Acts of God

by James Beauseigneur

  5:15 a.m., Sunday, June 14, 4 N.A. (2026 A.D.) — Seaside, California

  Amos Hill heaved the second of two metal tubs into his wooden-hulled boat and went to start his truck. In the tubs were 500-foot trot lines, each with 250 leaders and hooks baited with salted squid. Ordinarily he would have had twice as many lines, but the sores on both of his hands and arms made working with the salty bait very difficult. Despite his best efforts, he had repeatedly felt the sting of salt in the lesions. He would have preferred not to work at all under the circumstances — he cringed to think about the salt spray on his face — but it had been a full week since he last fished and he had bills to pay.

  As he drove toward the Monterey harbor he noted how little had changed since his last time out. This area of California was growing fast and Monterey itself was a literal boom town since the fish had started to come back. It had been five years since the tsunami had destroyed most of the state and filled the Pacific with the murky red cloud of rust that had killed the phytoplankton and destroyed all sea life from the west coast of the Americas to China.73 Now, not only were there fish in the bay, but signs of progress were everywhere, especially in the construction trade. Until last week Amos Hill had been able to track the progress of building projects on a daily basis as new foundations were laid or walls went up. Since the lesions had appeared, however, almost no one was working and progress had become imperceptible. Amos Hill was not, however, the only one who had decided that, sores or not, he had to make a living. Around the city, crews were once again loading up trucks and preparing to get back on the job. Others, while they were not up this early in the morning, had set their alarms and would be getting up soon. No one really felt well enough to work, but after a week most had no choice but to try to get back to their jobs. The same was true throughout most of the world.

  Amos Hill launched his boat, started the engine, and headed out into the bay, traveling much slower than usual in order to minimize the spray. He was forty-five minutes off his usual schedule when he reached the approximate area where he would set his lines. Looking to the stern and starboard of the boat, he located the outcroppings of rock on shore which he used to determine his position and moved his boat directly above the underwater rock ledge where Monterey Bay drops off into the much deeper water of the Pacific. It was here he knew that he'd have the best catch of rock and ling cod. Most fishermen would have used a depth finder to find the ledge and they would never have used a trot line, opting instead for nets. Amos Hill fished the way he did because that is how he was taught by his father and because his primary customers were restaurants and fish markets that would pay a premium price for fish that had not been marred by nets.

  Setting the anchor and buoy which would mark the beginning of his first line, Amos moved the boat slowly northward, tossing out the line as he went. The winds and the tide were favorable and, based on experience, he sensed the line was falling just right for a good catch. Finishing the first line, he started the second almost where the first had ended. Ordinarily he would have moved a hundred yards farther before setting the second line to play the odds on how the fish might be running, but fishing had always been in large part a matter of feelings and intuition, and today this felt like the right thing to do.

  Twenty minutes later, after setting the second line, he moved the boat back to the first buoy to begin pulling up the first line. It was important not to leave the lines down too long or the fish that had been hooked would become easy prey for predators.

  From the weight of the line, Amos Hill could tell immediately that this was going to be a good catch. His first three hooks each had ling cod over eight pounds. From there on it was mostly rock cod, bright golden orange with bloated air sacks protruding from their mouths from being pulled so quickly from the bottom. The fish would be beautiful on display, lying on a bed of ice in some fish market. Nearly every other hook had something on it, most of them edible, though there was the occasional ratfish, a brilliantly colored fish which is as poisonous as it is frightening in appearance. It was by far the best catch Amos Hill had had since before the tsunami.

  He was nearly finished with the second line when something caught his eye and he looked up from his line toward the waters of the Pacific in the west. Wrapping the line around a deck cleat, Amos Hill paused to wipe his brow and looked again toward the west. Something was wrong. A half mile away and moving quickly in his direction was an ominous expanse of dark water. Quickly he unhooked the line from the cleat and began pulling in fish as fast as he could.

  He had only about fifty hooks left when it reached him. The sea was a blackish red and carried with it the smell of death. It did not progress like a normal tide but spread with great speed that did not seem affected by the waves. Like a great cloud of blood, the redness passed beneath him, headed for the shore. From that point on, everything he pulled up on his line was dead. Nearly retching from the smell, Amos Hill cut the nylon line and let the remainder of it drop into the sea.

  As he started his engine he realized one other attribute of the red sea: it was much thicker than regular seawater, so much so that it clogged the cooling ports of his engine, forcing him to shut it off or risk burning it up.

  With his holds full offish, Amos Hill pulled out an oar and reluctantly began paddling, hoping to get the fish the two and a half miles to the dock before they spoiled.

  Unlike five years earlier, when the second asteroid had struck and turned the Pacific red with rusting iron particles, this time the bloody sea was not confined to one ocean but filled all the oceans of the world. Within twenty-four hours every salt sea on the planet had turned bloody red, and in that single day, every creature, every creature, in the sea was killed. This time Christopher did not wait so long to respond. Within three hours Christopher addressed the United Nations and the world.

  "I cannot express," Christopher said, "the utter grief I feel — that I know we all feel — at this unthinkable atrocity." The pace of his words was slow and measured; shock and disbelief showed on his face. In the corner of the screen, the television network showed scenes of dead sea creatures floating on a rolling sea of blood. "In a single blow," Christopher continued, "Yahweh has destroyed tens of thousands of species. Fish of unbelievable variety — shell creatures, the great whales, the porpoise, the manatee, otters and seals: all have been cruelly exterminated to satisfy Yahweh's wretched desire to terrorize and dominate the earth. A few species survive in aquariums, but most have been lost forever.

  "No longer can there be any doubt that Yahweh and those who support him are at war with this planet and its inhabitants. And what Yahweh has done to the seas, he would most certainly do also to the rest of the planet were it not for Humankind's sheer strength of will. Yahweh knows that he cannot defeat us as long as we are united, and so he seeks to demoralize and dishearten us by striking at the defenseless creatures in our seas.

  "Seeing this wanton destruction and death, one would think that surely those who have sworn their allegiance to this self-proclaimed 'god' would now be able to see him for what he truly is. And yet, based on their own confessions, the fundamentalists leaders who have been arrested continue to pray to their god for the destruction of Humankind; for the deaths of friends, neighbors and even their own relatives who do not agree with them; and for the establishment of a theocratic dictatorship on earth, a dictatorship where Yahweh would crush like grapes all those who oppose him.

  "As I have said before, Yahweh's only hold on this planet is in the grip of his confederates. That hold must be broken and it must be broken soon, before even more destruction occurs, before even more die at his hand.

  "The profound urgency of this matter and the severity of the offense requires an immediate and appropriate response — a response which neither I nor the members of the Security Council desire, and which all of us would prefer to avoid if there were any alternative. However, we cannot simply allow Humankind to remain targets for Yahweh's attacks. The fundamentalists are a gun in Yahweh
's hand, cocked and ready to fire into the heart of all Humankind. We cannot ignore that threat or simply wish it away. The Security Council has, therefore, voted unanimously to instate capital punishment for anyone found guilty of leading activities intended to subvert Humankind's advancement and providing aid and support to Yahweh's attempts to reestablish control of the planet. However, because even now we are merciful and wish no one to perish, this penalty shall be limited only to the leaders; and even among them, any who pledge to cease their activities will be granted a full pardon and released on their own recognizance.

  "To the rest of the fundamentalists, I say, there is still time to turn from your allegiance to the god of death. All of Humankind will welcome you and cheer your decision. But know, too, that if you continue to align yourself with Yahweh, you will pay the price.

  "As an added measure, effective twenty-four hours from now, in addition to the prohibition on buying and selling, any who have not taken the communion are also prohibited from owning property. The destruction of the world's seas is a crime against the planet. It is only fitting that you shall not be allowed to own that which you have shown by your worship of Yahweh, you do not respect."

  The Security Council acted quickly to put muscle into the new restrictions. Governments around the world were directed to seize all property of anyone who had not taken the communion and the mark. Property ownership could be restored only if they took the mark. All who refused were to be evicted from the property within a week.

  1:18 p.m., Wednesday, June 17, 4 N.A. (2026 A.D.) — Derwood, Maryland

  Sgt. Joseph Runningdeer stepped up onto the porch and rang the doorbell. His partner, Officer Amanda Smith, stayed behind about ten feet to observe and act as backup. A moment later a woman came to the door.

  "Yes?" she said, with the level of surprise one typically displays when receiving an unexpected visit from the police.

  "I'm Sgt. Runningdeer with the Montgomery County Police. This property is registered to Mark Cleary. Is Mr. Cleary in?"

  "Yes," she said, obligingly. "He's asleep, but I'll get him."

  As the woman ran to rouse Cleary, Sgt. Runningdeer turned without thinking to look back at his partner. Keeping an eye on one's partner was a constant imperative in police work, but as he turned to look, the crusted drainage from the lesions on his back clung to the gauze bandages, tearing at the raw skin and causing him to wince in pain.

  Mark Cleary reached the door a moment later, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and a confused sleepy expression on his face. It was immediately obvious that his body bore no sores.

  "What is it, Officer?" Cleary asked.

  "Mark Cleary?" Sgt. Runningdeer asked for confirmation.

  "Yes," came the reply.

  "Are you the owner of this property?"

  "Yes."

  "Sir it's my duty to inform you that your property is hereby confiscated by the County of Montgomery, State of Maryland. Should you desire to reclaim your property, you may do so anytime within the next three days by presenting proof of your participation in the communion."

  "But, I took care of that yesterday," Cleary protested. "See," he said, extending his right hand and showing Runningdeer the mark.

  Sgt. Runningdeer looked at Cleary's hand. "Okay," he said, though something in his voice said it really didn't change anything. "Let us run a check."

  Officer Amanda Smith groaned and took the hand-held datalink from her belt and initiated a query. This was not the first time this had happened today. In fact, it was happening more often than not.

  "I don't understand this," Cleary complained. "Don't your computers talk to each other? I took care of this yesterday. I work nights or I would have gotten the mark months ago."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Cleary. Our systems have been running a little slow. My partner is checking on it right now."

  "We're still getting a negative on it," Officer Smith reported.

  "This is ridiculous. You can see the mark for yourself."

  "I'm sorry sir," Sgt. Runningdeer said again. "We'll indicate in our records that you have shown us the mark, but I'm afraid you're still going to have to go to the courthouse. You'll need to clear this up within seven days to avoid eviction."

  "I just told you, I work nights," Cleary protested. "It's bad enough that I should have to get this damn thing, knowing I'll probably get those damn sores all over me. Why should I have to lose sleep or miss work to go to the courthouse just because your computers are slow?"

  "There's nothing we can do about it, sir. That's the law. Oh, and sir, I wouldn't worry about missing work," Runningdeer added. "Without the mark it's illegal for you to take part in any commerce. That isn't limited to buying and selling of products; it includes employment for pay or barter. Your employer will be notified if he hasn't been already."

  "But I've got the damn mark," he said through clenched teeth, trying hard not to explode in anger, and showing the mark to Sgt. Runningdeer again.

  "You still need to go to the courthouse," Runningdeer responded. It wasn't that he wanted to be difficult; he was just doing his job, and sometimes that meant being irritating.

  "Can someone else go for me?" Cleary asked, trying his best to regain his calm.

  "No, sir. The law requires that you appear in person."

  Cleary shook his head in disgust. There was nothing more to be done.

  "I'm sure it will only take a few minutes," Runningdeer offered, though he knew better. Nothing took only a few minutes at the courthouse. "We're sorry to bother you," he concluded and turned to walk back to the squad car.

  Sgt. Runningdeer carefully climbed into the car, doing his best not to tug at the gauze on his sores. "Who's next?" he asked.

  Officer Smith checked the assignment sheet for the next name on the list. "Decker Hawthorne on Millcrest Drive," she said.

  Sgt. Runningdeer looked surprised. "Let me see that," he said, adding, "Shit!" once he had confirmed what Officer Smith had read him.

  "What's wrong?" Smith asked.

  "Don't you know who this is?"

  Amanda Smith thought for a second and then realized where she had heard the name before. "You mean that's the Decker Hawthorne?

  "How many Decker Hawthornes do you think there are?

  "I don't know," she said, embarrassed at her lapse. "I didn't even know he lived here."

  "He doesn't. But he used to, and he still has a house here." Sgt. Runningdeer scratched his head in thought, being careful to avoid a lesion just above the hair line. "This is probably just another screw-up," he said, as he reached for the call switch on the police radio. "I'm going to check it out."

  "Dispatch, this is two Baker thirteen," Runningdeer said into the microphone.

  "Two Baker thirteen, go ahead," a voice replied.

  "Request Captain Martin verify assignment: Hawthorne, Decker."

  There was a pause for about ten seconds. "Repeat," dispatch replied finally.

  "That's right, Ed," Sgt. Runningdeer said, recognizing the voice of the dispatch officer. "We've got Decker Hawthorne on our assignment sheet."

  "Somebody must be playing a joke," the dispatch officer said.

  "Well, joke or not, he's on our list."

  "I'll get the Captain for you," dispatch replied.

  Sgt. Runningdeer and Officer Smith waited.

  "Two Baker thirteen, this is Captain Martin," the radio squawked after a moment.

  "Sir, can this be right?"