Carbon Run (Tales From A Warming Planet Book 2)

by J. G. Follansbee

  “You know what happened, Bill. The whole world knows what happened.”

  “I didn’t hear what happened from you. I was your husband.”

  Molly returned to the bare table, cleared of decoration and the linen cloth. I don’t want to hurt him, but he needs to know. “All right, Bill. You want the honest truth? The Spike was a disaster affecting the whole planet, but it was my chance for a fresh start. I loved you for a while, but I shouldn’t have married you. You were a father to Anne in a way I could not be her mother. It was better for her that I stayed away. I had other, more interesting things to do.”

  Bill was slack-jawed. “You abandoned us, deliberately.”

  Micah pulled at Bill’s arm. “I think we should go, Bill.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Bill’s hands became fists.

  “I made myself into something, Bill Penn. You’re still a topman on an antique floating truck.” Molly marched at a quickened pace to the elevator, Ginny trailing. The elevator closed, but Molly heard Bill’s voice, screaming:

  “You’re a whore, a fucking whore. You fuck men for money. I hope you rot in hell.”

  CHAPTER 18

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BILL TOOK HIS TRICK AT the helm, and he watched the strobe lights of Pole Station in Aganippe’s wake. The wind was lackluster, and the tedium broke down his effort to repress his anger at Molly’s declarations. He directed the anger inward, and his mood reflected the flaccid sails on Aganippe’s masts. I am the stupidest man who ever lived.

  Micah came into the wheelhouse with two coffees and set one down in front of Bill. “It’s fresh. Sugar, no cream.”

  Bill glanced at the cup. The black liquid was as still as the air around the ship. He didn’t touch it.

  “Molly Bain was trouble from the beginning, Bill. You know that.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  It was easier to stay silent while he worked out his feelings. Women didn’t like this, but that’s tough. Of one thing he was certain: Molly was wrong. He had changed. Living with a child on a parched piece of land in a warming planet forced a person to adapt, perhaps in subtle, unseen ways, but adapt nonetheless. He backed off a tad: One thing hadn’t changed until now, Bill agreed. His image of Molly was frozen on the day fifteen years ago when she took the job on Project Algid. That image had now melted away, like the ice that once covered the earth above the Arctic Circle year round. Molly was not the woman he thought he married.

  Maybe that’s why Anne hates her. She sees what I refused to see.

  Micah propped herself against the door post. “Look, I don’t want to live with a moody sailor who has a festering sore on his psyche. It makes for a miserable passage.”

  Bill said nothing. He replayed the first time he saw Molly and their talks and meals together and the languid moments after lovemaking over and over in his mind, as much as he remembered two decades later. If there was any pain or twinges of doubt, they were evanescent at this stage of his life. What did I miss? How did I screw up? I guess I shouldn’t have called her a whore.

  “When you guys started seeing each other, I thought it was just another one of Molly’s flings.”

  Micah’s statement punched through his mental haze. “What do you mean by ‘flings’?”

  “I knew Molly before you met her. She was a thrill seeker, maybe an addict.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Micah was uncomfortable. “I’m not sure how much to say. I probably should’ve told you this when you met her. We had one long job together, on the tramper Poet. Molly’d dress up, go ashore, and hang out in the lounges in the luxury hotels. Don’t ask me why. She met some... interesting people.” Micah checked herself from adding to this observation.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I thought there’s was something nice between you, and it was none of my business. I’m not an expert on relationships.” Bill couldn’t recall Micah with any long-term lover. “I wasn’t surprised when you told me back in Port Simpson that you broke up.”

  Was I the only one surprised? Perhaps I was too busy with Anne or the ranch to notice.

  Micah ducked out of the wheelhouse, giving Bill a mouthed “Later” when Captain McMadden charged in, chewing on an empty mist stick. He glanced at the electronic slate showing the ship’s status.

  “You’re off course, Penn,” McMadden growled.

  “I haven’t had steerageway my whole watch, cappy. The guy before me had none either. We can only drift, unless you want to power up the motors.”

  “Fuck it to hell.” McMadden spat out the stick. “We used up too much of the batteries keeping station with Aurora. We’d never make it to Bežat.”

  “Where?”

  “ Bežat, damn you. Have you never heard of it?”

  Bill shook his head. “I thought we were going to Dudinka.”

  “We are.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up. You’ll find out soon enough, that is, if I don’t kick you off my ship sooner.”

  Bill thought better of challenging McMadden on the point. The captain had saved his neck once before, and Bill’s presence put his ship in danger of another boarding by a BES agent.

  McMadden growled again as he punched up the weather forecast. “No change for at least twenty-four hours.” He scratched his red-bearded chin. “Any radar contacts, Penn?”

  “No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Any sonar contacts?”

  “Sonar?”

  “Are you deaf?”

  Bill was surprised. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to monitor the sonar set. I didn’t even know we had a sonar set.”

  “ Stubbs!” McMadden roared. “Get your ass in here.”

  Stubbs poked his head in the door. “What’s up, skip?”

  McMadden pointed at Bill. “This man says he hasn’t been watching for sonar contacts.”

  “I, uh...”

  “Never mind. You’re both idiots.” McMadden pounded on the console. Bill watched over his shoulder as he scrolled through a report, which listed fish schools and pods of whales.

  McMadden grunted. “Nothing, but that don’t mean shit.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bill said.

  Stubbs searched his pockets for his box of mist. “Submarines or drone submersibles. Not that we can spot them anyway, if they have stealth capabilities.”

  McMadden grinned, but with no humor. “Sneak right up on you and grab you by the ass.”

  “Why would some naval vessel—”

  “Navy?” McMadden spat. “Fuck the navy” He lowered his voice. “Ever heard of the Tiger?”

  Bill mouthed “No,” embarrassed at his ignorance. Wait one. The crazy derelict in Yesler City said something about a “Tiger.”

  “He, it, bosses the worst lot of thieves and murderers since the Somalis on the Horn of Africa. Worse even than the Malays in the Strait of Malacca. They make the buccaneers in the Caribbean look like pre-schoolers.”

  “Are you talking about pirates?”

  Stubbs found a mist stick and chewed on it. “What the hell did you think he was talking about?”

  “I heard rumors, but...”

  “No rumor, son.” McMadden’s voice dropped to a whisper. “No rumor.”

  For the first time since boarding Aganippe, Bill saw fear on McMadden’s face. Not even Kilel had fazed him. Bežat. Where have I heard that name before? A legend? The flashing strobe lights of Pole Station dipped below the horizon, leaving Aganippe alone on a sea that had darkened. Molly’s luxury liner had long ago continued on its way. From this point on the earth, everything headed south. Bill remembered an old sailor’s superstition. The damned soul of a fresh-dead sailor always flies in the direction of hell. That direction is south.

  CHAPTER 19

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A €20 NOTE FELL INTO Martin Scribb’s bowl, and the green rim shone. It was an old note folded in quarters. It was the first gift since Martin
arrived in Churchill, Manitoba. The supercapacitors in Harry and Millicent’s truck had given out three kilometers from town, and the monk walked in. Looming over him was a disheveled man, a mirror image of himself, at least in terms of height, weight, and clothing. He was younger, bearded, and intense, with dark, gentle eyes. A beanie covered his head.

  “Thank you and God bless you,” Martin said.

  “No need to thank me. I know what you’re going through.”

  No, that’s not possible. You can’t know what it’s like not to exist.

  The visitor lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged. “Mind if I sit with you?”

  Wary, Martin said nothing. A breeze off Hudson Bay stirred the dust in the strip mall’s gravel parking lot.

  “How long have you been in town?”

  A robber chatting me up first? I don’t see a gun or a bulge that might be a gun. “A few hours.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  Bound? “I’m not certain.” The colonel told me to come here and wait.

  The visitor held out his hand. “My name’s Reason.”

  Martin considered whether to take Reason’s hand. He decided the gesture was genuine. “I’m Scribb. Martin Scribb.”

  The breeze blew on the hair behind Reason’s ears. “Are you hungry?”

  Martin’s stomach growled. “Yes.”

  “Come with me and you’ll get a hot meal at my place. You’ll be with friends.”

  Why was this stranger being so kind? On the other hand, what choices do I have? Martin studied Reason’s face, and believed he saw a sincerity that eased his anxiety. “I don’t know. Trusting others is difficult for a man like me.” Martin pointed to his brand.

  “Understandable. Perhaps this will help.” Reason touched the brim of his beanie and peeled it off his scalp. On his forehead was a brand: three links of a chain. The raised welt on the man’s forehead, just below the hairline, was at least as old as Martin’s. He had never seen this style of brand before.

  Reason sighed. “You see, I do know what you’re going through.”

  Martin swallowed. “How? I mean, what did you...”

  “What did I do to deserve disidentification?” Reason shrugged. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over supper.” He stood up, brushed off his faded jeans, and returned the beanie to his head, covering the mark.

  Martin didn’t move.

  “Well, are you hungry or not?”

  Rising, Martin pocketed the €20.02 in his begging bowl, and he slung his knapsack over his shoulder. The pair followed a chip-sealed road that bordered the docks and wharves of Churchill’s industrial zone. Floodlights illuminated the exteriors of the elevators, warehouses, the open holds of bulk carriers, and the decks of container ships loaded by automated vehicles. The only humans Martin saw besides Reason were at the guard shacks. Reason beckoned Martin toward a group of neglected structures clustered around a parking lot. Reason climbed a short flight of creaking steps. He knocked, and opened the door. Again, he beckoned Martin to follow.

  Reason raised his hand in greeting as he entered. “I’ve brought a new friend.” Wiping his feet on the mat on the landing, Martin offered a quiet hello to the occupants of the front room, two well-muscled men wearing coveralls, who appraised him as if he were a truck.

  “Come in! “ The female voice came from the kitchen. A youngish woman smiled with whitened teeth as she wiped her hands with a towel. Reason removed his beanie and coat, hanging them on a peg. Martin followed Reason’s lead.

  The woman extended her hand to Martin. “I’m Jill, Reason’s wife. Are you hungry, Mr....”

  “ Scribb. Please call me Martin.”

  “You look hungry, Martin. I’ve got some spaghetti on the stove. It’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  Jill kissed Reason on his lips. The act mesmerized Martin, though a piece of him made note of its tentativeness, signaling tension between husband and wife, or maybe playacting. The gesture elicited an old fantasy, or rather, a memory of a fantasy. Molly Bain’s sexual dominance in the Project Algid office was exceeded by her intellectual brilliance, but company males let hormones cloud their judgment. Martin never acted on his fantasy, playing the part of the good CEO, but the impossibility of its fulfillment after her betrayal made it all the more painful.

  Jill waved her hand. “Wash your hands and come into the kitchen, Martin. The rest of you come too. We’re going to eat in a minute.”

  The group squeezed around a kitchen table, and Jill soon set down a plate of steaming spaghetti with marinara sauce. He held back from diving into the meal like a ravenous dog. The two men from the front room had no such qualms; they scooped the food into their mouths as if they hadn’t eaten for days. Reason’s table manners were more restrained. Jill ate with the delicacy of a gourmand. She sprang up from the table. “How could I have forgotten?”

  She produced five wine glasses and a bottle of red wine. She’d already pulled the cork. Martin eyed the bottle as if it were a long-lost historical artifact. He didn’t recognize the label or the winery, though the wine came from Canada. The country wasn’t known for its wines until the Warming had taken hold in the 40s, and the higher average temps in northern latitudes made viticulture possible. It was one of the rare benefits of the Warming and even the Spike, although older wine-producing regions had suffered, especially in France and Italy. Martin loved a good bottle of wine in his previous life.

  Reason was a practiced conversationalist who drew information out of Martin without prying. The wine had loosened Martin’s tongue; he skipped over much of the story of his role in the Spike, adding that he had joined the Penitents of St. Francis to atone for his sins. When asked why he had traveled to Churchill, he replied that he was on a pilgrimage as part of his penance. He noticed the glances between Jill and Reason at his answers, but Martin’s alcoholic repose and the satisfaction at a filled belly weakened his emotional walls.

  “I’d like to know more about you.” Martin sipped from his glass. “People avoid me like the plague, but you’ve been so generous. Are you often this kind to nonpersons?” Martin surprised himself with his impertinence. No more wine for me.

  “I know what life is like for you, more than most people.” Reason reflexively touched his brand.

  “Reason’s dissing was unfair and unwarranted.” Jill’s voice was harsh. “The punishment did not fit his... mistakes.” Her face eased. “We don’t like to see injustice done to anyone. We have to keep a low profile, like you. A hearty meal among friends and a warm bed for the night is the least we can do.”

  They’re going to give me a place out of the cold. Has God answered a prayer? “Aren’t you afraid the police will harass you for helping me?” Martin did not want to be the cause of any trouble.

  “What more could they do to Reason?” Jill tore at a piece of bread. “Churchill is a tolerant place, as long as we keep to ourselves.”

  “I’ve been able to provide services to local businesses,” Reason said.

  “Services?” Martin was intrigued. A dissed with a job. Unheard of.

  “Related primarily to personnel issues. Workers are sometimes difficult to find for certain jobs, particularly in a growing port like Churchill.”

  “I thought the government was encouraging unemployed people to move to areas with labor shortages.” Many coastal cities had never recovered from the inundation from sea-level rise. The old cities teemed with the unemployed and their families.

  “Some have moved to northern Manitoba, but there are still some jobs they won’t do.” Martin glanced at Jill and the two men from the front room, who had kept silent through the evening, apart from grunted acknowledgments when Jill served second helpings. “I try to fill those jobs.”

  Martin’s heart leaped. He was depending on the colonel to fulfill his promise of a return to society, but perhaps he no longer needed his conditional benevolence. I could make a new life for myself by working here in Churchill with Reason. Martin reflected that the
jobs Reason filled might not be the easiest or the most pleasant, given his underground life, but Martin had learned to tolerate pain and suffering. Any job was better than wandering the continent begging. “Is it possible you might find a job for me?”

  Reason smiled. “Let me see what I can do. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay the night.”

  “I’m blessed by your generosity. Thank you so very much. May we talk in the morning about a job?”

  “I like your eagerness, Martin. I’ll have to speak to my contacts.”

  Reason’s fleeting looks at Jill and the two silent guests troubled Martin, but he was too content to heed the questions that gnawed at his subconscious. He finished the last of his meal and swallowed the final drops of wine in his glass.

  Jill got up from the table. “Coffee, Martin?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” Martin’s conviction that his life was somehow taking a turn for the better grew stronger.

  “Martin, I have to make a private call,” Reason said. “Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course.” The monk reached for the final slice of bread as the other men followed Reason into the front room. Jill set a cup in front of Martin and poured the hot, dark liquid. She also set down a creamer and a bowl of sugar. Martin’s mind flashed to happier days before the hydrate disaster, when he ate almost daily at fine hotels in New York West and San Francisco.

  Reason returned to the kitchen. “Martin, I’ve put a sleeping bag in the front room for you. I have to leave for an appointment, and I won’t be back until very late. Jill will be here in case you need anything.”

  Martin shook his host’s hand. “You don’t know how grateful I am for your generosity.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Martin awoke to darkness and jostling. He was no longer in the house on the Churchill waterfront. The room was small and close, and he smelled bodies and heard moaning. Feeling water sloshing against his leg, he sat up. He found his wrists bound and he lost his balance, falling against another body. “Watch yourself, asshole.” The voice was unfamiliar and despairing. Martin shook his head to push out the last cobwebs of sleep, but his mouth was dry, and his stomach heaved. Nausea threatened to explode. He was in a vehicle, but it moved with an odd pattern. The movement slowed, and it swayed from side, yawing and pitching as if it were at sea. The slap of water against the walls of the room confirmed it. The boat slowed to a stop and Martin felt a nudge, as if the boat had bumped against something.