by Allen Steele
There were no signs of human presence, though, and Jorge estimated that they’d traveled a little more than three miles by water since leaving Port Logan. Time to check in with McAlister. The radio crackled with static, its signal marred by the tall buildings between the river and the spaceport, but Jorge was still able to hear McAlister’s voice. He gave the pilot a brief description of where they were and what they’d found so far.
“Copy that,” McAlister said. “Be careful, and let me know if you run into anyone.” A brief pause, then he went on. “Incidentally, I’m seeing a bit of life out here, too. There are a couple of boats in the harbor, and it looks like they may be heading this way.”
Jorge raised an eyebrow. “That’s hardly what I’d call incidental. Think they’ve seen you?”
“No idea. Hard to tell from here…just two small boats with a few guys aboard. I didn’t see where they came from. Probably only some fishermen. I’ll let you know if I make contact.”
“Do that. We’ll do the same if we find anyone here. Over and out.” Jorge prodded his headset, switching it off, and looked at the others; they’d listened through their own radios. “Well…appears this place isn’t as deserted as it seems.”
“We’re wasting time.” Vargas was becoming impatient. “If you’re serious about finding Thompson, your best bet is to go back the way we came, find whoever it is who set those fires.”
Jorge and Inez traded a quick glance. “You’re pretty sure about that, aren’t you?” she asked. “What makes you certain they’d know where my father is?”
“Your chaaz’maha isn’t just anybody…I’ve told you that already. If he’s been in the city again lately, people would know about it. They may even know where he is right now.” Vargas gestured toward the Back Bay area. “You’re not going to find anyone here, that’s for sure. Nothing there except birds, squirrels, and rats.”
Jorge had to admit that he was probably right. Not only that, but it didn’t look as if they’d be able to travel much farther upstream. Not far away was yet another Charles River landmark, marked on the map as the Harvard Bridge. It appeared to have collapsed entirely, with its remains blocking their way. And although they might be able to make landfall in the Back Bay, that would mean having to hike through swamp-infested neighborhoods until they reached the higher ground of Beacon Hill.
“You’ve got a point.” Jorge throttled up the engine again, pushed the tiller so that the boat began to make a slow turn. “But let’s play it safe and not really announce ourselves until we actually meet someone.”
Vargas didn’t reply, instead turning back around in his seat. Greg gave Jorge a questioning look, though, and Jorge responded by silently raising two fingers to his eyes, then pointing at Vargas’s back: Keep an eye on him. A mute nod from the sergeant, then he patted the stock of his rifle. It was clear that Greg didn’t trust him either.
Jorge hugged the shore as he steered the boat back down the river. Keeping the engine at half throttle, he managed to pick their way through the fallen spans of the Longfellow Bridge without colliding with any debris. Once past the bridge, they were able to make out Beacon Hill a little more clearly, with the gold dome of the Massachusetts state capitol building at its crest. Yet it wasn’t until they reached the floating dock again that they saw anyone.
Three figures stood upon the dock: two adults, and what appeared to be a child. None of them noticed the boat until it was only a few dozen yards away; squatting beside a small sailboat tied up at the pier, they appeared to be working on its furled sail. Yet when the smallest of the three—a boy, no more than ten years old—finally glanced upstream, he raised his voice and pointed toward the approaching craft. Jorge couldn’t hear what he said, but it was enough to get the others’ attention. The others stood up and quietly watched as the boat came closer. Greg raised a hand as a friendly greeting, but no one on the dock responded in kind.
“Good morning,” Jorge called out once they were within earshot and he’d throttled the engine down to neutral. “Mind if we put in here?”
It was now clear that the two adults were both men, one considerably older than the other. The younger man gave his companion a sidelong look; he stuck his hands in his pockets, stepped away from the sailboat.
“Don’t mind at all,” he called back, “so long’s you got something to pay for it.”
“The dockmaster, most likely,” Vargas said quietly, turning to Jorge. “And he probably means barter. I doubt anyone uses money around here anymore.”
Jorge nodded, then returned his attention to the dockmaster. “Got a little extra food, if that’s what you mean. We don’t have much else.” He hoped that the lie wasn’t too obvious, but he was unwilling to give up any of their equipment.
“That’ll do,” the dockmaster replied, “so long’s it’s not spoiled.” The younger man laughed, and Jorge took that to be a good omen. “Pull right up here,” he added, pointing to a vacant space between the sailboat and a tarp-covered canoe. “Kill your motor first, then toss me a line.”
Jorge remembered the SLOW NO WAKE sign he’d seen on the Charlestown Bridge. Some things hadn’t changed. He shut off the engine, then he and Inez paddled the rest of the way in while Greg located a hemp rope stowed beneath his seat. Once they were close enough, Greg threw the coiled end of the rope to the dockmaster. He caught the line in midair and used it to haul the boat against the dock; he knelt to lash the rope around a post, then offered Greg a hand.
“Nice boat you got there,” he said. “Haven’t seen one like it in a long time. Where y’all from?”
“Down south.” Grasping the dockmaster’s hand, Greg took the high step that put him on the dock’s weather-beaten planks. He gave Jorge a quick glance as he turned to help the others climb out of the boat: What do I say next?
“Long Island,” Jorge supplied as he crawled over the equipment cases to reach the dock’s edge. It was the alibi he’d decided to use in case just that sort of question came up. “Decided to take a little trip up north, see whatever there is to see.”
“Long Island, New York?” The younger man sounded dubious. With greasy brown hair and a coarse beard, he looked like someone hardened by years of living in the ruins. “Didn’t know anyone was living down there. Last I heard, most of it was still underwater.”
“Most of it, sure…but there’s a few parts where people have been coming back to live lately, now that the water’s going down.” Remembering his promise, Jorge unstrapped the case containing the expedition rations, hoisted it onto the dock. “That’s where we found the boat…in a store down there.”
“Uh-huh.” The young man remained skeptical, and Jorge became conscious of just how different he and the other expedition members were in comparison to the people they’d just met. Their parkas were not the patched and threadbare overcoats the two men and the boy wore; their boots were clean and new, while the men wore old shoes that looked as if they were being held together with tape. The younger man openly stared at Jorge’s headset, and Jorge suddenly realized that he should have removed it. His story about finding the boat, and by implication everything they had, was thin indeed.
The dockmaster, though, had little interest in their boat or clothes. He nodded toward the food container. “So…what do you have for me?”
Jorge climbed onto the dock and helped Inez out of the boat, then bent over the case and unlatched its lid. “Not much in the way of anything fresh,” he said, revealing the foil-wrapped rations stacked within, “but we’ve got a lot of freeze-dried stuff. Meat, fruit bars…”
A low whistle from the young man, and Jorge looked up to see the astonishment in his eyes. “Damn. I ain’t seen anything like that in a long time…not since I was his age, at least.”
He meant the boy standing nearby. The kid stared at the case with naked avarice, and Jorge easily imagined his mouth watering.
“Are you with the TC?” the boy suddenly asked.
Jorge had no idea what he meant by that. It wasn’
t something Vargas had mentioned during his previous conversations with the other expedition members. Before he could muster a response, though, Vargas came forward.
“No, we’re not,” he said, “but we’re searching for someone who is…the chaaz’maha.”
The dockmaster had squatted on his haunches to sort through the rations. When Vargas said this, he looked up sharply. “Is that why you’re here? You’re trying to find him?”
The dockmaster wasn’t the only one to be surprised. Jorge wanted to know how Vargas apparently knew what the TC was. Yet there was no way to ask him without prompting more unwanted questions from the locals; no choice but to bluff. “Uh-huh,” he said. “We’ve heard that he’s been here recently. If you know where he is…”
“Nope. No idea.” As quickly as he’d become distracted, the dockmaster returned his attention to the food case. “I’ll take ten of these for one day’s rent on a slip,” he said, lifting a handful of packets. “Throw in another five, and I’ll let you have it for two.”
Ten to fifteen ration packs represented nearly four days of food for the expedition. It was a hard bargain, but Jorge didn’t see that he had much choice; they’d have to leave the boat behind while they went into the city. “And you’ll watch our belongings while we’re gone?”
The dockmaster grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth. “Yup. These people trust me with their boats, so I reckon you can trust me with yours.”
That sounded like as good a promise as they were likely to get. “All right, then,” he said, and extended a hand. Apparently this was one custom that hadn’t been forgotten, because the dockmaster shook it, sealing the deal.
“If you’re looking for the chaaz’maha,” the young man said abruptly, “I might be able to help you.”
Inez peered at him. “You know where he is?”
“No, but I know someone who does.” He cocked his head in the general direction of Beacon Hill. “Fellow over on Irving Street has something to do with the TC. I think he’s even met the chaaz’maha himself a couple’a times when he’s been in town.”
Again, that phrase: the TC. Jorge suspected that it was significant, but he refrained from betraying his ignorance by asking what it meant. “The chaaz’maha isn’t here now?”
“Oh, he comes around every now and then.” The young man’s expression hardened. “Like whatever he has to say means a damn. But he has his followers, y’know…” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not some of ’em, are you?”
“No.” Greg smiled. “Just interested in meeting him, that’s all.”
The young man nodded but didn’t say anything. The dockmaster glanced at him. “Ted and me will work on your boat, Sam, if you want to take ’em up to Irving. I think we can get that sail stitched up by the time you get back.”
“Sounds good.” Sam—who Jorge now realized was probably a fisherman and most likely Ted’s father as well—gave the boy a swat on the shoulder. “You stay here with Mr. Morse. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” Ted nodded. He was still staring at the boat that was like none other he’d ever seen. Jorge was tempted to leave someone behind to guard their property, yet he knew that he couldn’t spare anyone for that task. He needed Vargas as a guide, as untrustworthy as he might be, and Greg to watch Vargas. Inez had to come along, too; after all, the purpose of the expedition was to find her father. So he had little choice but to leave their boat and equipment in Morse’s care and hope that everything would still be there once they returned.
However, he wasn’t about to set out on foot without taking precautions. Climbing back into the boat, Jorge picked up their rifles and passed them to Greg and Inez. Neither Morse nor Sam raised any objections; apparently it wasn’t unusual to see armed men in the streets of Boston. Jorge paused to fold the map and shove it in the left pocket of his parka, then he rejoined the others on the dock.
Sam waited until everyone was ready to leave, then, without another word, he turned and started walking toward the moored end of the floating dock. A long, steep flight of wooden steps, nailed together from pieces of wallboard, led up and over the sandbag emplacement; on the other side of the embankment was a mud-covered street, its cracked asphalt worn but reasonably dry. Followed by Inez, Greg, and Vargas, Jorge let the fisherman lead them into the ruins of Boston.
Not far from the embankment were the remains of a four-lane highway that once ran alongside the Charles River. Weeds and brush had found root in the cracked asphalt, and a half-fallen overhead sign identified the road as Storrow Drive; sometime in the past, someone had climbed up one of its poles to paint over the “t.” A bad joke, Jorge reflected, but not unjustified.
Once Sam led them across Storrow, he turned right and began taking the group down a side street leading away from the river. The hospital was now behind them, and although most of the buildings around them were several stories high, none seemed to have suffered significant damage above ground level. Yet their windows were either broken or boarded up, with storefronts barred by rusting metal grates that seemed to have been hastily welded into place. Jorge figured that landlords and shop owners must have had just enough time during the city’s evacuation to make an attempt at protecting their property before they were forced to flee. Very few vehicles were parked at the curbs, and those that remained had been stripped bare of everything usable.
Sam walked slightly ahead of them, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure they hadn’t fallen behind. Only Vargas was able to keep up with him; the rest were still getting used to Earth gravity, and Jorge felt as if he had a fifty-pound bag on his back. But it was Sam’s silence that bothered him the most. Perhaps the fisherman was laconic by nature, but his silence unnerved Jorge almost as much as that of the buildings around them. Although he obviously knew his way, it seemed as if he was searching for something. At the end of each block, Sam would pause for a moment to glance warily in all directions before continuing onward, and once they’d turned a couple of corners, Jorge realized that the river was no longer anywhere in sight.
“I’m not liking this,” Greg murmured. He’d fallen back a step to join Jorge and Inez, and Jorge noticed that he had unlimbered his rifle from its shoulder strap. “I know he’s taking us somewhere, but I’m not sure…”
“If it’s any place we’d want to go?” Inez finished. Greg nodded, and she looked at Jorge. “I agree,” she went on, keeping her voice low. “He’s nervous about something…and so is Sergio.”
Jorge didn’t respond for a moment, then he cleared his throat. “Hey! Sam! You want to hold up for a second?”
Sam came to a halt, as did Vargas. They waited until the rest of the group caught up with them. By then, they’d reached a broad, four-lane avenue. A bent-over signpost identified the intersection as Cambridge and North Grove, with the latter continuing past Cambridge as Grove Street, which sloped upward into a hillside residential neighborhood.
“What do you want?” Sam was impatient, no longer quite as willing to wait for them as he’d been back at the dock.
“Nothing…just a minute to catch our breaths, find out where we are.” Jorge was sweating beneath his parka, and he saw that Greg and Inez were panting as well. He nodded toward Grove Street. “Is that Beacon Hill just ahead?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So where’s this place you’re taking us? Irving Street, you said…”
“Just a few more blocks. We’ll be there soon.” A sardonic smile as Sam looked them over. “Little out of shape, huh? We ain’t gone all that far.”
“Just not used to hiking through a city, that’s all.” Jorge peered past him at Grove. Brownstone buildings, most of them no more than three or four stories in height, lined both sides of the street; judging from their bay windows and columned doorways, they appeared to be old apartment houses, their ground-floor windows either shattered or covered with plywood. Not far away, he saw smoke rising from rooftops a few blocks up the hill. “Is this where most people live now? On Beacon Hill?”
“Uh
-huh.” Sam continued to study him. He said nothing for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Y’know, I got a feeling you ain’t been straight with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not really from Long Island, are you?” A corner of his mouth ticked upward. “In fact, I don’t think you’re even from New York.”
Jorge felt something cold run down his back. “What gives you that idea?”
“Your clothes are too nice to have just been found. And that boat of yours…I ain’t seen no inflatables since I was a kid, let alone one with an outboard.” Sam lowered his voice. “Tell me the truth, now…you’re with the TC, ain’t you?”
“No, we’re not. I promise.” Jorge hesitated. “But you’re right…we’re not from Long Island, or even New York. We’re from…well, somewhere much farther away, let’s just put it that way.”
Sam mulled this over a few moments. There was distrust in his eyes, but also a certain cunning that Jorge didn’t like. Before he could add more, though, Inez stepped forward. “Look, where we’re from isn’t really important. All we want is to talk to someone who can tell us how to find the chaaz’maha. That’s all.”
“Yeah…yeah, okay.” Sam appeared to have made up his mind. “Awright, let’s go. I’ll take you to my friend on Irving. He’ll help you out.”
He turned around, began crossing Cambridge. Vargas started to follow him, but before Jorge and Greg could join them, Inez tapped Jorge on the arm. “He’s lying,” she whispered. “I don’t think that’s the way we should be going.”
“Wait a second!” Jorge called out. “Are you sure we…?”
Sam suddenly broke into a run. Before Jorge could stop him, he bolted across Cambridge and continued running up Grove. Jorge started to go after him, but gravity slowed his muscles, made his reactions sluggish. Sam ducked into an alley between two boarded-up apartment houses; within seconds, the fisherman had disappeared from sight.