The Rain

by Joseph Turkot

  I jump around the tarp, past the line of dark smoke rising from the primer stove, and reach them at the back of the ship. The black-sailed ship is right there. And I see them all clearly—there are three men, and the one holding the white flag starts to wave it. Give me the gun, I tell Russell. He’s gotten it from Dusty, but now he’s just holding it limply at his side too, completely useless, giving up. Throwing in the towel over a white flag. I can’t believe it.

  Russell holds it back out of my reach. Alright, I’ll get my own then, I tell him, and I head to the tent to get my pistol. Don’t shoot it, Russell says. You going to give me a good reason why not? I say. I’ve made up my mind and he has just one moment to change it. It’s like they’ve forgotten the bodies we’ve just passed, like the map has them all mixed up with hope. He can’t give me a reason, he just looks at me, his face that means I’m supposed to trust him. That there’s not supposed to be a reason. It’s another one of his gut feelings. He’s had them so many times. I know that he’s usually right. But this one’s too hard to buy. We’ve never been out this deep in the rain sea. This far west. This close to Leadville. And he’s putting it all on the line, everything we’ve been clinging to, not to call their bluff.

  I get the gun and run back to them. A soft throb of pain shoots through my arm as I squeeze the handle, but it’s not as bad anymore. I almost think it’s healing.

  The ship pulls up right alongside of us. Russell is aiming the gun now, and relief comes back to me that he hasn’t given in yet. He raises it high, pointing at the men who stare out from the bow of the ship. They watch us like we’re some kind of curiosity. Keep your pistol on them, but don’t shoot it, Russell repeats. Wait for them to make the first move. I watch the men. Just the white flag. None of them have guns.

  Dusty has Russell’s pistol now and he’s aiming at them too. I point mine up at them as they finally get within shouting distance. We rise and fall on the waves and study each others’ faces. I try to work out by their complexion—their eyes—whether or not they’re face eaters. But how could they not be? The bodies had teethmarks…

  Russell says the first words. He plays along: We’re alright. Don’t need any help. Thanks, but you can move on.

  Then they speak as normal as any tarper from Blue City sounded. At once half of my fears dissolve. I’ve never heard a face eater speak in a calm, collected manner. And they’re unarmed. They raise their hands in response to Russell’s command to show us the white flag was genuine. Then they speak.

  The biggest one talks to us. He stands to the right of the flag holder, and looks like a giant compared to his crewmates. By his tone, I know he’s speaking for the whole crew. I’m afraid we didn’t mean to help you, says the big man. Rain splashes off his soaked beard and onto his plastic suit. We wanted to see what you know about the country to the south. Despite the tension choking my throat, and the fact that our lives are hanging by the balance of a sudden movement, Russell laughs. I don’t get the joke and I think he’s lost his mind. Russell tells the man that there is no country to the south. It’s all rain. Brown sea. Just that.

  All of us still have our guns trained on them, but for some reason they don’t look concerned. Fear starts to rise in me, the feeling I had when I first saw the flag—that this all has to be some kind of trap. I want to talk alone with Dusty and Russell so bad but I can’t right now. We’re locked in the stalemate. Yet the ship’s crew doesn’t seem to care. There is only the invisible trust of Russell now.

  There most certainly is. Rainless country at that, says the big man. His beard is black and wild and untrimmed, but his skin is clear and rose-colored. The realization sinks in—he is no face eater.

  Bullshit, replies Russell. Then he asks the man to explain the bodies we passed, and I watch his finger dance on the trigger. I know the sound of his voice, and they seem to get it now too. He’s ready to start shooting, even though he has to know by now, like I do, that they’re not face eaters. But that doesn’t really matter. There’s a long way to fall before you become one of them. Steps along the slope. The carrier people were on one step. Blue City tarpers on another. These three might be halfway down, the sophisticated face eaters. Maybe not mad on the drugs, but stripped of the same rules. The ones Russell and I think still matter.

  The big man motions to the one who stands on the opposite side of the flag holder. He must have ordered him to do something because he runs off, disappearing somewhere in the ship behind. Keep him in sight, Russell tells us, but it’s impossible to see where he went on the ship. And the bearded man doesn’t seem to fear our threat. He just looks at us and says, Bait. Russell’s face lights up like somehow he’s understanding something from that word. Dusty fidgets and turns because he sees the man who disappeared coming back again. He raises his gun to him and so do I in case he’s come back with a gun of his own. I’m ready to pull the trigger when I see he’s got something else. Dusty shouts out, Drop it! but Russell tells him to relax, that it’s okay. It’s a net—he raises it high into the air so we can all see it. Only it’s not empty. It’s stuffed and moving.

  “Jesus,” says Russell, and he almost falls to the floor of the boat. I put my arm on his shoulder. Fish, he says. Jesus, fish. And I look back up. It is—a bag of fish. For how wretched they look, the fish think they taste great, says the bearded man. Russell stands back up and looks at us and tells us to lower our guns. How did you know? Russell asks. How did you know we weren’t…

  Because face eaters aren’t men, the big man says. And you are a man, he continues. He winks and motions toward the side of the boat. I don’t get it, but I follow Russell’s glance. He stares at the side rail where Voley is standing over the edge, wind blowing his ears back, calmly watching the tense exchange, wagging his tail. Man’s best friend, Russell mutters. Of course.

  So can we talk belowdecks, or do we have to do this over open water? the big man says. He waits for Russell but Russell hasn’t made up his mind. We’re pushing on south, but we’d like to talk. Like to know what you’ve seen, the big man continues. Russell turns to us, as if we’re part of the decision making process all of the sudden. He motions us to come in close, but keep our eyes on them. What do you think? he asks us. I know that Russell is getting greedy now. He wants information on Leadville. He wants to know what they’ve seen as much as they want to know what we’ve seen. But I don’t feel like we can trust anything they’ve said. One of them stares only at me.

  I don’t know, says Dusty. Your dog does, says Russell. Marvolo has stopped barking. I wonder if they’d let us have some of their fish to eat. Still, I second Dusty’s wariness. And it’s usually Russell who is most cautious of strangers. Somehow this all doesn’t make sense. He’s getting desperate because we’re so close now. It’s not the exposure, Russell used to say, Desperation is the rain’s killer. He’s gullible now though. I tell him we should move on. We need to keep going. Let them tell us what they have to over the water, but not on board their ship.

  Rain’s getting colder, says the big man. I see him scan over each of us as we talk. He’s working something out. Finally, as if deeply considering my point of view, Russell figures out what he wants to do. You two stay here. Keep all the guns. I’ll go talk to them. We have an extra can of gas we can trade for food. We need that gas, I say. We have more gas than food. They’re catching fish—do you know what that means? Russell says. And I stop to think about it. I haven’t seen a fish in a year. I thought they’d all died. That the sea wasn’t blue enough for them anymore.

  It means maybe I can get a rod and tackle, Russell says. There’re a lot of miles to Leadville still. I know he’s right, but I can’t let him go alone. Alright, to hell with it, I say. I’m coming then. He knows me too well to try and stop me. Dusty looks at us. You want me to stay here? he asks, perfectly willing. Do whatever you want, Russell says. He looks at Voley, our boat, and then back to the three waiting for our response. Just because we’re getting close doesn’t mean we can start trusting people aga
in, I tell Russell. You’ve got to remember that. I know, he says.

  Russell leans in close to me and kisses me on the forehead. He makes sure they see this for some reason. Then he turns to the big man. Throw us a line, Russell says. The man sends one of his crew to grab rope, and in a couple more minutes we’re tied together with the strangers, for better or worse.

  Chapter 13

  Russell hands Dusty the rifle and goes up first. The bearded man helps pull him up a rope ladder. I feel like they might try something as soon as Russell is out of our sight, but they don’t. We follow him up and they don’t seem to mind that we’re bringing our guns aboard. They understand the need for caution, or at least that’s the act they’re putting on. Everything I’ve seen—from the carrier to Blue City, makes me skeptical that there are any good people left in the world. Good without an ugly secret.

  But it doesn’t have to be that way. Altruism is dead, Russell says, but it doesn’t mean people can’t exchange goods—food, medicine, weapons, or now, information. We’re coming on board to exchange hope.

  I reach the deck and the rain hits my neck. It feels light now, like Poseidon has loosened up on us. Maybe he’s taking a nap. Spending time on the sea floor. But in his sleep he’s left the temperature unchecked. It’s dropping too fast. I start to think about slipping away to search the ship for plastic suits I can steal for us.

  We’re led down a staircase to a wide room below the deck. It’s like liquid air fire underneath. A cocoon that softens all of my apprehension. Dangerously softens. One of the men leaves us at the boss’s instructions, and we all find a seat around a wooden table. There’s a stove, much better than ours, with a steel pipe running its smoke out the side of the hull. That’s the first thing I realize as I sit down—the warmth is like a drug. It slows me down too much. And everything in this room is dry. Dry all around. A watertight ship.

  I watch enviously as the bearded man and his other remaining partner sit down in their gray plastic suits. They’ve got it good here. Russell starts up the conversation right away. He asks about the bait. He’s fact-checking, I know him. But it doesn’t come across that way to them. The big man gets defensive, like he’s mad Russell didn’t believe that’s what he used the human bodies for. He explains that they’ve had more than a couple run-ins with face eaters since heading south from Montana. All the way from Montana! I want to exclaim, but I keep my mouth shut and glance at Dusty and Marvolo. Voley is quiet, sitting at Dusty’s feet next to the rifle which is lying against his chair. Still close enough to be used. Voley’s calm is a good sign. Dogs sense evil—or I’ve always heard it said. And he isn’t so much as making a sound.

  Dusty looks back at me, his face wrapped in some of the same emotion I’m feeling, but I can tell he’s distant. He’s back in Blue City. Probably thinking about how quickly this big ship could motor him back home. Maybe the will to return isn’t dead in him yet. Maybe he’ll secretly try to bribe this grizzly when Russell and I aren’t paying attention. It would only take a moment. He could tell the man about the treasure of that stocked island. A place with everything. And he could leave out the part about it being target number one for the coordinated attacks of the Utah madmen.

  “Never waste good bait,” says the bearded man. He goes on to explain to Russell that every time they’ve hit a group of bandits, they skin and gut them. Just like you would a fish. Because that’s what they are—somewhere down there on the food chain. Not humans anymore. They gave that up with their choices, says the big man. Too low on the ladder now to have any kind of sympathy for them. But their bodies are far too useful to waste. It’s just we don’t eat them, says the man. He knows that’s just what Russell wants to hear. He talks for a moment about how the rain has made people sink to it—the necessity to waste nothing. He even admits to understanding it. Says he might do the same, if it ever came to it. But it hasn’t. Not yet. Because it’s the one thing he’s bent on making sure doesn’t happen. They’re going to find the Rainless Land. Russell smiles at this, like it’s an affirmation of everything his gut was telling him.

  Why’d you leave? asks Russell. Dusty slides his chair, loudly grating the floor, moving closer to me. The bearded man and his mate look at us, as if we’re edging close to try something, but then he just leans back again. Before the long tale, and the idea that we’re in a great rush to survive separates us in the rain sea, I’d like to know your names. At least, I’ll give you mine. The giant man leans forward in his chair and smiles, his rosy cheeks rising with his lips, his black beard still dripping a bit from the wet. He lowers the hood of his plastic suit. The black of his beard is mirrored in a nest of hair that falls well off the rest of his head. His eyes are wrinkled by the weather, but they’re alive. My name is Ernest, he says. And that’s all he gives us. No one says anything, and the room becomes awkwardly quiet. Russell might be struck dumb because we haven’t had to tell anyone our names in a long time, even on Blue City. No one asked. I sure as hell don’t want to be the first of us to do it. But Ernest, who looks about twice as old as Russell, but stronger from the aging rather than weaker, turns and puts the pressure on his man to speak. My eyes fall for the first time on his mate. He’s taken his hood off and I hadn’t really noticed. His face is somewhat drawn and stretched, but it’s filled with the same hue of life that Ernest’s has. He’s well-fed, and lively, and still filled inside with hope, I can tell. He has soft blue eyes and curled lips, all packed into the calm appearance of innocence, and I’m startled to realize that, until Ernest’s interruption, he’d been staring directly at me. He’s older than Dusty, I can tell, but younger than Russell. I can’t tell age very well anyway, so I could be entirely wrong, especially because when he speaks, it’s with a voice I would with my eyes closed think belonged to a much older man. At Ernest’s prodding, he sits upright and looks at Russell, who seems to have noticed where his eyes had drifted previously, and says his name is Clint. Clint’s my name, he says. One by one, starting with Russell, we mutter our names. There’s false cheer in Dusty and me when we say them. And him? says Ernest. That’s Voley, Dusty says.

  Good to meet folk without the devil eyes, says Clint. Devil eyes? asks Russell. Ernest chimes in that those are the face eaters, as most of them look anyway, especially with their drug. So that’s all true then? asks Russell. And Ernest just points to a wooden crate in the corner of the softly glowing room. Against the wood planking of the hull rests several crates together, all marked with a giant Y. That’s the stuff right there, he says. The drug? asks Russell. Sure enough, Ernest says. And it might come in handy. I don’t know how. And you know, the ones that don’t use it—they’re the ones I really fear. Once they slip into that stuff, and it takes away their hunger or distorts it to something else, they’re sloppier. Pain doesn’t deter them any longer. At least, it’s been that way through Montana and Wyoming.

  The sight of the drug gives Russell pause, like he doesn’t know what to make of it. I think he’s deciding if it moves the captain down a notch in his notion of the man’s humanity. Wondering if the captain’s ever used it. I’m good enough to know Russell’s thinking that clear, because in the next moment he asks: Have you taken it? Of course, says Ernest. Russell’s scowl forms fast, and he studies the eyes of the captain and his mate. Ernest laughs, knowing well the look of judgment. I’ll never touch it again. Unless it comes to the time before I have to eat a body to survive. Not sure which I’ll do first. But there’s no sense figuring on that until the time comes, right? Russell still doesn’t reply. He’s unsure. And so am I. Part of me is curious what the drug does. What it feels like. If it really takes away hunger and pain. I’ve never taken any kind of drug other than antibiotics and Tylenol. Nothing with this kind of reputation. But it is, after all, their drug. The ones who are completely stripped. No vestige left. To take it can only mean taking a step closer to them.

  If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not one of them. You can relax a bit, if you have a mind to. Although I know you w
on’t. And I don’t blame you. If you hadn’t had that dog on board, says Ernest, looking to Voley with love in his voice, we’d have opened fire on you. Yes, we do have weapons on board. God’s honest truth. But God’s been with this ship since it sailed, and that’s no coincidence your dog was on deck and in plain sight.

  Russell recoils at the mentioning of God. I know when he thinks of it he remembers his daughter. He used to tell me he believed in the bullshit. The great lie that something invisible is taking care of you. Survival is what we make through our own stubborn effort, and our deaths through nature’s, he says. That’s how he sees it now. But he doesn’t criticize Ernest for his belief, not out loud anyway. This man is carrying too much of the veneer in him, most of its weight in honesty, and it’s overwhelming all of us. Except for Dusty. I look at him, and his eyes are stuck on Clint. I trace his line of sight to Clint’s, and I look away immediately, because Clint’s blue eyes are still on me. Just watching me. I can’t help but look back, but there he is again, still looking at me. The fact that he knows I see him watching me doesn’t break his stare, and it’s angering Dusty. I feel the anger. And then, finally, Ernest tells us what we really want to know. He tells us what happened in Montana.

  We left Cooke City when the supplies ran dry. Used to be relatively dry there, and warm. Rain was lighter. I swear to hell it was. And a hell of a lot warmer. Things really took a turn last year.