Emergency Transmission

by Sean McLachlan

  Still, he sensed no imminent danger. Robert had been as amazed as the rest of them when he heard the transmission. He saw the opportunities. As long as David could give them what they wanted, he could live.

  This must have been what it was like for The Pure One, David thought. As soon as we got beat at New City he must have known the end was near.

  David pushed that out of his mind, along with his lingering doubts. The Lord had plans for him. Hadn’t the Lord protected him from countless bullets after the assassination? Hadn’t the Lord made sure David turned on the radio just at the right time and on just the right frequency to hear the transmission? Hadn’t the Lord delivered a sailing boat when he needed one?

  And a fine sailing boat it was. Clinker built and well-sealed. David admired it as he sat at the tiller and used his free hand to adjust the line securing the sail. With a flick of the wrist he could turn the sail to catch the wind at the best angle.

  David smiled. A perfect day for sailing. The wind blew strong to the north, just where he needed to go, and the skies shone clear and bright. Another gift.

  Or simply luck, his doubts whispered to him.

  “We’re making good time,” David said aloud to silence them.

  “Are we? I’ve never been on a boat before,” Robert said.

  Good, that means you need me to steer, and it probably means you don’t know how to swim either.

  “Never wanted to be on a boat,” Robert grumbled.

  “Isn’t so bad.”

  “Wish we could have brought along our M16s,” Robert said, indicating the pair of AK-47s that lay wrapped up in a waterproof sheet at the prow.

  “We have to pose as scavengers. How many scavengers have M16s?”

  “How many fishermen have Kalashnikovs?”

  The man had a point. But there was no way they were going on this trip unarmed. David also had a 9mm automatic in a holster on his belt, plus a Bowie knife. Robert had no other visible weapons. That made David nervous.

  As morning turned to noon, the wind grew in strength and became westerly, straight in from the open sea towards the shore. It brought with it the sharp tang of toxins. The horizon grew black.

  “Shit, another toxic rain?” Robert asked.

  “Looks like,” David said. “I’m going to put in to shore so we can find a place to wait it out.”

  The shore was a series of rocky cliffs and shallow shoals. As the wind picked up, David edged as close as he dared and looked for an opening.

  “That line of clouds is getting closer,” Robert said, gripping the edge of the boat as the waves began to pick up.

  “I know,” David replied.

  Yeah, they were going to get inundated with toxins pretty soon. The chemical rains had been coming with increasing frequency. Something must be leaking out there. An old factory on an island? Some oil derrick from the Old Times?

  He sailed parallel to the shore, where he could see the remains of a few buildings from the Old Times, and tacked as he tried to maintain a steady distance. At last he got opposite a clear space between two submerged obstructions, visible only by how they disrupted the surf rushing in towards the beach. Once he got in position, he told Robert to duck and swung the sail around, the beam swooshing over the ship to turn the boat.

  The wind puffed out the sail and they shot for land.

  “Hold on, this might be rough!” David shouted over the wind.

  A froth of water to their left attracted David’s attention. He caught a glimpse of something white beneath the surface. They passed too quickly to tell what it was. David peered into the water and saw another white patch dead ahead, fainter and deeper. He tried to steer away but the wind and surf carried them in too quickly. As they passed over it, David’s heart clenched.

  Concrete. Part of a submerged building from the Old Times. Looking around, he saw more white patches beneath the water.

  “Hold on! We’re turning around!” David shouted over the rising wind.

  “What! Why?”

  David hauled on the sail to bring it at an angle to the wind and then leaned on the tiller. The boat cut a sharp curve. Instinctively Robert leaned against the other side, his fear of capsizing probably saving them from doing just that.

  Still leaning hard on the tiller, David let out the sail a bit as the ship swung around. The white ghost of a building swept past just centimeters off the port bow. The ship heaved over a swell and down into a trough. The jagged top of a concrete wall appeared a few meters off the starboard side. David gritted his teeth. If they hit a building in one of these troughs, it would be all over.

  The ship bucked and they rose on another swell. Out to sea loomed a black line of clouds, approaching fast. David tacked towards it, desperate to get more space between the submerged buildings and the ship as the wind gained strength.

  Another trough, another swell. Robert shouted something David didn’t catch. Bitter spray shot in their faces.

  The wind grew in intensity, and David realized they would have to land. If the wind picked up any more, they’d be dashed against the shore without any control, losing the boat if not their lives. Best to land while he could still steer.

  “We’re going back in!” David shouted.

  “What about the buildings?”

  “The Lord will protect us.”

  “Are you crazy?” Robert shouted, staring at the stretch of shoreline they now now ran parallel to. It looked even rougher than the patch they had just avoided. The surf was broken in several places, and rubble lay in tumbled piles all along the beach.

  “No choice,” David said. “Pray.”

  David let slip the sail line to swing the boom around. Just at that moment Robert rose up and leaped at him.

  The boom hit Robert square in the side and knocked him overboard.

  As the boat swung around, David caught a glimpse of a head and hand getting swallowed by the water, and then the wind and surf yanked on the boat and sent him shooting for shore.

  After that, he had no time to do anything but steer.

  Using all his strength, he turned the sail parallel to the wind to reduce his speed, but the surf had enough strength to pull the boat in far too fast. He had to yank on the tiller to avoid a jagged tooth of concrete, and then yank on it again to avoid another. The wind shifted slightly and his sail bloomed out. Cursing, David set the tiller chock and used both hands to grab the sail release line, hauling the cloth down. It fell in a crumpled mass onto the boom.

  David had just enough time to secure the line and release the tiller chock before the shoreline came rushing up.

  He angled the boat in, hoping to slow it some, but the jar of hitting shore nearly flung him out of the boat and onto the beach.

  Then the first raindrops hit, harsh on his skin and smelling terrible. One hit his lips and burned.

  David jumped out, dragged the ship onto the beach, threw the tarpaulin over it, and pulled out the moor line. There was nothing large enough to moor it to, so he wrapped it around a chunk of concrete and threw some more pieces of concrete on top. He hoped that would be enough.

  The rain started pelting down, making David gag. He dove under the tarp, retrieved his AK-47, and sprinted for the ruins.

  He found shelter on a slab of concrete that rested at an angle, collapsed into a rubble-filled cellar. A split slab and a heap of fragments from the upper story provided a roof that stopped the rain as it started coming down in torrents. It was dry in there, but gave no shelter against the stench. David retched and felt dizzy. People thought fishermen got used to this shit. Not true. No one could get used to this.

  He lay there panting for some time.

  “You have delivered me, oh Lord,” David gasped. “Robert lacked faith and You have punished him. Have mercy on his sinner’s soul.”

  A movement outside caught his eye. He gripped his AK-47, his thumb on the safety. Through the sheeting downpour he saw a dark figure cavorting in the rain.

  “Hoooo! Ha!”


  Shit, a tweaker. Soon the chem addict was joined by several more, all in rags, their hair matted, skin filthy, howling and hooting as they danced in the toxic rain. They swirled around one another, occasionally colliding and collapsing in a cackling heap, before leaping up and raising their faces and hands towards the sky, drinking in the vile rain.

  David watched them for an hour, maybe two, his gun at the ready. They never seemed to tire and never approached his hiding place or his boat, didn’t instinctively seek out shelter like any normal human being would. David’s lip curled in disgust. Here was something The Pure One got right at least. These subhumans deserved to be gunned down. The world was better without this filth. But he felt too tired for a fight. The important thing was to get to that freighter. If this rain kept up he’d never make it. His felt lightheaded and dizzy and he didn’t dare make any sudden moves in case he puked. So he hid in the ruined building as the tweakers howled and danced in the polluted rain. At last he slept, too worn out to keep awake and on guard.

  When he awoke, the sun had already climbed halfway up a clear blue sky. A foul, rotting odor wafted up from the damp earth. Here and there, puddles glistened iridescent in the sunlight. The tweakers had disappeared.

  David staggered out of the ruins and stretched his muscles. His stomach churned and his body trembled with weakness, making him dread the hard day’s sailing ahead. It would be twice as nasty out to sea. He trudged towards the beach, where his boat lay untouched. David snorted. Those freaks didn’t care about anything that didn’t get them high.

  The crunch of a footstep on gravel made him spin around and level his Kalashnikov. A tweaker stood amid the heaps of concrete not ten meters away. It was a filthy thing, streaked with dirt and grease, its hair all kinky and uncut. Black rags hung from it. Its feet were bare and swollen, with grimy, cracked toenails. In its hand the tweaker held an old can from which wafted a nasty chemical smell.

  It took a step closer. David thought it was a man but couldn’t be sure. Any manhood had been blasted out of this thing’s brain by all the chemicals it inhaled. The tweaker got an idiotic grin on its face and shuffled forward.

  “Ha! Hahahaha. HA!”

  David raised his AK-47 to his shoulder and flicked off the safety. The thing kept shuffling forward as if it didn’t notice. David started to squeeze the trigger, then stopped. He wasn’t sure what stopped him, but he stopped.

  “No,” he said aloud. “No more killing. I’m done. Let The Pure One be the last.”

  He put the safety back on and lowered his weapon.

  “Heeeee,” the tweaker sighed, shuffling forward. It extended its arm, offering the foul-smelling can. David wrinkled his nose and took a step back.

  The tweaker paused. Its idiotic grin faded, softening into sadness, embarrassment. It looked at the can in its hand, gave David a nervous glance, and shuddered. Its shoulders slumped, hand dropping to its side and allowing some of the chemicals in the can to slosh out. Then it looked up, fixing David with its bloodshot eyes, and tossed the can away. It clattered across the broken concrete, echoing loudly through the ruins.

  The tweaker looked at David again, a smile spreading across its face. It extended its hand and stepped forward.

  David felt rooted to the spot. For some reason he couldn’t explain, his fear and repulsion did not make him back away or raise his gun. In silence the tweaker closed the distance between them and reached out its hand to touch David on the chest.

  The moment it did so, its face lit up with joy.

  A noise to his right made David turn his head. Another shambling form rose from a crack in the ruins. It, too, held a can as it limped towards them on legs covered with open, pustulating sores.

  As it drew closer, it looked from the first tweaker to David and back again. David’s breath caught as it, too, threw its can away. As with the first one, it approached and touched him. David shivered.

  The tweaker grunted and motioned towards its legs, looking at David pleadingly.

  “Your legs?” David said, his voice sounding loud in the silent, dead ruins. “I can’t do anything about your legs.”

  The tweaker touched him again and motioned for David to touch him on the legs. David hesitated.

  A sound behind him made him look. Several more tweakers approached, grinning, eager, their arms extended. Out of the corner of his eye he saw more rise up, crawling out of cracks and stumbling over heaps of rubble. Every one of them carried a can or a plastic bag filled with chemicals from the Old Times, the collective stink making David’s head spin.

  “Gggh … ggghh!” one grunted, opening its mouth to reveal a row of festering black teeth and a tongue that had been burnt to a crisp. It led another tweaker by the hand, this one with its eyes seared shut, both victims of some horrible accident with the chemicals they craved. Just behind them came another that was a mass of sores from its scabby scalp to its rotting feet.

  They closed in on him, discarding their cans and plastic bags as they came, reaching out to touch him, grinning. David spun this way and that, unsure what to do. He was surrounded. It never occurred to him to use his gun.

  “Hee … hee …” one said. The sound was taken up by the others.

  “Hee … hee …”

  “Get back! Stay away from me!”

  “Heeel … heeel …”

  They closed in, pleading, waving rotten stumps and open sores in his face, pointing to blinded eyes and broken fingers, their foul breath making him almost faint.

  “Heeel … heeel …”

  “I’m not a healer! Go away!”

  Still they crowded around, more and more emerging from the ruins.

  “Heeel … heeel …”

  “I’m not what you think I am! Leave me alone!”

  David broke through the crowd and ran for his boat, a host of grinning tweakers following, leaving a trail of discarded cans in their wake.

  They pawed at him as he struggled to push the boat into the water, followed him out until they were waist deep as he pushed off, grabbed an oar, and rowed furiously out to the sea.

  David gasped and choked from fear and confusion as the tweakers crowded on the beach, waving goodbye and looking at him with an expression that he could not mistake for anything except love.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Xinxin sat at a corner table in $87,953 with her husband Wei and her brother Da-bin. Roy sat with them, keeping his back to the wall so he could watch his bar. It was still early and there weren’t too many people around, just the professional drinkers and a few scavengers new in town wanting to whoop it up.

  Only Baruch was on duty at the moment, hanging out at the door and sporting a beautiful black eye and a bandage on his nose. Roy wished both his bouncers were here. Roy wished Xinxin had told him she was coming.

  Roy wished for a lot of things.

  “News has gotten out about our plans,” she said eagerly. “It looks like everyone’s excited about Chinese New Year.”

  ‘Excited’ might not be the best word.

  Being a good bartender, Roy knew when to keep his mouth shut. He knew when to smile and nod and act encouraging. Xinxin went on.

  “We already have a band practicing some Chinese music, and the food is all arranged. I’ve hired six good men and women to work security.”

  “What are their names?”

  Xinxin told him. Roy nodded. Yes, they were all dependable. He also noticed that none of them were Asian. She’d only picked whites, Hispanics, and blacks. Having Asians guarding Chinese New Year might cause more trouble than it would stop. Xinxin may be all starry-eyed about her party, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “That’s great, Xinxin. Besides those guys, I have my two bouncers, plus I’m going to get a couple of others. Jaylen volunteered. You’ve seen him. He’s the barber who looks like a boulder. He can block the entrance just by standing in it. If we have him working the door no one will get past him who shouldn’t.”

  “Wonderful! We’ll pay, like we said. I was w
ondering about the televisions. You have the biggest collection of movies in the world; do you have any Chinese movies?”

  “Um, no.”

  Xinxin’s husband Wei laughed. “Why would anyone have kept any Chinese movies? You’ll have to wait until the freighter comes back if you want any of those.”

  Roy kept a poker face. No, he’d never even seen a movie made in China, unless you counted an old propaganda film about one of the invasions. Treacherous Shores. It claimed to have been filmed in parts of China “liberated” by the Western Alliance but that was probably bullshit. It showed Western Alliance soldiers responding to a cowardly terrorist attack on one of their cities by launching an amphibious assault on the Chinese mainland. Our heroes, all white except for a Hispanic guy who gets killed off in the first five minutes and a brother who acts as comic relief, advance through the countryside, defeating the Chinese in every scene. The Chinese rice farmers cheer the invading army because their heartless warlords have been taxing them into starvation and stealing their daughters. The Alliance soldiers settle down on the newly conquered land and try to rebuild it, foolishly trusting the Chinese peasants until they revert to type and kill a bunch of the troops in their sleep. The final scene shows the soldiers slaughtering every last one of them and claiming the land for civilization and freedom. Roll credits. Throw up.

  Roy owned several movies like that, made by various factions during the countless wars and revolutions of the past century. He never showed them. That would be Blame, and that would get him branded and exiled no matter how much Doc cared about him. He didn’t even tell anyone he had them. Simply owning such films was Blame.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the filthy things. They were part of the past, and forgetting the past was dangerous.