Catalyst (Book 1): Downward Cycle

by JK Franks

  He awoke some time later in the night from a fitful dream to a cacophony of bird calls. He walked up to unclamp the hatch and go out on deck. There was no moon, but the starlight helped him distinguish ocean from sky. The boat seemed fine, and the birds were off to starboard side and high up. Odd they would be out this far from land and making sounds at night. He briefly wondered if he had come close to an oil rig, but he knew there were none in this area. Navigating the rigging and around the helm, he stood at the rail trying to get a fix on sounds which seemed to echo in the darkness. He picked up the sound of small waves lapping against something just as he noticed that there were no stars visible on the starboard side at all. The entire sky was dark unless he turned his head to look straight up or far to either side. The sounds of the gulls got louder, drawing his attention back overhead, where he caught glimpses of the white wings in the dark sky.

  Wiping his eyes to try and remove the fog of sleep, his mind worked hard to process the clues. When it did, it was almost too late. Danger was the first word his sluggish mind dredged up, and he unlocked the helm and turned hard to port. Something big was ahead, and off to the right. Something big enough to block out the sky. And he was about to sail right into it. He dropped the sea anchor and, to his relief, it dug in before it reached the end of its length. The Careless Lady heaved over and slowed to a stop just as the smell of something putrid assaulted Todd’s senses. The smell made him wretch, and he made it back to the rail just as the meager contents of his stomach emptied over the side.

  In the darkened sky, Todd had no way of gauging the size of the thing but began to make out the general shape of what he was next to. Guessing at the top height and length by where the birds were calling from, he was pretty sure the ship rose about two hundred feet. It was maybe five times that long. He could make out what looked like a line of darker anti-fouling paint from a lighter color above. That would normally mean that it probably was not a freighter, as they were usually painted darker. He strained to listen in the darkness but heard nothing but the gulls and the waves. The large vessel did not appear to be moving; grounded, he assumed. Stranded when the CME hit and knocked out its power and navigation, most likely.

  The rotting smell was overwhelming, finally driving him below where he found some menthol cream in a drawer that he rubbed under his nose. Unsure of what to do next, he put on some coffee to wait for sunrise before deciding. If it was a freighter, there might only have been a handful of people on board, usually less than twenty. If it were Navy, it could easily have been several hundred. On a cruise ship, the number could be many thousands. The lack of any noise coming from the ship troubled him. Even if most of the occupants were sleeping at this hour, you would expect to hear something. Morning light would reveal all.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  How in the fuck did they find me? Bartos' leg was still throbbing, and he was pretty sure his knee was swelling. Navigating by feel, he had drawn the small boat deeper and deeper into the bayou. The smells of rot came from everywhere. The dog had never liked being on the water and kept shifting his weight, making Bartos’ job more difficult. Each time his injured leg bumped the side it sent a jolt of pain throughout his body. He was beginning to think more clearly, and in doing so was getting more and more pissed off. “If they burned the Bronco, I’m going to go medieval on those bastards…Don't fuck with a man’s truck…” he grumbled. Solo didn’t bother looking back at his master’s ramblings.

  Bartos finally came out into a more open channel, part of the original track of the river. The water here flowed more steadily toward the sea, and the smell of decay lessened. Best of all, Bartos now had a good idea of where he was. He did have a kind of emergency shelter in the bayou, but to reach it would take several hours. He reached in his go-bag and took out a bottle of water. He knew that only left two bottles, but he needed this now. He also opened a small pocket survival kit and extracted two aspirin. Exhausted and in pain, he wasn’t sure he could make it to the hide location, but the anger was driving him hard. He silently dug the paddle deeper into the black water and headed back into the bayou.

  He still couldn’t let go of the fact that somehow, they had tracked him to his bat cave. He had never told anyone about the place, not even Jack or Todd. Somehow, the preacher had known there was some bad shit coming. No matter who was doing the shooting, it had to be that thug Tyrell—or even Hansbrough—that was behind it. Since it wasn’t Ronald’s voice he had heard, he assumed it was the drug dealing shitbag, Tyrell, or one of his goons who’d been stalking around out there. But who was the ‘other one’ they needed to hit? The sheriff? Probably not. Buck had a small army and a few radios now; it would take more than a small gang of thugs to take him down.

  Solo sprung up emitting a low growl. In the dark, Bartos could only make out a shadowy silhouette of the dog but could tell he was looking ahead. His sensitive ears or nose had picked up something moving out in the darkness. Something dangerous.

  Bartos had left open water a few hours back, and now he had no view of the sky. The thick canopy of trees kept this area relatively dark, even in full daylight. He had put on the headlamp with the powerful LED beams, but to switch that on now to see the danger would ruin his night vision. He didn’t think he had the twenty minutes it would take to regain it and did not want to keep a light on the rest of the journey. Bartos also had a good idea of what Solo was grumbling about. Gators hunted at night, and although not plentiful here, there were a few enormous ones around. He knew he wasn't going to shoot one; the sound would carry, and he had no desire to alert anyone to his whereabouts. His years of hunting them had given him some insight into their curious and territorial natures. He began to make as much noise as possible, banging the paddle on the side of the canoe, and hitting the exposed tree stumps as he cruised by. The last thing he wanted to do was sneak into the gators’ domain unannounced.

  Solo moved farther back in the small boat, looking over the left side. Bartos was now sure it was a gator and not a snake, for which he was very thankful. He heard a plop nearby as something large suddenly dropped below the water’s surface. He was tempted again to hit the headlamp but fought back the urge. Bartos had spent the largest part of his life in swamps and bayous and felt as comfortable here as most men felt in their backyard. That did not mean he was immune to the dangers.

  Listening, he calculated that a large alligator was hanging about half way below him in the five to six-foot-deep water. The animal was no doubt trying to determine if the large noisy shape above was a threat or food, using senses honed over millions of years. As Bartos expected, the next thing he felt was a very large bump from underneath his boat. The gator was testing the wooden canoe. Hopefully, it would now assume it was just another floating log and move on. Solo’s growls got louder, however, a small finger snap by Bartos quieted the large dog. Bartos gradually resumed his shallow paddle strokes, moving them silently away from the hidden predator.

  They finally reached the suspended shelter at about 4:30 in the morning. He had been paddling for over eight hours. He risked using the light now to tie off the pirogue. The shelter was more of a tree house than anything. Suspended about four feet over the water, it was, in essence, a rectangular platform firmly attached to four large trees. The platform had a rudimentary roof and a back wall made of old planking. The entire structure was only twelve feet wide and about eight feet deep. Bartos had felt anything larger would have been noticeable to other hunters and trappers that used the swamp like he did. Most of them would have their own swamp hides to use as a base of operations when they were out here, mainly just a place to sleep and store gear.

  Familiar with the structure, Solo jumped eagerly out of the boat to the platform, nearly swamping the boat when his powerful legs launched his body upward. "Goddammit, dog,” Bartos sighed in tired frustration as cold swamp water eased over the side and immediately found the crack of his ass. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  Bartos tossed a couple of
his gear bags onto the floor of the questionable looking shack, then began the awkward gyrations that would get him out of the pirogue and up to the hide. His injured leg had been stretched out in the bottom of the canoe all night and was swollen and stiff. Finally finding a suitable knot from a broken limb on one of the trees, Bartos pulled his weary body out of the boat and up to the platform. He managed to stay out of the water, but for one leg and boot which dropped from the perch and were soaked.

  Solo was already sleeping in one corner when he finally made it up with his gear. “Thanks for all the help,” Bartos said sarcastically. He was relieved to see the bags had stayed dry, and pulled out the compact sleeping bag and a cold pack. He was unsettled at the thought of what tomorrow would bring; he knew he should rest a day or two, but he had to check out his hunch and see if he was right. Applying the ice packet to his knee and taking two more pain pills, he turned off the headlamp and was asleep in minutes.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  As the thick gray morning fog began to lift, the massive vessel revealed itself to be a cruise ship. It did not appear to be grounded; there was some movement, but not much. The enormous anchors were dropped, and it did not appear to be damaged. Todd engaged the small diesel engine and did a pass around the entire vessel. On the port side, all the davits were extended and empty – lines still hung where lifeboats had been deployed. This meant that the ship had probably been full, not empty, when it was moored here.

  Some of this was not making sense. He assumed the CME had fried all the computers, radios and navigation. That shouldn’t have rendered all the engines dead, though he supposed it may have. His best guess was that the ship had just begun its voyage, probably out of Houston or New Orleans; the electronics had gone out, and they couldn’t signal a distress message without coming back near shore. They’d probably dropped anchor and waited a few days instead of trying to navigate the maze of shoals in this part of the gulf, and when no help came, loaded onto lifeboats to try to get to land.

  If that were the case, though, all the lifeboats should have been gone—not just those on the one side. No way they could have put three or four thousand passengers on that number of boats. Of course, another ship may have come to their aid… The Coast Guard could have pulled off many more had they been notified… But he didn't think the chances of that would have been good; he hadn’t seen any Coast Guard vessels since the shit hit the fan.

  Midway down on the starboard side of the ship he found a ship tender’s access door. He placed the boat fenders on the port side of the sailboat and tied off the Careless Lady to several nearby cleats on the outer wall of the huge ship. To his relief, the access hatch had apparently only been dogged shut from the outside as it pushed in and swung to the side when he undid the latch and gave a firm push.

  He walked into a darkened cavern, the only light coming in from the door behind him. He reached into his go-bag and pulled out his headlamp and a tactical flashlight. He put the headlamp on his head but left it off for now. Switching on the powerful Surefire Fury Tactical flashlight, he saw he was in a garage of sorts, with jet skis, small watercraft and all manner of water sports equipment mounted in racks or floating in the small canal of water that went up to a sealed door far down the wall. The area was neat and tidy but unoccupied. Other than the absence of electricity and people, it seemed pretty ordinary.

  He began to explore more of the magnificent craft, making his way cautiously up and toward the bridge. He and Liz had taken several cruises, and she enjoyed them, but he had always felt trapped. To him, such vessels were just big resort hotels-with attached-shopping mall. The fact that it was on water made little difference when it was ten stories below them for most of the voyage. Liz had enjoyed the food and the massages, and he had enjoyed seeing how happy she was.

  The big man paused on his climb up the nearly endless stairs to dry his eyes. At each floor, he opened the door and listened into the long dark corridors, but he heard nothing. Once he had done this five times, he began to smell the strong, foul odor that had called his attention to the ship the night before.

  He had an idea of what it was but did not feel particularly anxious to verify his suspicions. He carried on, his shoulders heavy. As he neared the deck level, he began to see the bodies in each passageway he checked. The smell of the bloated corpses thickened as he reached the first deck level, where he pushed through an outside door to catch his breath. Here, the screams of the birds and the stink of rotten flesh hit him like a punch to the gut.

  He stepped toward the rail as he took in the surreal scene, stumbling slightly at the horror of something snapping beneath his boot. Looking down, he found his foot upon the brittle bones of an arm, pecked clean of flesh and already weakened and bleached by the sun. The days exposed to the hot gulf sun and carrion birds had made it almost unrecognizable.

  Looking over the deck railing, his eyes now took in what the earlier fog had obscured: bodies, hundreds of floating bodies in the area around the ship. As far out as he could see in the early morning light, fish and birds fed on the semi-floating bodies, swollen with gasses in the sub-tropical autumn heat. More than once he witnessed one of the bodies erupt, either from the internal pressure or from the puncture of a shark’s bite. It spread a vile bloom of viscera and organs like a gruesome volcano. The birds and sharks would vanish momentarily with the mini explosion, then return to begin their ghastly feast once again.

  Making his way finally into the bridge, Todd looked for the log book. He needed to understand what had happened here. Opening the book, he read of how the power had cut out just a day out of port from New Orleans. The captain, a man named Dimitri Gravari, had instructed the deck officers to return to port. Without navigation, though, they could only approximate the location, though they had done so very accurately. The ship’s engines had begun to overheat; they were not designed to operate without the computer-controlled monitoring system. The ship had dropped anchor as the water seemed to be shallow in every direction ahead.

  Help had not come, and on the fifth day, the captain had instructed all the senior crew to evacuate the ship and go for help. With no electricity, they could not open the tender garage to get the motor launches out, and without a power winch, lowering the lifeboats had taken many, many hours. The ship’s crew was apparently based out of Europe, so the area was not familiar to them, but they felt confident they could get to shore and summon help. The captain had stayed on board. In fact, Todd was looking over at him as he glanced up from reading the log. The single gunshot wound to the side of his head told him a lot. The passengers and crew had not thought to ration the fresh water as their desalinization systems could make fresh water from sea water. Unfortunately, that took electricity, and by the time that was realized, most of the potable water had been consumed. The next weeks had been one of crazed agony as the passengers slowly went mad from thirst and died of dehydration or threw themselves overboard to get to the vast ocean of cool water below. Todd closed the logbook. He couldn’t imagine a more difficult position than the captain’s. Knowing all of the people in your charge were likely doomed to suffer horribly and die. He knew of maritime stories where crews had abandoned ship and left passengers to fend for themselves. Captain Gravari had not done that. He and his men had done their best right up to the end.

  It was midday the following afternoon before the Careless Lady released her lines and parted ways with the doomed cruise liner. Todd had filled the sailing ship with as much cargo as he dared take on board. He had also taken the time to plot the ship’s location and reseal the doors, just in case he could make it back to her with a larger boat in the next few days.

  Despite the gruesome scenes on board, he was in good spirits, as he had been astounded at the supplies that remained untouched. The dry goods alone could keep a town like Harris Springs going for several years. Along with that, the medical supplies and equipment were hospital grade, and he’d also found backup machinery and radios that could be useful now. A lot of the
ship could be converted for use on dry land; each part of it was designed to be used in isolation—even the onboard Internet system was satellite based. Scott and Bartos would have a field day if he could get them out here. He had taken the most valuable and most portable items and secured much of the rest, so it would not be easily found if other boarders happened by. Hoisting the mainsails, he found a growing easterly breeze and let the sleek craft pick up speed as it sailed away from the ill-fated cruise ship and its ghastly passengers.

  He made excellent time but noticed building clouds during the day. That night brought a fierce squall. He could hear the rolling thunder and see the flashes from miles away. The pitching of the boat was familiar to Todd, but rarely had he ridden out major storms at sea in a boat this small. He would have never put Liz at risk and generally found safe harbor from storms. When the waves started reaching impressive heights, his confidence began to fade. An experienced seaman, his mind knew they were just rollers, regular and not overly dangerous. The boat was sturdy, and all topside hatches had been dogged tight. Still the violent tossing was unnerving him. Todd calculated that he should be about thirty miles from Mobile Bay. He thought of turning for home as he had passed by twenty miles to the south but decided to keep sailing with the prevailing wind. Now, here he was in deep water facing a maelstrom. No way of knowing if it was just a typical summer thunderstorm or something much worse.

  He distracted himself over the next several hours below deck hooking up one of the reserve marine radios he had taken from the Aquatic Goddess. It had been wrapped in a watertight antistatic foil bag, so he hoped it hadn’t been damaged by the CME. The quality was well beyond what he had on either of his boats, and with the right antenna, the range would be hundreds of miles. To his relief, the relatively compact unit came right on when he hooked it into his boat's power system. Todd had switched the antenna from his dead radio over to the new unit and began sweeping through the marine bands.