the winter or fall into other dangers in their isolation, like repeated attacks by thieves. That was not to say that all those living were good people, far from it. Many were ruthless and survived by migrating like hordes of locusts from house to house, one town after another. Everyone was a scavenger now, picking over the bones of a once proud nation. Those who remained were tough, smart and had most likely kept out of sight of the more ruthless. Or…they were the more ruthless.
“The AG is on everybody’s radar, Scott. Shit, you can see the damn thing from fifteen miles away,” Bartos went on.
Scott looked at his Cajun friend. This man had done so much for the town, not to mention for him personally. “I’m not saying we ignore the Messengers, Bartos. Just try and keep Kaylie from listening in on their crap. We have too much other stuff to deal with right now for Kaylie to be getting caught up in the propaganda coming from that bunch.”
“Not everyone thinks it’s crap, man. Most of the survivors like the preaching, it gives them hope. Even Jack said the church services are always full these days.”
“Jack and I have discussed them already. We both agreed that you must be able to separate the message from the Messengers. Bartos, you said yourself these guys are evil. They’re perverting people’s faith, and at some point, that will be an issue for all of us. I wouldn’t blame religion for this shit. Face it, if you’re so fucked you can’t tell right from wrong without listening to some jackasses who call themselves prophets—or consulting some all-powerful deity or a sacred book—then what you lack is not faith but a moral compass. Compassion and intelligence.
“That’s a dangerous line to be walking, Scott, especially down here in the Bible Belt.”
Scott nodded in agreement. “I know. I’m not condemning anyone’s personal beliefs. I honestly don’t care if they worship Jesus, Buddha, Allah or the Tooth Fairy. But if that faith tells them to do harm to others, I have a big fucking issue with it. Millions, hell, probably billions of people throughout history have been killed in the name of one religion or the other. Just because you put your particular brand of God on it or drop enough Bible verses into your hate-filled rants to convince people, doesn’t make your actions any more justified.”
Nodding reluctantly, Bartos said, “So, how do you really feel, man?” Scott looked at the crazy bald man who was smiling cheekily at him. “Okay, okay,” Bartos conceded. “I’ll tell the guys to try and make sure Kaylie stays clear of those broadcasts. She’s right though: they’re taking over more and more of the channels. The others we were communicating with on a pretty regular basis are no longer on. The signal strength these Messengers have is amazing. They’re pumping out some serious wattage.”
“Does that tell us anything useful in itself?” Scott asked.
“It tells me they are organized, must be well-funded and expanding.”
“Agreed . . . thanks man.” Scott sat on a bench in what had been the town’s only park. The view looked over a cold, gray ocean, below a granite-colored sky. “You think they could be part of the Catalyst plan? I suppose it would fit. If they brought Grayshirts into a town and started making demands or stealing shit, everybody would gun-up and start blasting. Bring a bunch of missionaries, set up a tent revival and get all the people feeling guilty, start judging their neighbors . . . ” Scott let the rest of that thought trail off. “For now, we maintain radio discipline. Never broadcast anything related to our location, supplies or numbers. These guys are thugs, a gang just like others we’ve had to deal with; whether they have Praetor backing or not is irrelevant. Let’s just try and keep track of them and be ready if they come.”
Bartos agreed. “When will Jack be back?”
“Said we should expect him back in three days. Assuming he didn’t get distracted,” Scott said with a smile. “I’m going to go take his spot on the canal shortly and see if I can still fish and drink at the same time.”
Preacher Jack had become somewhat of an ambassador to other settlements. More accurately, he was a trade representative, venturing farther out than anyone else. They had all built up the community supplies with several big hauls from a stalled freight train, from which they had acquired more of some things than they needed. Jack and a few of his friends had started contacting other groups along the coast to work out some trades for surplus items. The roads were still dangerous, so most of the time they went by boat. Jack never revealed that the supplies came from Harris Springs.
This would be the longest trip he had made so far. He was supposed to be meeting a contact over in Slidell, Louisiana, to trade flour and molasses for salt, rice, eggs and several cases of parts and ammo. These trades went a long way toward keeping the AG community alive. The trips had been mostly uneventful, as he never went ashore without several heavily armed members of his crew doing advance scouting on the meeting space, with one exception: at one of the meetings with a regular trader in Pass Christian last month, Jack and half his crew got hammered on local whiskey and nearly wrecked the boat trying to leave the dock . . ..
Bartos looked over at the dog. He was standing still watching a squirrel that was getting a little too close to the ground. Solo was not above taking one as a light snack. “It still surprises me. I assumed food, water and shelter would be the most important things after the shit hit the fan. But most peop
le we see want information first.”
“Knowing what’s going on in the world around us matters. That shared need is part of what makes up a society. It’s a large part of what connects us as a species,” Scott mused. “If you remember, that was one of the first conversations you and I ever had—you guys wanted to know what I knew after the solar flare. It’s human nature. Most of us also grew up with twenty-four-hour news channels, Internet, Facebook . . . We knew the most mundane shit about everybody, all the time, not just our friends, but total strangers’ lives, too.
“Right now, we know it’s bad everywhere. We have more clues as to what’s going on than most in the world . . . but when’s the big stuff gonna hit us? I mean, it’s a big world out there, and there’s a lot of chaos that could come our way. Many have it worse . . . maybe some have it better. But what do we need to do, not just to survive, but to start rebuilding? Face it, getting any credible information these days is hard. People are starved for contact, for entertainment, hell . . . for anything hopeful. These Messengers are using that desperation to spread hate and fear.”
“So, you’re saying the planet is fucked?” Bartos asked.
“As a great man once said, ‘The planet is fine, the people are fucked.’”
“Oh Lord, you’re quoting Carlin again,” Bartos chuckled at his eccentric friend.
Scott looked genuinely perplexed. “George Carlin was arguably the brightest mind the human race ever produced.”
“Really? Was that before or after the drugs and booze?”
“Like you would even know genius if it sat down on the bench next to you,” Scott said with a wink.
Chapter Twelve
Angel was chopping vegetables as Scott walked in. Scott looked around for DeVonte as the boy seemed to be her ever-present shadow lately. Kaylie had spoken highly of Angel, and Scott had not taken that praise lightly. He had gotten to know her a little and was similarly impressed by her intellect and abilities. She was a natural organizer, and he had taken to dealing directly with her on matters dealing with the kitchen or food supplies.