by Dennis Fueyo
Tom turned around and laughed. “I can hardly approve, Son. This woman’s a she-devil.”
“Dad!”
She nuzzled into Sam’s collar. “He’s joking. We almost murdered each last week.”
“Murdered?”
“Yeah,” Tom jested, “I tried beating her to death with a pillow.” He slid closer to his son and continued, “Sammy, you felt sensations like never before, just now? When you guys—you know.”
“It was strange being in someone’s consciousness. What I guess would be,” Sam said to Emelia, “your memories.”
Emelia passed her fingers through Sam’s hair. Salt-matted clumps seemed to untangle at her fingertip’s command. “We shared emotions. You tasted my past. At the same time, I felt yours.”
“Has it happened before?” Sam asked.
“No. Well, sort of. You’re not the first person I’ve kissed. But it was different.” She held his hand and delivered a gentle squeeze. “It happened before the day we left Fayetteville. The first time I…the first time using my mind to defend myself. I passed into the nervous system of a man and forced him to start shooting the other assailants. Some of his memories implanted in me. I can control the transfer more, now, but they still seep into my thoughts. When Clark attacked your mind, and as I defended it, some of your memories implanted in me as well.”
Sam nudged his forehead against Emelia’s as she continued, “This time with you, I allowed them to resonate. It stirred a much different sensation in me, Sam.”
He plucked the screwdriver from her lap and passed it to Tom and kissed her again.
Tom held the tool and turned away with a broad, cartoonish grin.
The thunder cells had passed. Rays of sunset bathed Tom’s cheeks. His son was renewed. But, like all things in the Wash, Tom’s languor was not to last. A low, rumbling sound stirred in the back of his mind. “Mmmm.” Startled, he slapped his head, mumbling, “Ok, ok. I know.”
“Dad,” Sam asked, “you all right?”
“I have to lie down.” Tom steadied himself and rocked with the boat’s yaw down into the cabin.
“He’ll be ok.” Emelia guided Sam’s head back and cooed, “Where were we?”
∆ ∆ ∆
Inside the cabin, Tom laid down next to Lou Frasier in a small guest bed. They bumped against each other in the rollercoaster shaped boat as wave after wave jostled the hull. Fumes from Wilmington’s flames smelling of ash and gasoline accumulated in the tiny cabin.
“Ugh, I need to get off this crazy train,” said Lou swaying between the wall and Tom’s body. His face was pale and hair messier than Einstein’s.
“Sam’s trying to reach Charleston. He may not have enough fuel, this chop’s going to burn it up fast.”
“Did you fix the radio? Of course not, stupid question.”
“Emelia and Sam are making out.”
“Ak!” Lou grimaced and asked, “Little Sam?”
“They need space.”
“Good news, right! Wait, you don’t like them cuddling?”
“Yeah, well, cuddling is the operative word.”
In the shadows above their heads appeared two catlike eyes. Lou quaked and yelled, “Jesus Christ!”
“Hello, Cuddles,” said Tom unimpressed.
“We are getting acquainted with each other, I think that, Tom Mason.” Its eye slits narrowed.
“What do you want?”
Lou asked, “It can travel out here?”
“Cuddles always watches over our heads.” Tom directed to Cuddles: “Like a crap haircut. Where were you earlier, demon? My son needed your help!”
“I’ll ignore that little slight, Tom Mason. Where are you going?”
“Heading to Charleston, though I doubt we will make it. We need to find fuel or maybe hotwire a car to get there. In contrast to Wilmington, the city has remained intact over the years. Maybe someone there can help us reconnect with Raleigh.”
“Raleigh is unimportant. You must go to Savannah.”
Tom cracked the joints in his knuckles and neck. Always a catch, always a cost. Heading back to Raleigh was too easy. Chaos reigned for now, and he would have to endure.
Lou barked, “Are you crazy? Why the hell would we go there?”
“You heard what James Laramie said, Lou Frasier. There is a race to reach the Atlantians.”
“Our bargain,” Tom sneered, “was to join Mason with Stone. We fulfilled the bargain. Their swapping spit outside this room.”
“How cute”—Cuddles’ eyes veered towards the door as if watching Sam through translucence—“and what lovely vernacular. But your end of the bargain is not complete. Love is fleeting without unity. And Emelia Stone remains rapaciously unified with her family. Until that changes, our bargain remains open.”
“Explain.”
“Oh, so feisty you are out in the deep blue sea.”
Tom noticed clacking teeth absent as it spoke and said in defiance, “There are no wretched gray hands digging into me here. No fangs to sink into my soul.”
“Well now, what a grand idea to live out here, Tom Mason. Hurricane Ben will keep you company, I think that.”
“I get it, not done yet.” Stained in cynicism, Tom elbowed the bed. “So, explain.”
“Sam’s spirit will never rest while jackers occupy Wilmington. But there are too many variables—too many independent variables—for him to process. He won’t find dependable ones in Raleigh. He must seek them in Savannah.”
Tom propped upward nearing the floating, catlike eyes and pressed. “Maybe you could tell us what they are instead. What are we to you, little mice in some child’s game?”
“Not my game. The game of life. Things are not free, Tom Mason. Some require merit, and in a world where nature is unbalanced, the price can be high.”
“Chaos reigns, huh?”
“Until Stone joins with Mason.”
“Doc,” Lou said, tugging Tom’s shirt. “Come back down here.”
“It cannot hurt me, Lou. Not here.”
Lou’s voice rasped trying to speak, “Doc…it may hold grudges.”
“Do not worry, Lou Frasier,” Cuddles assuaged, “you all return to the Earth someday. I begrudge no one, but I expect compliance—and honesty.”
“Not to worry about me, Cuddles,” Tom said, waved his hand and lay back down. “Next time, you better be there for Sam, or I swear to God almighty Himself I will find a way to destroy you.”
The shadow swirled in a vortex blasting air against the men’s faces and pushing their heads into pillows. Tom feebly raised an arm in defiance, remaining affixed to the mattress.
Catlike eyes sunk to within inches from Tom’s.
“Honesty, Tom Mason, honesty. Understand why I am not a demon, as I understand you are a liar when swearing to God. Comprehend, before it is too late.”
Part 7: Ochoa’s Last Words
The National Hurricane Center located at Florida International University has been cut off with the rest of Florida as of Friday. Scattered reports suggest at least one electromagnetic pulse detected near Jacksonville, and signature of another possible EMP discharge reported outside Panama City. No official comment coming out of the White House yet, but sources close with the investigation say the situation is fluid and officials are nervous.
The timing could not be worse, with Hurricane Ben reaching Category 2 on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Wind Scale as it hammers Nassau sustaining winds up to 105 mph. Ben is expected to travel northeast, skimming Orlando, and then turn west to make landfall between Savannah and Charleston, though some tracks still suggest it may land as far north as Wilmington. Models are showing Ben will reach Category 5 before hitting the United States, making it the fifth named storm to strike the East Coast carrying sustained winds of over 157 mph since Hurricane Michael made landfall near Mexico Beach on October 10, 2018.
The most destructive Category 5 storm to date remains Hurricane Kirsten. After making landfall on July 24 south of Virginia Beach, Kirst
en claimed 4,680 lives and caused damage in excess of $290 billion, marking the unofficial fourth year of the period commonly referred to as “the Wash.” Markets collapsed, interest rates shot up two-fold to 12%, and most communities along the East Coast between Chesapeake and Outer Banks were rendered uninhabitable.
Chapter 18
Lights glittered on the shore of Myrtle Beach like diamonds enhanced by a passing stray shower. Eagle-eyed, Sam scanned the shoreline. No creature on two legs meandered about the vibrantly painted, glowing shops. “Juan, let me steer.”
Juan hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want to try for Charleston?”
Sam took the wheel and initiated a precarious vector westward seeking to berth. “This chop will not let up, and we are running out of time.”
Stray showers clumped together to form the next offshore storm du jour. Abu rested next to Sheila, bringing her in close. “What’s wrong, Abu?”
“Sam’s not familiar with these waters,” Abu replied behind nerves of tin. “Sunken beach homes tank more boats than hurricanes.”
Sheila then asked Sam in a raised voice, “Are you sure you can do this?”
Ignoring her, he asked Shaquan, “Who owns Myrtle Beach?”
“The Turtle tribe. They’re friendly.”
Juan interjected, “Also not battle-tested. We’ve been their buffer against more aggressive tribes. The Danvers, the Red Hill gang, and the jackers of course.”
“We need fuel”—Sam’s pupils dilated—“and we need to warn them about Wilmington.”
Twinkling lights displayed shacks and walkways. Yellow wisps grew to bonfires. A roof stripped of tile emerged above the surf as they neared.
“Juan to the starboard bow, Abu to port. Shaquan, check our depth,” Sam commanded. He clung to the roof’s edge fighting the breaking currents.
The boat struggled to follow its rudder against a monstrous undertow. Passing one submerged house, Sam corrected to avoid another. The hull released a grinding wail. Steering into the drift, the boat lifted off the wreckage and drove between two other homes. Once hotly desired rental properties, the burgeoning ocean stripped their deadlights away, leaving chipped glass fragments in empty, shattered living room windows to reflect light like cold, lidless eyes.
“Berth off the port bow!” Abu hollered.
Sam aimed the navigator’s monitor to an outline jutting away from the large shack. Figures appeared on the landing holding lamps and flashlights.
Stabilizing the drift, Sam’s concentration took pause to a scratchy voice calling out, “State your business!”
“Shaquan, give me a reading.”
“Seven meters, Sammy. Rising fast.”
“Juan, take the wheel.” Sam hopped to the starboard bow. Cupping hands to mouth, he replied, “We are from the Divers tribe! Request permission to dock!”
“Divers?” The voice said, “Sure, why not. Granted!”
“Emelia,” Sam asked, “Can you detect anything unusual with our welcoming committee?”
Emelia gripped the center deck bar and inched towards the cabin. “How do you mean, unusual?” Leaning over the starboard railing, using her jacket as an umbrella, she said, “There’s nothing normal about the southeast coastal regions.”
“Come on”—Sam jerked his head—“seriously. Any malcontent amongst those characters ahead?”
“Yeah, many ill-favored thoughts bounce through those empty skulls. They want to gouge us on fuel, take our vessel, sell us into slavery. A clutch of chest-pounding, dung throwing apes, all looking forward to flexing nuts.”
Sam laughed, enjoying her candor. “Right, with shlong measuring calipers in their back pockets, understood. This is not unusual?”
“For a group of drunk males? Unfortunately.”
“Great.”
Shaquan blurted out, “Sam, you’re cutting it close!”
Sam dropped his hand. “Juan, kill the engine and get ready. Sheila, Abu, stay with Dad and Lou on the boat. The rest of us will scope the situation.”
Though life breathed in the town, it was too dark for merry men to be celebrating. Tribes formed to seek what once was: infrastructure, security, cleanliness. Even small tribes like the Tar Heels had markets and reinforced structures. Myrtle Beach looked as though on life support. Flickering lanterns dotting the street shops blipped a weak heartbeat.
Juan guided the tiny scuba boat careening towards the pier. Shaquan caught a tossed line and, in spite of his slipping feet and rain watering sheets into his face, secured the boat as it knocked against pilings.
Five shadows lowered a plank seemingly soaked in an intense perfume of ethanol. Sam’s group ascended, they rocked and bounced between its railing as if traversing a high-rise during an earthquake.
At the top, men waited who cared as much for their appearance as their sobriety. The shortest extended a hand dripping ocean spray and rainwater. “Name’s Potter Fishman.”
Sam reciprocated, “Sam Mason of the Divers.”
Potter belched launching a wreak of bourbon into the wind. “Don’t you Divers avoid our shabby establishment. What are you”—he snapped his fingers—“one of those, uh, spotter guys?”
“Can we do business inside, Potter? The rain is energized, and we have been at sea all day.”
The raggedy dressed Potter spoke to the tallest man of the group hinging on his heels, and pointed a thumb towards Sam, “Eh, the guy wants to do some trading. What do you think?”
The tall man scratched his chest. “I think that boat looks pretty beat up, boss.”
“You hear that, Samuel? He thinks you got nothing. Wasting my time, chief?”
Shaquan scratched his head and asked, “You guys are the Turtle tribe, right?”
“Turtle tribe?” Potter swigged his drink. “What kind of retarded name is that? Hulkman, was that the name of the tribe here?”
Hulkman, being the tall man, responded, “Yep. I’ll tell you what, boss, good riddance to those weaklings.”
“Skimpy bastards”—Potter farmer-johned a booger out his nose into sideways rain—“yeah, no…right. They cleared out last winter. Must have said screw it and left. We claimed Myrtle Beach this spring. We’re the Copperheads!”
The heaviest of the drunk men interjected, “No, we’re the Gator Teeth!”
Hulkman argued, “Didn’t we decide to call ourselves the Badgers?”
“Idiot!” Potter slapped Hulkman’s face. “There’s already a Badger Gang.” He said to the heavier man, “And Gator Teeth sounds gay. Are you gay, Smashman? A flaming ho-mo?”
Sam heard a voice in his thoughts, recognizing Emelia. Her mind entered gently, yet assertively. He swore he could smell lavender when her psyche spoke, I’ve got this. Give me an opening.
“Look,” Sam said, sliding in front of Emelia to hide her preparations, “we came to trade for fuel. However you guys call yourselves, we will make it worth your time. We are all experts in various technologies; we can barter for services if nothing else.”
“We’ve got some guys who would just love your services, slender Sam.” Potter grinned. “They’ll work you all night long.”
Sam heard another voice in his mind. Further, darker.
Not tonight, Potter Fishman, I think that.
Sam darted through the men catching fat Smashman in a headlock. Swiping out his watercannon, he pressed it into tall Hulkman’s ear. Hulkman froze, caught between Sam’s pistol and Shaquan’s diver blade resting on his throat. Two watercannons pulled from Juan’s pack nestled on two chests of Potter’s other partners.
Blocking Emelia’s view had drawn their attention to a focal point. Five drunk men were eager to catch a glimpse of a beautiful woman who looked like Audrey Hepburn, easily distracted.
With four subdued, Emelia sashayed to Potter and wrenched a clump of his hair. Forcefully, she tilted his head back exposing his neck and held Needle, Tom’s favorite knife, on the man’s trachea. “I have a name for your gang, Potter Fishman,” she said. “How about
the Drunks? You are too stupid and pathetic to be anything else. Retarded? Let’s see if you use that insult after I fry your brain. Flaming homo? Maybe I cut your minuscule angler off and call you Patty. Am I speaking your language?”
“Yes…yes, ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am. I apologize for being offensive. Please don’t cut off my pecker!”
“We need fuel,” Emelia said and traced Needle against the cartilage of Potter’s windpipe. “Bring it.”
“Ma’am, you’ll need to talk to the big guy if you want anything,” Potter said, squirming.
“Big guy? You mean Smashman or Hulkman?”
“No ma’am, the big guy. He’s in charge, here. Be back anytime now, he was out on a pleasure cruise.”
She twisted the knife near his neck’s breaking point. “Your life for gasoline. It’s on sale, cheap, and we’re eager buyers.”
“Ok! Hulkman, Smashman, go get two drums.”
Figures evoking Laurel and Hardy jogged off past the shanty anchoring the pier.
Potter tapped Emelia’s shoulder. “You know they’re going to bring back friends, right? The big guy don’t take this sort of thing well.”
“I hope they do,” Emelia said. “How you want to handle this, master hunter?”
Sam had heard the term star-struck, being a movie junkie’s son. Emelia, calling him master hunter, emulated a similar term. Stone-struck, he replied, “Let me talk to the big guy. Keep Potter as a shield, you may need one.”
“Oh, God!” Potter screamed, “Whatever you do, don’t hurt my balls!”
∆ ∆ ∆
Sam and Emelia paced the pier’s end. Midnight had come and gone.
Potter Fishman sat on the pier’s deck with a pungent smell of fish guts pasted to his tattered pants and Juan’s pistol tapping at his head. His back rested against another hostage, while a third Drunk slept snoring off an alcoholic stupor. Shaquan leaned against the pier’s railing, gun pointed at the sleeping hostage. Juan watched crusty dwellings lining old North Myrtle Beach streets for any retaliatory sign of movement.