The Rain

by Joseph Turkot

  I edge under the tarp, right against Russell, and Dusty is left in the rain watching the horizon. All of us look at the tiny fleet moving over the brown sea toward us. Are they face eaters? I ask. Dusty says they can’t be, since they’re coming from the east. Doesn’t matter, Russell says. We came from the east. They dogged us all the way to your tarp town.

  None of us say anything and we just wait. Marvolo lets out a bark because none of us are doing anything. Shut him up, Russell says. Dusty gets down on his knees and tries to lead Voley back under the canopy with the primer stove but he’s not having it. They both return to the bow. Gun? Russell asks me. I tell him yea, it’s under the seat compartment so it won’t get any more wet than it already is. He tells me I’d better go get it. I run off and leave them, duck under the blanket, feel for a moment a wind of warm air, lift the door under the bench seat, grab the pistol and return. They’re talking when I get back. Trying to plan out what to do.

  If it is face eaters, there’re too many of them, Dusty says anxiously. I don’t even have a gun. Those aren’t motor boats, Russell says. They look like whale boats. No engines. Why aren’t the sails up? I ask. They’re heading into the wind, says Dusty. But something strange is going on out there on the foggy sea. And we all seem to feel it together. Russell finally says it out loud.

  “This isn’t right,” he says. He explains that we’re close enough now that we should be able to see something, someone, standing on the decks, moving, even sitting. But there’s nobody. No one moving. No one steering. No oars hitting the water. It’s like the seven boats are ghost ships. But I don’t say that. I just crowd in under the sliver of tarp and start to shiver, no longer used to the permanent cold because I’ve been spoiled for hours by the primer stove. Russell wraps his arm around me and draws me into his chest. We need to move away from them, says Dusty. The boats are getting close, and with the direction we’re going, we’ll run right by the southern edge of the group. But Russell doesn’t listen to Dusty’s idea. Dusty starts to fidget, used to having way more control than he has over our boat. Russell, he says. Russell tells him he’d better be quiet, because they could all be sleeping. And if they wake up, and they have guns, we’re dead. And if they’re face eaters, it’s worse than dead. We’re eaten alive. He cuts off the engine and we’re drifting now. Then turn us away, Dusty whispers. This time Russell doesn’t reply at all. There’s a cold steel silence. The only thing breaking it is the rain pattering the swells, so constant that it’s almost as if there’s no sound at all. And I know now that Russell plans for us to just slip past all seven. Because somehow, he’s convinced they’re no threat to us. But I get the feeling something went terribly wrong on those boats.

  We glide slowly up a swell, then down. The two closest boats of the seven come right alongside us. I feel a jolt of fear strike through my body as Russell turns the engine back on. He does this so he can drive us right up to the nearest boat. I get my gun up in the air, despite the nagging pain in my arm. Russell has his half-raised, almost like he thinks it’s pointless to keep it at the ready because he’s already convinced there’s no one there.

  Then he suddenly climbs the rail without warning us and jumps into the boat. It’s a long wooden whale boat with three long benches and two oars. I lean over the rail and look in. There really is no one on board. From the boat he’s in, Russell can see the next one. All empty, he calls back. Then he starts scouring the floor of the boat for supplies. Anything of use. The oars are better than ours. Catch, he says, and he throws one at me. I grab it midair and set it down, then repeat for the second. It’s good wood, he says. Dusty comes under the tarp sliver with me, Voley pushing through our feet to get a glimpse. Russell starts to paddle himself from one whale boat to the next. He calls out for us to bring her around. I sit down in the driver’s seat and steer.

  “What happened to them?” asks Dusty. He’s no longer frightened. He’s mystified. He hasn’t been on the road as much as Russell and me. Not nearly as much. Things still surprise him. I’ve seen mile-long bodyjams and schools of empty boats. I don’t really care what happened to them. But I know something probably killed them, so that’s what I tell Dusty. He seems more alarmed, like he’s completely out of his element on the sea. He can’t take the mystery of it. How much have you traveled? I ask him. He tells me he’s been around Salt Lake City. Grandview Peak and then to King Mountain. And I know for sure now that he hasn’t seen anything. I pull up alongside Russell and he gets back in with a plastic duffel bag and a gun. It looks like an automatic rifle. Don’t know if it’ll still work, he says. Then he tells me to steer us around to the other five boats. He wants to check each one, get whatever’s left in them. Dusty can’t help but ask Russell now. He asks what happened to the people that were on these boats. I pull up to the third boat, rocking it away from us by pulling in too fast. Russell turns to look at Dusty, maybe just to make sure he’s serious. He sees Dusty is serious. All he says is that they’re somewhere, dead or alive he doesn’t care, but that they’re not here on their boats. And he jumps onto the next whale boat to look for anything more we can take. We go through every boat and get another bag of supplies and we take another two oars, barely getting them to fit by sliding them under the primer stove canopy.

  Things quiet back down and I take a turn at the wheel while Russell tinkers under the canopy with the automatic rifle. The boats are gone. After almost an hour, when my hands start to lock in place, frozen, I hear a loud bang of a gun. It’s the rifle and it scares the shit out of me. But he’s got it working. Russell comes out and tells me there was a cache of ammo in one of the bags, and he’s managed to dry it out and it works just fine. Then he disappears back under the blanket to get Dusty for a turn at the wheel. The smear of sun behind the gray clouds is hanging above us, hesitant to drop. I retreat to the warmth and Dusty tells me there’s food and it’s warm as he passes. I move faster and start to smell it. Beans, heated over the primer stove. I start to shovel them into my mouth. Russell is still rooting through the bags he’s found. Anything good? I say after my throat clears. I’m shoveling everything from the bottom of the can down with my fingers. Can opener, those beans, some medicine, pills, I don’t know what they are. Another knife. More cans of food. A radio of some kind. I look at Russell’s face, smoky and shadowed around the edges. He’s smiling. He’s happy. And he hasn’t coughed in a long time. Whatever they gave him in Blue City, it was enough to keep him alive and get him better. Then he takes out a crumpled piece of paper. He smiles, as big as he did when he used to be able to run for miles over land. He would come home smiling after his long runs, cleared, freed, happy. He looks the same way as he straightens the paper out. He moves closer to show me. I look at it. It’s a map with elevation numbers and a bunch of squiggly circles and bendy loops inside of more circles and loops. I can’t tell where it’s supposed to be until he says, “Look.” He points with his finger. Look! he says. Right where he points it says Colorado in bold capital letters. Where’s Leadville I ask him. It’s marked, he says. What? I ask. Do you know what this means Tan? I look more closely and see what he’s talking about. It’s a giant cross marking the town. Leadville. There it is. Hand-written numbers show the elevation. 10,152 feet. But it doesn’t say anything about the rain, how high the rain is there. What do you think it’s marked for? I ask. Because that’s the place. The destination. The treasure. I stop and think about it and it makes total sense. These boats had been trying to get to Leadville. They’d marked it on a map. It was their destination. My train of thought comes to an end that upsets the remarkable excitement of the discovery. I realize that we’re well to the west of Leadville. I ask Russell about this. Could it mean they passed Leadville, that there was nothing there? I say. Why else would they be drifting so far west of the spot they marked? Russell ignores my idea, like it’s a setback he doesn’t need. He’s got it all figured out and he explains it to me as clear as day. Don’t you see, Tan? These boats did make it to Leadville, but when there were pe
ople on them. Hell, they may have been in Leadville for a long time after. But they broke loose, maybe in a storm, or maybe the line was cut some other way. And they drifted out. That’s why there are no bodies. These boats drifted in a straight line to us all the way from Leadville! he exclaims like a child. He pulls me into his chest and kisses my forehead. Then he hugs me really hard so that I feel my chest closing up. But I let him do it. I love him. And I believe it too now. They did come all the way from Leadville. And I can’t believe how dumb I was to not think that the obvious explanation was that they’d simply broken loose and drifted. How far away do you think we are? I ask, pulling back just enough to look into Russell’s eyes. They’re big and bright and filled with hope again. In the back of my head, even in the warmth of Russell’s hug, I think about what this might mean for Dusty and me. Maybe we can reach part of the veneer, at least just enough so that we can be together one more time. The feeling again, one more time. Things will work out washes through my brain. Things are going to work out. Finally. We can’t be too far. Those boats were all close together still. They couldn’t stay that way for very long on the open water. So we have to be close.

  As I keep thinking about it, something about Russell’s logic makes no sense to me. We had hundreds of miles to go, at least a couple weeks’ journey. But now, he’s saying we’re very close. Unless the location of Blue City was wrong, according to the people who lived there for years, then it makes no sense for the whale boats to drift all the way from Leadville in a tight pack. Unless they had people in them to manage their direction. Unless it was recently that they left their boats. I tell all this to Russell, opening up every fear, even telling him he might be getting too optimistic. He stops and considers my reasoning. He says I’m right, but that it doesn’t matter. Either way, they marked Leadville. It’s real. It’s really the place we think it is. And the explanation for the boats being so close together doesn’t matter.

  In the back of my head appear horrible scenarios for the boats. Maybe they got to Leadville and there was nothing there—it was all under the rain. And they kept on moving. Maybe they were forced off. Exiled. Maybe they got there and it’s nothing like we think it is. Maybe it’s a face eater city. Even a clean-cut face eater city, like Blue City. Russell wouldn’t have anywhere else to say we can go after that. There’d be nowhere left in the world to shoot for. And we’d have to starve and die, or live like everyone else. Give up the last bits of the veneer we’re clinging to. Give up the bond that keeps us close to each other. But all of my dark ideas don’t seem to even slightly run through Russell’s head. He moves back against the wall of the blanket and he stares at the map. Tracing its lines, figuring things out in his head. That’s when Dusty shouts. He sees something new. It doesn’t sound good. We can’t catch a break in an ocean that’s supposed to be as barren as a desert. Russell and I head to the wheel. We don’t need any explanations. Just to watch as bodies bob on swells. They go up and down lifelessly, and we steer the boat right at them. Then we pull alongside two of them and look down. The one I look at has his eyes open. They’re looking straight up into the rain. No more blinking to shut out the wet. They’re swollen a little bit, absorbing too much salt. But it’s not the eyes I get stuck on. It’s the open chest. And legs. And arms. Empty cavities. They’ve been scooped of all their muscle. Like empty cages, sacks of flesh emptied to the core. I look away. For all I’ve seen of bloated, rotting corpses, I can never get over these kinds. The ones with teeth marks.

  We roll with our engine off now past the rest of the bodies. There are about sixteen in total. Each one we pass is checked and it’s the same thing. Some look normal, but they’re the ones floating face down in the water. And I know they’re carved out ribcages are exposed to the depths of the sea. That somewhere deep under the murky brown, the whale sees the mutilation when it swims up for air. And I can only know it’s there. As if we needed the clarification, Dusty says that these are the bodies of the people from the boats. Russell looks undisturbed, and I know he’s debating whether or not to search their clothes, their pockets, for anything that might provide information. But he doesn’t have time to tell us to draw one of the bodies in with an oar because Voley starts barking loudly. We all look up from the eviscerated bodies to the horizon and see what he’s going crazy over. At first we only hear something though. Nothing to see. It sounds like the distant hum of a motor, like our own boat’s. But it’s coming from nothing. Then we see the source. A line of trimmed cloth. Black as night. Rising from a dipping swell, then revealing two more triangles. Clinging to masts. Trimmed sails. And I see figures, even from this far away, moving on deck. Out of the way, Russell says, and he shoves past Dusty and me and sits in front of the wheel. The engine kicks on and he turns the wheel hard. We’re flying hard and to the right, heading south, and just barely, using my full concentration, as I wipe the rain out of my eyes, I think I see the ship turn too. They see us.

  They’re following us, I say as soon as I’m half-convinced about what I see. Russell doesn’t care. He’s transfixed, his foot pressing the pedal as far as it goes, the motor whining in protest, as we dip and rise over swells. Dusty disappears and then he’s back. Keep our back on them, says Dusty. He’s got the rifle in his hands. Russell listens to Dusty.

  Part 5

  Chapter 12

  Foam spits up into my face as I lean out over the stern next to Dusty. We’re both in the rain, out from the tarp’s protection, watching the phantom ship slice toward us like a razor through the swells. Its motor is stronger than ours. And it’s gaining on us despite Russell giving our boat everything it has.

  I can see three figures now, all out on the deck of the boat. They’re watching us run. I think I see guns in their hands too but we’re still too far so I can’t be sure. How we doing? shouts Russell from the wheel. I tell him that they’re too fast, we can’t outrun them. Voley quiets down again, hanging at the back of the boat with us, his tongue hanging out, his eyes looking out at the horizon as if he knows just what’s going on, just what’s at stake. They’re the ones who did those bodies like that, aren’t they? asks Dusty without taking his eye off the rifle sight. He’s like ice, staring down the biggest man on the enemy deck. I look at his finger and it’s gliding along the trigger. He’s waiting to fire until they’re close enough, or maybe it’s the swells we’re bumping over. Maybe he won’t be able to hit them. Part of me wants to ask Russell if it’s smart to open fire—what if they’re not face eaters? But what else could they be. There’s nothing out here. And Russell gave permission the moment he listened to Dusty’s order. I start to shiver because the spray is hitting me now with every hump we crest. The water stings. It’s getting colder—too cold. Our boat glides up a high swell and then dips suddenly into the trough. I taste salt metal drops and the wind beats my face. This is it. It boils down to this.

  And then, when we’re so close that Dusty can take his first shot, he lowers the rifle. What the hell are you doing? I ask him. He’s giving up for some reason, and I move my arms in to rip the rifle away from him. I’ll have to do it myself, because maybe he thinks this is somehow his salvation, that they’re his ticket back home. He’s lost his nerve or his mind. But he pulls away from me. He won’t let me have it. Look, he tells me. And I stop focusing on him and turn out to the gray to see something white. The reason he’s put the gun down. A white flag. A trick.

  It’s a trap, I tell him. How do you know? he says. You saw the bodies! I scream sense into him. Russell hollers back, What’s going on? He can’t leave the wheel. He has to keep the pedal on the floor. He’s doing everything he can to keep us alive. His hope is back. It sprung up again with the map, and he’s not going to let my scuffle with Dusty ruin our chance to get away. I run up to the front of the boat.

  “They raised a white flag and he won’t shoot,” I tell him. He’s coughing when I reach him, softly, purposely trying to muffle it. How close? he asks. In range but he won’t shoot—he won’t give me the damned gun! Tak
e the wheel, Russell orders. What? I ask, but I know now—he needs to see for himself. He carefully slides out, leaving his foot on the gas as long as possible. Keep her straight, ride into the swells, he tells me, and then he races back to Dusty. Shit, I mutter as I sit down in the seat. I hadn’t realized how big the sea had become. Or it’s just how fast we’re moving over the water. Either way, the boat’s a lot harder to handle than before. Everything feels loose.

  I hear loud talk but I can’t make out any words with the wind screaming into my ears. I try to turn my head to get a glimpse of what’s going on but I can’t. I keep waiting to hear a gun go off, so I know Russell beat the rifle out of Dusty’s hands and started shooting at them. Keep them off us, Russell, I mouth. I think of the bodies—the floating shells. And I know that’ll be us next unless I hear a gun go off soon. But nothing comes. I can’t help it—I turn my head again and almost look for too long. When I turn back the boat has veered sideways and we nearly meet the next swell sideways. I jerk the wheel to get us straight and I hear Voley whine in complaint. Then Russell yells loud and clear, even above the numbing wind: Shut it off, Tan!

  “What?” I yell. I can’t believe what he’s saying. How can he give up too? I think for a second that Dusty’s turned the gun on him again, has him at gunpoint, giving orders to stay put until the ship catches up with us. His ticket back to Blue City. But that’s not it, I find out as I let off the gas and the boat goes into a long glide. We cruise up another long roller and I’m confident we won’t roll, so I get up. I run to them to find out why I’m the only sane one left.