Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  “Will do, Jack.”

  The order was given, and soon the sides of the road packed with cars erupted into huge flames. Those trying to escape were now trapped between the poison gas, the fire and the flood. It was a deeply painful sight for them all, Jack in particular. There was no coming back from the genocide that he had unleashed in the name of survival. He had crossed a line. He knew he would never preach again. He felt he had traded his soul for the survival of his people.

  Michael stood at the window watching his flock struggle and die with a look of calm and… enjoyment on his face. He spoke to no one in particular. “Ninety percent of people believe in some form of religion or higher power. The key is understanding how to use that belief to get them to do what you want instead of what they want.”

  Jack’s disgust increased as he noticed it: the robes around the small man’s groin betrayed his greater excitement. This man repulsed him. “Solo,” he said quite quietly, “bite his dick off.”

  It seemed the dog understood the command. With one quick snap, a vital portion of Michael Swain’s groin became a mutilated mess. Jack caught him as he fell. He was done with this piece of garbage. He would not offer him a chance to repent.

  “Bobby, this man is guilty of every crime imaginable—against humanity and you personally. Would you like to carry out the sentencing?”

  “Yes, I would. Gladly.” Bobby had several soldiers lead the whimpering man to the rail. He took the H&K VP9 from his waistband and pointed it at the man who had destroyed so many lives. “This is for my wife, Jessie, and Jordan, and all the countless other lives you ruined.”

  He did not remember pulling the trigger, but the man’s head erupted as the 9mm round did its job with cold precision. His robed body tumbled unceremoniously over the rail to join the growing number of dead bodies and flaming debris below.

  Jack looked over the edge. “100 percent of us believe in gravity, mother fucker.”

  Chapter One Hundred

  Gulf of Mexico

  The passage of time had become an amorphous concept to the two men. All conversation had quelled after Scott mentioned the Catalyst protocols. The men paddled, ate turtle jerky and took tiny sips of the warm but fresh water collecting in the solar still.

  “Do you think we’re making any progress?” Scott asked the soldier.

  “Some,” Skybox responded with a shrug.

  They had seen some trees floating by, as well as bits of Styrofoam and other detritus that the storm had thrown back out to sea. Every bit of terrestrial debris they saw gave them hope. The day was fading, and it looked like it would be a clear night; Skybox could hopefully do some plotting with the night sky and determine their approximate location.

  Dusk brought an end to both the paddling and the silence. “You know she lost her husband and daughter?” said Skybox.

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Colton. That’s one way the Guard ensures loyalty, they take care of your loved ones. After the collapse, they brought her family to a reserve station, kind of like a protected oasis. When they set up the lab at the college, she requested they be brought down so she could see them. The chopper went down somewhere near the coast. Her husband and her daughter were both killed.”

  “Fuck,” Scott sighed and shook his head at the tragic news. “That hurts. Steve was a good man . . . I didn’t know her daughter. Guess that explains the look she gave me when I asked about them.”

  “Just thought you should know. I’m pretty sure my friend, Tommy, was on the same flight, though no one would tell me. They were supposed to also be bringing him down from the same reserve as a favor to me. Just want you to know about her and that we—that the Guard—isn’t all bad. They’ve done a lot of good.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t mean to imply you guys were evil. You do have some rather harsh solutions, though. I mean, I see the logic in them, even in the brutality. Better to do what is necessary and save a few than do nothing and lose everyone . . .”

  Skybox sighed. “Seems like that’s always the dilemma. Most people want to do the right thing, even if it’s suicidal. Our missions have always been about survival. If you know about the Catalyst protocols, and I have no idea how you do, you must also know it was a well-conceived plan no matter how brutal it comes across.”

  “I do,” Scott said flatly. “But do you have any idea of what the world is like now? I mean, outside your Area of Operations, do you understand the brutality taking place, the total lack of resources, law and order?”

  “Honestly, no I don’t. I haven’t gotten any news except a few morsels from DJ and the doc. My superiors passed along very little to me other than our country was falling apart. I was hoping you might tell me what’s happened this past year.”

  Scott looked up at the darkening sky, remembering the Northern Lights that had appeared overhead last summer. “Wow . . . that will take some time.”

  Skybox gave a little snort. “Scott, I think we have plenty of that. At least until we run out of turtles, that is.”

  “Very true.”

  With that, he began to tell the man what had come to pass since the solar flare. Skybox absorbed it all in wide-eyed amazement. He could not grasp his country as the place Scott was describing.

  Chapter One Hundred One

  The next day the water they had been rationing ran out. They had only the supply from the solar still now. But today the sun was not cooperating; the skies had been overcast all day. Rainfall would have worked, but none fell. There were just clouds, heat and their unquenchable thirst.

  “Well . . . you got any bright ideas?”

  Skybox shook his head. “No,” he croaked. He was a fighter and would not go down easily, but dehydration took no prisoners. “Just don’t give into the thirst and drink seawater. It’ll just speed up the end.”

  The conversation had lagged, and the men dozed uncomfortably. Scott had sores where his skin had been rubbing against the raft. They were becoming open wounds.

  It was later in the afternoon when Scott felt a light bump from underneath the raft. It alarmed him, and he shouted although the sound that he made sounded nothing like his voice.

  Skybox opened his eyes. “What is it?” he asked groggily.

  Scott was looking out. “Sharks.”

  Skybox remained still. “Swell.”

  “No, man, you might want to take a look at this. There are a lot of sharks. Holy Mother of God,” Scott wasn’t easily afraid, but even he could hear the fear in his voice.

  “Well, if you’re talking blasphemy, I guess I better.” Skybox looked as well. “Holy shit.”

  The area around the raft, in fact as far as they could see, was teeming with sharks. Most appeared uninterested in the raft; it seemed they had plenty to eat.

  “What is all that?” Skybox mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

  “Debris and bodies,” Scott muttered. “Judging from the condition, they look like flood victims.” Mixed into this macabre tableau were basketballs, fenceposts, milk jugs, even an old television.

  “My parents used to have one like that,” Skybox said, pointing to the TV, “Zenith, I believe.” He gave Scott a wink.

  Scott leaned back laughing. “Don’t, I haven’t got the energy.”

  “Sorry, man, but let’s keep looking. There might be something useful. I’m going to grab one of those fence boards for a paddle.”

  “Okay, but watch for nails or splinters before you bring it in. We are sitting in a leaky balloon surrounded by thousands of sharks . . .” Scott felt hysteria rising; what he’d said suddenly sounded so funny to him.

  “Point taken, little buddy.” They were both feeling silly.

  Scott pointed. “Okay, skipper, let’s check some of those milk jugs. They could have fresh water.”

  It was a good idea, but none held anything of the sort. Most were simply old trash. A few had lines attached and had probably been floats for a fishing line once upon a time. The sharks were not in a frenzy, but they were unpredictable, and
in a mass this large anything was possible. Most of them looked to be blacktips, although he spotted the occasional spinner and bull shark in the swarm. While the spinners were normally the least dangerous, their leaps from the water to subdue their prey meant that some were landing near—and even on—the raft.

  “We have to get away from this,” Skybox said as he pushed the bloated back half of a dead hog away with his new paddle. Several sharks were fighting over the carcass and did not relinquish their hold even as he pushed on it.

  Scott agreed, but could not see any possible way to clear what seemed like miles of floating carnage. Some of the bodies appeared to have gunshot wounds and burns. Whatever happened to these people must have been awful—more than just a hurricane. He noticed what looked like dark bruises or possibly tattoos on some of their hands. “If we go south the mass will just catch back up to us. We need to paddle north through the thickest part of it. Shouldn’t be that wide.”

  “Agreed,” said Skybox. “Start paddling but watch your hand and your paddle. Those things are biting everything that enters the water.”

  Scott felt incredibly weak, and his tongue was swollen and papery, but his fear of the situation and his desire to live were powerful enough motivators for now. Carefully, he dipped his paddle into the warm ocean water and the raft pulled forward several inches. Skybox was doing the same. Together they tapped into their remaining reserves of strength, and gradually their strokes became more confident.

  Several times the men had to hit an overly aggressive shark in order to drive it off, but they seemed to be making progress. With no real frame of reference, all they could do was keep working together, hopeful that the effort would pay off. They were silent, muscles strained, and sweat made rivers down their faces. The chomping, tearing and snapping jaws all around them kept their pace efficient.

  The debris and its accompanying sharks seemed to go on forever. After what felt like several hours of paddling, both men were well beyond exhaustion. “I can’t keep going,” Scott said.

  “I know, I know, but it does seem to be thinning slightly.”

  They continued to paddle, although the strokes were getting ragged and momentum was falling away. Scott pulled his paddle in. A piece had been bitten off one side. He set it down and looked at Skybox, who pulled in his makeshift paddle, too, and sat catching his breath against the side of the raft.

  He looked over at Scott and smiled weakly. “We tried.”

  The bumps of the sharks on the raft’s bottom continued as both men fell into a sleep as deep as unconsciousness.

  Chapter One Hundred Two

  They awoke around midday to find the raft filling with water. The lower ring of the sidewall had a large puncture in which seawater was now bubbling through. Waking slowly, Scott watched as if he were a spectator. “Bet they didn’t have shows like this on that old Zenith.” He could see Skybox—was that his name?—doing something, but he wasn’t sure what, nor was he really interested. “I think I’m going to take a swim. I’m hot.” He began to take off his shorts.

  Skybox looked at him puzzled. “Hey, you can’t do, do, do that. Poo—p—pool’s closed. Come on, we . . . fuck. Got to fix it. I found patches.”

  It took the men what felt like an eternity to get the patches on the hole. Their fuzzy brains and clumsy hands lacked the motor coordination to handle the task simply. Neither could remember how the pump worked, so they left the ring flat, which caused them to sink into a funnel shape at the center of the raft. Scott managed to find an empty bottle and bail out much of the seawater, but soon they slept again, semi-submerged in the faltering lifeboat.

  “Hey, drink this.” Scott awoke to see Skybox holding something to his lips. It was hot but went down without a salty burn.

  “Thaks,” he growled in a voice that was almost gone.

  Skybox nodded and took a swallow himself. “The solar-still worked all day, but we were so out of it getting away from the sharks that we never checked it. We have this and another almost full bottle of water! We could have died, and salvation would have been right there within our reach.” He handed Scott the remainder of the bottle. “We can ration the next one. Right now, drink up.”

  The men roused themselves sluggishly to occasionally check the patches and empty the bag on the still. It was nighttime again, and cooler now. Maybe it was getting close to sunrise, as there was a slight glare to the eastern sky. The ever-present sound of the sharks moving through the water and feeding had grown quieter. There were less of them now.

  The men took turns watching the horizon, mainly for something to do, but also with hope for land or something else that would aid them. Skybox had been watching the sky for a long time and shook his head. “We’re starting to move south. Probably along the panhandle. We’re about to be pulled down the coast of Florida.”

  Scott didn’t feel like it mattered much so stayed silent as he took the man’s watch position at the rail. Their legs ran together at the bottom of the raft. “We have to figure out how to blow that ring up tomorrow. Your legs are like hairy tree trunks. I can’t sleep with a man with hairy legs.”

  Skybox laughed. “Funny, I like yours, smooth as glass. Damn cyclists, you guys love to manscape.”

  Scott stiffened. “I think—” he paused for several seconds to be sure. “I think I see something.”

  The other man crawled up near him, careful not to tip the raft too much. “Yeah,” Skybox agreed. “I sort of see it. Man, it’s dark out here. Whatever it is, it’s big. It looks like it’s moving past us fast—we better paddle before it gets out of sight. Might be something useful.”

  Scott nodded, “That’s back towards deeper water, though, back to where the sharks are.”

  “We have to risk it, man, it’s the only promising thing we’ve seen.”

  They put the paddles out and began to stroke. They paddled for hours as night gave way to day. The men could now see what they were pursuing, although the scene was somewhat surreal. Two hundred yards ahead a boat—well, actually several boats—were moored to what appeared to be part of a floating wooden dock and a shelter: a shack of some sort. The boats all had varying damage, some severe. The largest, a fishing boat like Todd’s, was listing badly. A hole could clearly be seen near the water level, and the bow was flattened. A few of the smaller boats were beneath the water more than above it.

  “We have to speed up,” Scott said. “These must have been swept out with the storm as well.” Skybox made a sound that seemed like agreement. Maybe.

  It took the two weak men several more hours to make up the final distance and get close to the boats. The sun was now up in full force. Skybox dropped his paddle and uncoiled the rope that had been attached to the raft bag. “Hold this,” he said, and with that, he dove over the rail and was swimming for the closest of the boats.

  Scott looked over, his hand holding onto the thin rope. He yelled hoarsely in a semi-serious tone, “Sharks, don’t mind him, he’s superhuman and would undoubtedly taste horrible. And he has legs like a freakin’ gorilla.”

  Despite his weakened state, Skybox was determined and managed to reach the dock and get out of the water and over the gunnels of one of the boats in minutes. He pulled Scott and the raft the remainder of the way. Soon, the little raft that had pulled them through so much was tied up alongside the other decrepit craft of the small flotilla. Scott went to climb over a fantail of a boat named Comfortably Numb and found he was unable to walk. Looking over, he was somewhat pleased to see Skybox suffering the same affliction. “What’s wrong, brother? Forget how to walk?”

  The soldier flipped him off, then began crawling over each boat, inspecting every inch to see what their new home might have to keep them alive a little longer.

  Chapter One Hundred Three

  Scott searched the fishing boat, the most intact of the vessels. Through the stained and cracked windows, he saw Skybox methodically going through the other craft. All the boats had been through hell; he couldn’t believe they were
still afloat. In one of the cabinets, he had found several rusty tins of sardines and some type of canned meat spread. It could have been cat food at this point; they would have eaten it. He was overjoyed to find two large collapsible, plastic containers full of water. It wasn’t exactly fresh—it had an oily, plastic taste—but upon consumption, both men proclaimed it the best water ever. They also found various tools, fishing supplies, cups, a large bag of salt in a curing box and a half-full bottle of cheap bourbon.

  Skybox was forced to cut away one of the mostly-submerged boats. He had already swum through it and found it to be nothing more than an empty hull, but it had suddenly lost its remaining buoyancy and was sinking quickly. It was not small, and its demise risked swamping the others as well. He scrambled across the old dock, just managing to cut the mooring line with the knife before it spiraled downward into the blue-green water and out of sight.

  Skybox hit pay dirt in the most unlikely boat of all. He was rummaging through the dash of a small cabin cruiser that had most of its top hull missing when he found a portable marine radio in a watertight case. The batteries were dead, but surely there was a battery somewhere in this floating junkyard. Having collected all the random tools and supplies, the two men sat down to a meal of sardines and water.

  “You think we should cut any of these others loose? Maybe the dock?”

  Skybox nodded. “The one with the hole on the side could go at any moment, so definitely yes to that one. The dock seems to be floating on its own, and I like having it close for now. It gives us an easy way to move between boats. Plus, it makes us much larger on radar or visual, if anyone is out looking.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Scott agreed happily.

  Skybox opened the back of the radio. “Now, what can we do to get this thing working?”