The Flood

by David Sachs

  “Let me talk to them first,” Travis said. “Let’s give them a day to cool off. I’ll go up in the morning and find out what I can find out and we’ll see where we are.”

  Brenda went on about the water.

  “For now, we still have water pressure from the tank, but we’ll have to cut rations again.”

  “What about the catch basins?” Hesse said.

  “We just can’t rely on the catch basins,” Brenda said. “If we go without rain for a couple days, we’ll be real thirsty. However! There is another possibility. They all told me we couldn’t run the desalination plant to make fresh water from sea water without the engines running, but I’ve figured a way. It’ll take a lot of fuel. Which means we’d run out of power, sooner. It’ll also take a lot of time, and frankly, I need to be working on the satellite link. But look, if it gets bad and we need to make fresh water, I think we could do it.”

  She looked from face to face trying to read their confidence or fear.

  After the meeting, Travis wondered why he held back about the gun as he walked away.

  He was uncomfortable and not ready to return to the Piano Lounge. He visited the Champagne Bar to see if the baby had recovered. He was disturbed by the news. The baby had responded to the antibiotics at first but then had gotten worse, not just the coughing but diarrhea, and vomiting any food she managed to take in. The mother looked half dead with exhaustion and fear.

  Travis hurried to find Joel Conrad.

  The Vikings Sports Hall had changed. Instead of music and laughter hitting him first, there was a cloud of marijuana smoke in the still air of the hall. The mood inside had changed. It was a zombie version of his first visit. As many were there as before, but the air was filled with smoke. The men and women looked wild, their faces and eyes intense and sickly. It was quieter. Some leaned back smoking. Others just leaned back, while a few lay motionless on the table or in their booths. The ship-wide epidemic of wet coughing was terrible in here, and a dozen or more chests rattled with their breath.

  There was still rock-and-roll music playing, but there was no one behind the bar. There was a brick of hash, a plastic bag overflowing with marijuana. Scattered on the bar were assorted drugs and paraphernalia.

  He found Dr. Joel Conrad sleeping in a booth, by a statue of Jimmy Connors. Travis shook him awake.

  “Travis!” he said at last. “Oh, Travis. I’m happy to see you.”

  He stank.

  “Joel, the baby is dying.”

  “I know,” Joel Conrad said sadly. “It’s the flu. Norovirus. The pneumonia came from the flu. We fought the pneumonia, but the flu never went away.”

  Travis protested with stammers and stutters, trying to force the doctor to see a solution, something they could try.

  “It’s this ship!” Conrad exclaimed. “The ship poisoned her, it’s poisoning all of us. The air is making the whole damn ship sick with fecal bacteria. In natural earth, our waste feeds life. Here, in this construct, our waste is destroying us. We make ourselves sick here.”

  “You can’t quit on us,” Travis said. “That baby will die.”

  “YES!” Joel Conrad stood. “Now you see! That baby will die, and soon! And then we all will die. Let me die in comfort and with some fun, is that so wrong? You all are going to get worse up there, and you’ll tear each other apart. I don’t need to watch that. I’ve done what I could, but there’s no more to be done. We’ve got an abundance of fun here, hash and coke from the staff, weed from the refugees, and of course, there’s the clinic. Leave me go out with a smile.”

  “Yeah,” Travis looked around the zombie bar. “Have a blast.”

  He felt dizzy going back upstairs. He passed through the Atrium and tried to regain his focus on his mission for tomorrow. The faces in the crowd struck him: so lost, hopeless and stupid. Travis was no hero, but he wasn’t weak, and he felt sorry for those who were – not weak necessarily, but weak compared to their circumstances. Looking at the faces in the Atrium, he felt sad for them. You could see it on their faces: there was nothing they could do for themselves. He wanted to do something for them.

  He went out on the walking deck to escape the wretched air. The cool wind refreshed him, but the low, heavy clouds seemed to be weighing right down on them, as if the pressure of the clouds themselves were raising the tensions on the ship. On this side of the ship, all the lifeboats were gone and there were a score of empty davits hanging over the side.

  39

  They believed in Adam Melville because he had the strength to do what they needed to do, but could not. He had been on this runaway train into violence and conflict and he had jumped from the door, and shown them there was a place to land. He had gone against Lee Golding. They’d been intimidated by the giant that was the Mighty Lee Golding, but Adam wouldn’t be. He had a big back they could all shelter behind.

  The rain was back. It was loud on the glass roof of the solarium and it was dark inside. Adam was lying on his back, looking up. It was still early and others milled about or sat or stood in their small groups. They kept a distance from him, most of them. He could block them out as he looked up. In the darkness of the sky, an underside of a cloud was illuminated by the ship’s spotlight. The heavens themselves were made seen by that light from the ship below, a cylinder connecting two spots in an endless darkness. That’s what Adam saw.

  He was becoming more comfortable with what had happened.

  He’d always believed in God, sometimes perhaps with more definitive ideas of what that meant. But he always knew there was something, and if there were something, it would be participating in this. If there was one thing he understood that others didn’t, it was that this was an Earth shattering event. Biblical. God would be involved.

  Adam had always known he was special. He’d always been where he was supposed to be. Here was a flood, and he was on a boat, and the very fact of their lack of rescue after all this time testified that the world was gone, or crippled at the least. So God was showing himself through Biblical methods- whether this was self-referential of God, or merely a manner of showing Himself in a way he and others would get, Adam didn’t know. Either way, God was communicating through that Bible, re-inventing the story of Noah and the flood, when the animals and people were kept safe on the ark as the corrupt Earth was cleansed.

  And here he was, a giant of a man, with flowing hair and beard, and a loud, deep, clear voice. All he needed to complete the part of prophet was a robe, and he could get one in any stateroom. He chuckled. He was giddy, and embarrassed at himself for it. It was exciting, though. Adam forced the lightness from his mind and refocused on the seriousness of his position. There were many people to save.

  In the night, he walked the ship. He liked the darkness.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of death. He entered an abandoned stateroom he knew of – between those like him who had lost their rooms in the attack, and the refugees, many of the abandoned rooms had found sub-letters. There were many fewer on board than there had been, but Adam knew of a few that were still empty. He also knew that there were floaters around, those that stayed in different rooms each night. In this particular room, he went to the bedside nightstand and found a Gideon’s Bible.

  He took it to the spa, part of which lay directly under the solarium. He had found cupboards full of electric candles, and he lit them, creating a pagan atmosphere by the pool. Soft light danced on the water. He stripped and dove in.

  Afterwards, he sat in a lounge chair and read the Bible by candlelight. It all flooded back to him, each story, the turns of phrase, the mysteries and the certainties. He felt a kinship with the men and women of the book, the doubts and strength needed to face a rock-solid world that suddenly revealed God. He was up there till the dawn, then rejoined his people.

  There were a few in prayer. There were always a few in prayer. It had only been a day and a half since they’d left the Theater, but it had been a long day and a half, and through it, there were always a few
in prayer. There hadn’t been much else to do. Those that had come felt less inclined now to travel the ship, to mix with the other passengers. So most remained in that one great room on the peak of the ship.

  Adam kneeled and prayed himself, and when he did, many others began praying too. This time, Adam noticed. Prayers, he reflected, may be other than just pleas. They can be promises, praise or thanks. Yesterday, Adam had pleaded. Today he thanked – for life, and for the life he’d been given. For the world and for being separated from it in this moment. For the chance to know God.

  As he prayed, a few of his men came up with the day’s bread. They had volunteered as the food-carriers the day before. Adam paid no heed as they arrived. The food-carriers expected the onslaught from the starving group, but with Adam solid in his place, no one else went, and the food-carriers quietly looked for a place to set their trays.

  Adam had now been a day without food. Seeing the tiny rations his group had received yesterday morning, he had resolved to suffer double the privations of the others.

  When Adam finished his prayers he saw the food and went for his small portion. It was an awful bread, and some kind of potato stew. The stew wasn’t too bad. There wasn’t much. He wasn’t sure if any actual meat was in it. Not in his cup. It wasn’t too bad though, for a hungry man.

  There were some dried herbs in it. Parsley. Thyme. That bread was awful though. He soaked it in the bottom of his half cup o’ stew. When he was finished, just seconds really, the rest ate.

  “I want to say,” Adam spoke up, and the room listened. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what has happened to us. You are here because you know something. I don’t care what religion you are, they all believe the same thing: that there is something eternal, and that being good matters. And we all know that siding with Golding was bad for whatever it is that we carry that is eternal.

  “Once the Hebrews were slaves in Egypt. But what was their relationship to God then? No one had heard from Him in hundreds of years, since the days of Joseph. Then, bam. Miracles. Plagues. Exodus. Doubt. Redemption. I can tell you, I believe that a flood that destroys the world and leaves a small group alive on a ship, I believe God is there. We say everyday, how come God doesn’t show himself? How come nothing happens anymore like what happened to Noah? Well. Hello.

  “I haven’t spoken to a lot of you. Maybe you’re not religious. But if you believe in God, how could you not believe he’s here, one way or another? Maybe some of you don’t believe this. Maybe some of you just came along because you couldn’t go along with what Golding and them were doing. That’s fine. I’m glad you came. But here is what I think. For us to be sitting here this long with no rescue, we all know what that means: the world as we know it has been destroyed. I think that we are lucky enough to have been given this chance, to be placed on this ship and saved from the flood, and given a chance to do right while God is watching. That may mean dying, but if God isn’t saving us, I think we’re beyond man saving us at this point. So the rest on this boat will die too. But we’ll die in control.

  “Where were you when the Flood hit? Whoever you were, whatever you were doing, the flood crossed your life and your life changed. You don’t need to be the person you were. You’ve survived three disasters. Flood, attack, and abandonment by the world. Now, here, we are blessed. Our lives are short and our options are limited. We isolate ourselves. We live deliberately. We know our end.”

  None of them knew what Good looked like anymore, they were desperate to know it. Now it appeared as a giant man with a beard, and they were all prepared to follow it.

  40

  “Travis,” Rick said.

  Rick was holding the M16. He had spotted Travis approaching the restaurant.

  Travis had given a special hug to Darren before leaving that morning, knowing he would be facing that M16. Travis had made his way around the Theater, from a distance. He’d spotted sentries at some open doors and ducked away before they’d seen him.

  He wanted to learn what he could of the layout around the restaurant and galley before he presented himself to Lee Golding to talk. But Rick Dumas had seen him first.

  “No soup for you,” Rick said laughing. He had his hand on the pistol grip of Lee’s rifle.

  He showed no sign that he would fire it, and Travis inwardly ticked off a sigh of relief at surviving the first checkpoint.

  “I want to talk to Golding,” Travis said.

  Travis could see into the darkened galley. Although it was daytime, there was very little natural light seeping through. There was some kind of light around a corner that provided a glow over the parts that were in Travis’s field of vision.

  Although he couldn’t see any food, he could smell it. Something had been cooked recently, it smelled good, and he realized he was very hungry.

  Rick saw the nostrils flare as Travis first felt that aroma.

  “You know, I had this one shore excursion booked,” Rick said. “A culinary excursion in Helsinki. A wine and dine in a Finnish farmhouse. Reindeer steaks. Roast moose sausages, and pastries and berries. Bet that sounds pretty good to you right about now.”

  “You talk a lot, don’t you?”

  Rick paused. He chuckled.

  “Let’s go see Golding,” Rick said. “Frisk him,”

  A man came out of the shadows and roughly patted down Travis from his ankles to his armpits.

  “Cruise security has been tight since 9/11,” Rick said. “You know how it is.”

  Rick picked up his cell phone from the counter.

  “What does your GPS say?” Travis said as he shook himself loose from the pat down.

  “Wish I knew,” Rick said. “Phone’s only good for taking pictures now. Someday I’ll invite you over for the slideshow. Let’s go.”

  The Theater was beneath them. Rick and the gun and two other men walked with Travis down the stairs. They went into the Theater through the back entrance, to the dressing rooms behind the stage. There was more security: other refugees Travis had seen around the ship. They exchanged pleasantries with Rick and the other men. One of the two guards stared hard at Travis, the other looked around him and through him as if he didn’t exist. They walked down a hall and around a corner.

  The Mighty Lee Golding was asleep sitting back on a bench. His feet were on the floor, his legs straight and crossed at the calves. His arms were raised and his hands clasped behind his head against the wall, his enormous belly vibrating in snores with each in and out breath. They stopped in front of him.

  God, you slept well when your side had the gun, Travis thought. He wondered what Lee Golding dreamt of; what was his perfect outcome now? Rescue? A safe and sane world to come home to, where he would be charged with murder? Did he dream that there was another gun?

  Travis looked at Rick and the other two who still made no move. Travis kicked Lee Golding’s feet, knocking one off the other and uncrossing the legs. His security detail tensed around him ready to take him down, but did nothing. Lee was quick to his feet. Not long to come from sleep to fight, this one.

  The fight in Lee Golding died down as quickly and he said calmly, “What?”

  “I’m making a quiche,” Travis said, “Could I borrow a cup of milk?”

  Lee Golding laughed, Rick laughed, the other two men laughed. Finally Travis chuckled.

  “Hey, you never wanna lose your sense of humor, am I right?” Rick said. “I knew I liked you. Seriously, Lee, we oughta adopt this guy, he’s good people.”

  “Seriously,” Travis said, “we’ll starve.”

  “Seriously,” Lee said, “I don’t give a shit, and I’m not adopting you. But I appreciate the levity. These are hard times.”

  “It’s gonna get a lot harder,” Travis said, “when all those people in the Atrium and the cabins get hungry enough, and you’re stuck here in one little room on a boat, with one gun.”

  “It’s an M16 buddy,” Lee Golding said. “So you just pick which few dozen volunteers want to get shot first, and then brin
g it on. By the time you cowards are hungry enough to fight, you’ll be too hungry to fight. This is a defensible situation we got.”

  “Yeah?” Travis said, “We’ve got a goddamn Army colonel, and an electrical engineer who has the whole ship figured out.”

  Lee went into the Mighty mode, with his full stage voice and face: “It ain’t helped you so far!”

  “Yeah,” Travis roared back in a spot on impersonation, his eyes just as big and angry as Lee’s, his voice as bombastic and self-important, emphasizing and slowing odd syllables. “And think how safe you’ll feel with a thousand enemies outside your walls with no options but killing! And you’re here touching up your goatee!”

  “Is this how you ask for milk?” Lee said. “What the hell? You risked getting shot just to come here and tell me I’m not well liked?”

  He turned to Rick and grabbed the gun from his hand, Rick letting it go like it was hot. Lee lifted the rifle, switched the safety, cocked it and checked the chamber for a round. He held it to Travis’s face, nonchalantly with one hand. Travis stared up the barrel, down the arm to Lee. He studied the wrestler’s face and saw in it some kind of question. Lee didn’t know what to do. Travis turned to Rick and saw that the small man seemed drugged, coked up. His face was flush; Travis could see his neck throbbing with his pulse. On Rick’s face was written: DO IT!

  “How many rounds you got left?” Travis asked.

  Lee lowered the gun, and then handed it back to Rick who had the unmistakable look of disappointment, of adrenaline unused.

  The Alabama Assassin’s hands came up more quickly than Travis could have imagined, crossing each other to grab the sides of Travis’s head just as Lee’s body spun and dropped, and Travis’s head came down fast and hard over the big man’s shoulder. Travis’s limp body bounced up and back to the ground.

  Travis lay absolutely still on the floor, his arms and legs flayed in snow angel form.