by Jase Kovacs
Thankfully, I have Katie to goad me on. My old imaginary friend, my sister's avatar, who kept me company during the long years of solo sailing, a little allowable insanity as a bulwark to keep the great flood of madness at bay. She disappeared the moment I rescued Blong. But now that I'm alone and need her, she's back.
It shouldn't be a relief to hallucinate my long-lost sister. But it is.
***
I break out onto the beach up the bay from the wharf. The harbour opens up before me with a suddenness that is breathtaking. I mutter a quick prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening — Katie, if no one else — that my desperate race, my cross-country gamble, worked.
Yeah, says Katie. That would have been awkward. Sorry our boat got sunk; I was stuck in the mud.
I reply, I see you’re as charming as always.
For a moment, I am overwhelmed with the beauty of the scene before me: the rising jungle-clad hills of the far side, the shimmering dance of diamonds as the noon sun sparkles on the gently rippling waves. I am drenched with sweat, scratched from branches and thorns, but utterly alive, utterly caught up in the moment, suffused with a pure joy at simple action.
But I'm too late — they're already in my dinghy. There are three of them, two men pulling at the oars while the third rides on the bow, leaning forward hungrily like a ship's figurehead, as they head towards Excelsior. They are perhaps two hundred metres from the wharf, which puts them at about five hundred metres from where I am on the beach. The rowers see me and say something to the man on the bow. He turns back, and the sun glints off his glasses. It's Joseph, the slight man who met us this morning. Now he stares levelly at me across the half kilometre that separates us.
I raise my rifle to my shoulder, yelling, "STOP!" as loudly as I can. They won't be able to hear me over this distance, but a raised rifle speaks louder than words. Joseph shakes his head and says something, and they row on, harder now, every stroke sending them four or five metres farther from me and closer to my boat.
My rifle is a standard military-issue M4 that Dad scavenged from a Filipino navy gunboat in year two. It's a carbine, with a shortened barrel so it's easier to manoeuvre in confined spaces — such as in a jungle or on a ship. However, the shortened barrel does have a trade-off; it's best shooting at targets within two hundred metres and less accurate at long range.
That doesn't mean I can't shoot long range. Just that it's not so easy.
How many warning shots should I give them? I ask Katie.
She smirks. You think you're good enough to hit them first try?
Well, no. I'd have to fire sighting shots first, to adjust for the wind and range.
So do that until you hit.
I jog down the beach to where a fallen tree measures its length in the sand. I find a good solid fork in its branches and lean against the wood, steadying my rifle in the crutch. Looking beyond the dinghy, I can see the breeze ruffling the surface of the water. It raises only little peaks, no whitecaps or spray. Not much tide. Only a few knots of wind. Excelsior points to the south, down the bay. I'm too far away to see the wind vane on the top of her mast, but I can see the flags I've mounted on her shrouds; their flutter shows me the wind is coming up the harbour, from right to left.
I sight on the dinghy and take a deep breath to steady myself. I ignore my red dot sight; it's useless at this range. Instead, I look past the sight, aiming over and off to the right of the target to account for the windage and fall of shot.
And then it hits me.
I've never shot at people before.
Marys, yes, of course. I've sent dozens of them to their rest. But they weren't people. They were a disease wearing a corpse as a suit. I would feel worse about shooting a deer than I would about killing a mary.
But this is different. These people may mean me harm, may have injured or even killed my crew, and may intend to sink my yacht. But they are still people. Despite their delusions and strange beliefs, it seems obscene to try and kill them, especially since we are an endangered species in this postplague world.
Katie, very deliberately, hisses in my ear: What the fuck are you waiting for, skipper?
I breathe out a sigh of acceptance and gently squeeze the trigger. The rifle's crack seems almost gentle after the long hours of screaming insects. The smell of cordite quickens my blood, and the doubt, the hesitation, is gone now that I'm committed to action. A white spout of water springs up off to the side of the dinghy. I pause to watch their reactions. The two oarsmen hesitate, but Joseph gestures wildly, and they bend to their task with renewed determination.
They had their chance, Katie says.
I watch the hesitant flicker of Excelsior's flags as the wind drops. I adjust my point of aim. I don't see the fall of the second shot, but the dinghy changes direction, the men stretching out as they try to drive it faster.
The third shot splashes ahead of them. Joseph glares back at me, his face set in grim hate.
You've bracketed the bastard, says Katie. I bet that second shot parted his hair.
The wind's up and down.
That sounds like a you problem. Give 'em a warning shot above the knees.
If they stop, I'll stop, I murmur to myself. If they turn back, I'll hold my fire. If they row away, I'll hold my fire.
But they don't. They keep on to Excelsior.
I fire. There is no splash. I see where the bullet goes. The man on the port side of the boat drops the oars and claps his hands over his chest. He half turns to the other oarsmen before he slides off his seat.
Katie says, Good shot. Maintain.
I give them a chance to stop. But Joseph pushes the wounded (or dead?) man out of the way and takes up the oar.
I fire until my magazine is empty. The echo of my last shot rolls around the harbour, coming back to me like the reproach of a priest who demands my confession. But, as I consider the silent, still forms slumped in the dinghy, I realise that I don't feel a single thing. Not a single goddamned thing. My only concern is how I will reclaim my dinghy as it drifts gently across the bay.
***
My reverie is broken when the branch above my head explodes in a shower of splinters. The crack reaches me a split second later, but I'm already egressing. I slide back off the branches and drop behind the fallen tree trunk to lie flat on the sand. I'm guessing the shooter is down at the wharf — one of the cult members who took his sweet time working out where I shot his friends from. This means he's either a very bad hunter or a very good one.
I lie in the damp sand, counting the seconds. Since I'm not dead by the time I get to thirty, I assume I was right: he's at the wharf, and I'm behind cover. I slither up the sandbank, as flat as a lizard drinking. I pull myself forward with my elbows, keeping below the tree trunk. The last five meters of trunk disappear into the sand, leaving an open gap between here and the cover of the tree line.
The wharf is some two hundred meters away. It's a guess, but I think they shot at me with a high-power hunting rifle — so it was lucky they missed. My cheek stings, and drops of blood fall into the sand from where splinters have scored my skin.
Katie stands in the welcoming shade of the jungle, so close and yet so far.
Here we are again, I say. Just like old times.
Not much in your bag of tricks today, she replies. Where's all your kit?
Yeah. About that.
I don't need to tell her. My dry bag, with all my tools, my gear, and my food, is back in the vehicle shed, forgotten when I took off on my mad rush to outflank the cultists. All I have with me now is my belt kit: three magazines in shingles, two full, one now empty; a litre canteen of water; and a small utility pouch in the small of my back that contains a notebook holding Zac and Roman's sketch map, some pencils, a steel striker for lighting fires, my lockblade knife, my personal medkit, a compass, and a chemlight.
This is hardly an ideal situation.
The only cover for me here is the trunk, which has been polished smooth by years of wave
action. I slide backwards, towards the waterline, where the branches spread out. Here at least it won't be so obvious when I take a peek.
I only raise my head for a second, as fast as I can. I can't see anyone on the wharf. But they could be anywhere down there: in the tree line, in the ruined warehouses, or hidden in the waist-high grass that rises up around the concrete like a green tide.
No shot answers my quick glance. But that doesn't mean anything — he could still be there and patiently waiting for another shot. Or manoeuvring to a better position. Or he could be holding position, ready to cap me as soon as I provide a better target. Or his friends could be outflanking me. Or, or, or. "Or" is like "what if" — a rabbit hole that where you will get lost if you go down.
Still, I know several things now. The most important is that the cult has at least one gun. This makes Excelsior as off limits to me as it is to them. There's no way either of us can reach her until we know the other isn't waiting to snipe them. I can't even wait for the cover of night; we're two nights from the full moon, and the bay will be brightly illuminated from sunset until sunrise.
God, it's hot. I'm glad I'm wearing my bandanna today — the sun overhead is merciless. There's no shade here, and I'm already feeling the effect of the heat. I've got no shelter, a litre of water, and no food. I've got to get moving.
I crawl back to the top of the log, to the last metre where I'm still hidden from the wharf. Katie looks at me expectantly, but I've got nothing. No clever trick, no deception. Nothing to distract the sniper before making my move. Instead, I've got a ticking clock in the back of my mind, every passing moment announcing itself with increasingly urgent clicks. No time, no opportunity, no equipment…
Ah, fuck it! I scootch back down to give myself some space, draw my legs under me, and place my feet against a tree branch, like a sprinter at the blocks, so I have something to push off against rather than soft sand.
Then I go. I drive myself to my feet with as much energy as I can muster. The five meters between the tree and the jungle seems as impassable as a gulf between mountains. I get two steps down, the sand sifting beneath my feet. An angry hornet whizzes past me; I feel a tap of disturbed air on my face, and then I'm falling into the green wall of trees, diving down into the undergrowth. A sharp pain fills my side as I crash through thin branches, and then I'm lying on dark, soft leaves. A buzzing fills my ears as bees immediately settle on my skin and drink my sweat.
I roll onto my back, my hands going to my side, where a fire grows. I'm murmuring, "No, no," because the bullet passed in front of my face — the sniper leading me too much. There was no way he could have got off a second shot, not with a bolt-action rifle.
Do I need to say something about all these assumptions you keep making? asks Katie. Perhaps there are — get this — two snipers? Or he had a semiautomatic?
I ignore her as I feel something hard in my side. I grit my teeth and pull it out. It doesn't hurt so much, but the sensation of my skin gripping it, the small knobs and knurls sliding over my flesh, turns my stomach. I hold it up. It's just a damn stick that broke off a bush when I dove through. The pain in my side is a dark ache; it only penetrated an inch or so.
Better than copping a bullet in the head.
***
Two men and a woman walk up the road from the wharf. They wear torn clothing, and their hair hangs around their shoulders in knotted clumps so dirty it is impossible to tell what colour it once was. One man carries a metal pole, the other a bow nocked with an arrow, and the woman has a long carving knife tucked into the piece of rope she uses as a belt. They're moving cautiously but quickly, as if they know I could be waiting in ambush but they carry important news that is worth the risk.
I'm lying in the bushes, about halfway up the camp road. I've smeared my face with mud, both to disguise it and to protect it from the biting insects that descend on me every time I stop moving. So far, it seems to be working. I've pulled some branches over on top of me. The jungle is so dense I doubt this is necessary, but it makes me feel less exposed.
The three are less than fifty metres away. I have my rifle on them, the red dot sight centred on the woman's chest. I try to think of her as nothing more than a target. But she looks so young and thin.
Katie says, Well, what are you waiting for?
They're armed. They clearly mean me harm. Any I pick off now, from the safety of ambush, means one that I won't have to fight at a later date.
So why can't I fire?
The three draw close. The woman's eyes are ringed with shadow, as if she looks out at the world from the dark pits of a skull. The men are in no better condition — their legs covered in scars and the white coins of ringworm, their gaunt faces unshaven and filthy.
I focus on their weapons, the way they hold them ready. I tell myself they would not hesitate if the positions were reversed. I've already had two lucky escapes; if the cult's marksman had been a little better, I would never have left that beach.
They stop on the road. Barely ten metres away. The man murmurs something to the others, and the woman says, "I'm not doing that." I could drop them in a second. I've only seen a dozen of Deborah's people; three quick shots here plus the ones in the dinghy will mean I've reduced her forces by half.
My finger is on the trigger. I remember my dad's weapon lessons. Never place your finger on the trigger unless you are ready to fire. A lapse of trigger discipline is an unforgivable sin.
My finger lingers. It loiters. I breathe so very slowly. A gentle squeeze would end this moment.
One of the men says, "Come on then." Annoyed at the woman. They keep walking. Closer and closer to where I lie in the undergrowth.
And then past me. They disappear out of the corner of my eye. I would rustle the leaves if I turned my head. I remain utterly still.
My finger is still on the trigger. I force myself to lift it, to relax. It takes an incredible amount of will.
They're gone. Katie looks at me, her face dark with disapproval.
There's a line, I say.
Yeah, she says. And you've already crossed it.
***
It's late afternoon by the time I reach Kulumadau. It took four hours to travel two kilometres. The jungle is thick and unrelenting. I find deep thickets of bush, woven with thorns, completely impassable barriers that send me in long detours up the hill and down to skirt the road. But I never give in to temptation and take the easy way, no matter how empty the road appears. I know I only need to make a single mistake and this will all be over.
I've had plenty of time to work up a good case against myself. I'm the one who brought my crew here. Who knows what horrors they're facing right now at the hands of these religious psychos? Blong is a child. Piper's a teenager who I wasn't going to bring anyway. Enzo left his wife and the safety of his own yacht to be here. Zac's a hapless intellectual, and Roman's a fisherman out of his depth. All because I wanted to play captain. All because I could not stand to stay in Madau. All because I conspired with Duncan to dream up this stupid, pointless mission.
The feelings build up in me like the dark clouds that gather around the low mountains and tall hills that ridge this island. The sun falls to the horizon, and the air holds a damp electric charge that promises a downpour. My mouth is dry, and my whole body aches. The fire in my side has grown. I sacrificed a cup full of precious water to rinse out the wound. But it did no good, and the small puncture has gained an angry red aura.
I take a grim satisfaction in the pain. I should feel pain. I deserve it. It's my fault we're all here.
Then do something about it, Katie says.
I was right about there being more to the camp. The tall kunai grass rising behind the first three buildings is a shield. The rest of the old mining camp is clustered around a spray of short roads. The camp has perhaps two dozen buildings. There are several long, narrow structures that were once barracks. A central building has smoke rising from its chimney, and I guess it's the cookhouse and mess. A vehicle p
ark shelters a dozen old four-wheel drives that have long collapsed on rotten tires and rusted axles. A cinder block building towards the back gets my attention. I'm guessing it was the old powerhouse, where the generators ran. But now it has two men standing at its solid door, each holding a long blade.
It looks like a prison.
The jungle is cleared out fifty metres from the edge of the buildings, the kunai grass pruned to waist height only by relentless cutting. Two of the cult are at it now, swinging machetes with practised, scything strokes. Their actions seem so incongruous to me — the cult taking a break from abducting my crew and attacking my boat to cut the grass. Don't they know there's a war on?
Of course, the obvious answer is that Deborah has plenty of people to go around. The dozen we saw this morning were only a carefully revealed fraction of her strength. After watching the camp, I guess she has maybe fifty or sixty followers — all whites. I can see her now, standing under a tin-roof awning, talking to three men. She's gesturing rapidly with her hands, pointing down towards the shoreline. The men listen with a disconcerting intensity. Their beards are long and unkempt, their necks are crusted with dirt, and their bodies are without fat, as if their religious fervour is a literal fire that has burned them out from within.
The thick air finally stirs as a breeze rolls down from the hills. Thunder follows and fat rain drops begin to fall. They beat down hard enough to bend the grass. I take the risk of draining my canteen, drinking the remaining water in a dozen desperate swallows. I hold the open bottle beneath a trickle flowing down a tree, praying the rain lasts long enough to fill the bottle.
I start to shiver within ten minutes. The rain has settled in for a good old relentless tropical downpour. The dirt road is pulverised into mud, and the folds and gullies of the jungle run with water. It's cold, but strangely my spirits have risen. Yes, my crew is missing. Yes, I bear that responsibility. But there is nothing achieved by beating myself up.