Humanaty's Blight

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When we reached the little sheltered jut of land, I went forward and set the anchor while Steve slipped over the side. I had my lifejacket on and ran back to follow him into the water. Sue was wearing one too, although we were only a few hundred feet from shore, and she was not going in with us to make repairs.

The water was cold. So cold my fingers refused to bend, and my legs had difficulty kicking. I held the packets of repair patches while Steve squeezed the material inside the tubes back and forth to mix them. This time, he wore rubber gloves and poured the thick, yellow concoction into his palm and his hand went underwater, where his other hand had located a bullet hole.

We moved forward a foot, and his probing hand found another. We repeated the procedure six times. Then, we both inspected the waterline and below, feeling the smooth hull while trying to find another hole. The accumulated growth on the hull was limited due to the reddish paint, Steve explained. In checking a second time, he was not satisfied with one patch we’d made and placed another over the top of it.

The cold water had numbed us. I shivered, and my fingers refused to grip the ladder built into the rear of the boat. Steve pushed my butt upward while Sue pulled me up. Then we both pulled Steve out of the water and into the cockpit., where we both lay like beached fish panting for breath.

Sue placed blankets over each of us, and we remained there in the late afternoon sun, trying to warm ourselves and take normal breaths.

Steve sat up slightly and tilted his head. “Hear that?”

“What?” I asked, listening carefully.

“Nothing.” He smiled. “No more water pumps.”

I looked over the side and he was right. The water that had been squirting out of each side of the boat was missing. The patches had worked, and the pumps had emptied the hull of water. He said, “It would be nice to take a nap here in the sun, but we haven’t got time.”

“What now?” I asked, feeling that if it had to do with entering the water again, I’d just shoot myself and get it over with.

He said, “We still have enough daylight to reach those houses I told you about. If we’re going to reach Deception Pass in two days, we better get on it, Cap.”

“How far to the houses?” Sue asked.

“I want to get there well before dark. I don’t think I can find them after dark,” Steve said. He ordered me to pull up the anchor while he started the engine and backed us out into deeper water before unfurling the jib. “An hour, maybe two.”

We’d have to talk about him calling me “Cap” and then ordering me around. That was backward. If I was the captain, I should have a say in things. I thought those thoughts while bringing the anchor on board as he told me to do.

Sue brought cups of hot coffee and we each took turns changing into dry clothing. Both he and I were tall, and the previous owner wasn’t. However, our waists were about the same, so we wore jeans that only reached down to our ankles, and warm jackets to hold off the misty rain that had started falling.

Steve looked silly. In contrast, I thought I might set a new fashion trend with my exposed ankles and part of my calves bare. I was at the helm and Sue was on the radio again, warning anybody that would listen to her about the blockade. She’d already managed to reach three other boats.

We didn’t know what plans the other boats were going to make, but we were going to sail the long way around Whidbey Island, through Deception Pass, out into the Salish Sea and then on to the San Juans where we would wait out all the bad that was coming to our people. The other boats Sue warned might band together and sail north as a fleet, fighting and sinking the blockade, at least that was my hope. If they did, the pirates up there would probably just hide and let them go on by, then sit in wait for the next boat sailing by itself.

By nature, pirates were opportunists, but nobody said they were stupid. Violent, yes. My feelings were that in one way or another, the blockade would end quickly. Word would spread.

In my mind, I pictured a hundred boats of all sorts sailing up there at once, everyone with a sidearm and anger in their eyes. It might even happen because of Sue. She returned to the radio time and again, often shouting and screaming exchanges with those at the barricade, laughing at their threats, and taunting them that the boats going north were going to set fire to every boat in the blockade, and I couldn’t help but think that with her urging, it might happen.

At first, that worried me. Her talking to the pirates, I mean. We didn’t need them sending more boats to attack us. Then I heard her tell them she was in a two-toned blue cabin-cruiser in Port Townsend Bay and that she had ten soldiers with her, and they were spoiling for a fight. She told them to come get her. Of course, we were in a sailboat and nowhere near Port Townsend Bay.

I hoped there were no blue cabin-cruisers in that bay. I laughed to myself and laced a pair of tennis shoes that were too small. I cut holes for my big toes. Sue switched on the marine radio, which I’m sure the pirates also listened to. This time, she called in an airstrike by navy jets from the nearby naval air station. She gave them the location of the blockade and directed them to approach from the south and sink anything floating. She acted as if she was talking to an admiral.

It didn’t fool me, but it may have made a few people wary and I hoped a jet flew by them just to make them sweat. That idea jarred me back to reality. I hadn’t seen an airplane in two weeks. No civilian or military. Not one plane, contrail, or helicopter.

Steve called down to me, “Get ready with that anchor, Cap.”

I went to the bow, to my usual station at the anchor, and determined again to tell him I was the captain and I should be telling him to take the helm while I set the anchor. The difference seemed vast.

The Truant was closer to shore than I would have liked, only a few hundred feet away. A small dirt bank rose to where five darkened blobs waited in the twilight, which were houses situated on a small, rocky shoreline. We’d arrived later than we wished but that couldn’t be helped.

Steve had reloaded his empty magazine with shells. I wore my holster, and Sue had her shotgun and her nine-millimeter in the cockpit where she would stay aboard and guard it. We were out of rifle shells.

We lowered the kayaks and paddled ashore in the last rays of sunlight. After we pulled the kayaks onto the rocky beach, Steve handed me a flashlight, one of those little LED ones that he had modified by putting black electrical tape over the lens. Only a sliver of a slit allowed light to spread out in front of us. Unless we pointed the flashlights directly at someone, I doubted if they could see the dim light the lens produced.

However, we’d need those slivers of light when we entered an unnaturally dark house. Wooden stairs that sagged under our weight carried us up to the first house. We tried the windows as we worked our way around to the side door. There, a glass panel occupied the top half of the door. Without hesitation, Steve scooped a brick from the walkway and used it to break the glass. He took the time to clear most of it away by running the brick along the inside edges before reaching inside and unlocking the door.

Then, by unspoken agreement, we turned away and melted into the shrubbery, weapons pulled, waiting for any response to the noise from inside or out. When none came, we entered the house. I cautiously sniffed and was relieved to smell nothing of the residents who had lived there.

Steve said, “You take the kitchen and I’ll check the rest of the house and bring you a pillowcase from a bedroom.” Obviously, this was not Steve’s first rodeo. It seemed I was not the only one to use pillowcases to carry things.

We’d already discussed our wants and needs. Canned food was way down on the list because of bulk and weight. Dried, powdered, and dehydrated food came first because it was lighter to carry so more could be taken with each trip. We didn’t care what it was, we’d learn to like it.

Ammunition and weapons were right up there near the top of our list. If we used the kayaks, there wouldn’t be much room to carry supplies on each trip, so we had to take what items would do us the most immediate good. This was intended to be a snatch and grab mission.

The kitchen held little. I grabbed a few cans of fruit on impulse. For some reason, I was craving it. There was also a butcher block with several knives. Sue had struggled with cleaning the salmon. So, I took three but cautioned myself not to present them as some sort of gift. She would resent that.

While I searched the rest of the kitchen and even part of the dining room while waiting for Steve, my mind was not on it. It was on Sue. Not that I should miss her already, but I did.

My larger concern was one I didn’t want to admit. It was Steve.

It was not that I didn’t like him or that I distrusted him. No, it was that he was too easy to talk to, treated us well, and he knew things. Not only sailing, boats, but other things. And that he was reluctant to kill. The man who had come aboard with him had been Steve’s first kill.

The problem of Sue that was eating at me was more basic. Steve did so many things I struggled with. He did them all better, and he did them in a friendly manner any woman like Sue would appreciate. He treated her as well as he did me. I resented him because he treated us well. That thought also concerned me. Had my perception of reality become so twisted?

Those thoughts came to me while standing alone in the dark. However, they took me to the heart of my problem. It was my problem. Not Steve’s or Sue’s. My lack of social skills coupled with being uncomfortable in groups meant I’d had few friends in my life. None of them had been close, not even in grade school and certainly not in high school where everyone was self-centered and ready to gang up on anyone who was the slightest bit different.

What if Sue started liking Steve more than me? Could I send him off my boat? Would I? And even if I did, would Sue remain with me or go with him?

Steve returned with a pitifully small amount in his pillowcase.

The tiny beam of light from his flashlight revealed his feet and the floor directly in front of him as he moved. I believed as long as the light was directed downward, with his modifications to the lens, anyone else would have trouble seeing us from a hundred feet away.

“Not much?” I asked.

“No. We’ll leave what we have outside and gather it on the way back. But I did find some small cans of spray paint.”

That confused me but I didn’t question it.

He seemed to realize my problem and said, “We’ll use it to paint over the lights on the electronics, then use a pin to scratch a little hole in the polish that we can see but won’t be seen from a distance.”

I’d had a similar idea but didn’t express it. That would make me feel competitive and small. The next house we approached looked like it was made of logs. It turned out to be a kind of siding made from the outer quarters of logs stained a rich brown. It provided a very nice look, and in the daylight, it must have been impressive on a small house that otherwise was plain.

There were French doors leading out to a wide veranda with a railing around it. Plastic plants and flowers overflowed hanging baskets and our feet thumped across the soggy wooden deck. At the double doors, we paused. Steve leaned back, raised his booted foot, and kicked where the two doors came together. Both flew open with a crash.

Our pistols were in our hands as we stepped either side of the open doors, then the smell hit us. Dead people. Rotted flesh. The buzz of a thousand flies sounded as we disturbed their feasting or whatever they were doing. Not one or two bodies, but many. I retched first, but Steve duplicated my reaction as both of us backed from the porch and stumbled onto the lawn to escape the smell.

Finally, Steve said, “There’s nothing in there that would make me go back inside.”

“Agreed,” I muttered as I wiped my mouth with the back of my arm.

At the third house, we gathered more canned goods, a well-equipped toolbox, and Steve selected a variety of fishing gear, stuffing it into another pillowcase. I told him Sue had four poles and a tackle box.

He continued gathering what he wanted, even adding more fishing equipment. “Listen,” he said, “Supplying food for ourselves may become the hardest thing to do. We’re going to lose lures and hooks from broken lines or catching them on the bottom. In a few months, the fishing gear may be the most valuable thing we can own… or trade.”

It made sense. I took the time to survey the living room hoping to add to the things we wanted but found little. The house seemed to be a vacation home, like the first. There was little stocked there. However, in a hall closet, I found a small stack of folded, unused, rain gear, waterproof bib-pants and jackets with hoods. I sorted through and selected three sets that would fit us, then carefully placed the others behind the sofa in case we needed more. We’d know where to come.

Steve was ready to leave. We went to the front and there was enough light to see the Truant, like a silhouette on a gray ocean. There was not a light to be seen aboard. Despite that, Steve’s idea with the paint was a good one. From another angle, there might be lights on radios or GPS equipment that could be seen like beacons on rocks.

The next house was smaller, covered in weathered shingles and half the size of the others. The two after that were a quarter mile down the road. The doors on the nearer house were sturdy, solid wood from the look and feel, so we went to a window on the side. The bottom was knee-high, and construction looked old.

I feared the noise the window was going to make. Instead of one solid sheet of glass, it was several small panes connected with little white strips of wood. All that crashing to the ground would bring anyone nearby. Steve went to it first.

He gently used the butt of his pistol to almost soundlessly break one pane of glass near the middle. He reached inside and felt around, then smiled at me as he found the lock and turned it. His arm back outside, he lifted the sash—and even better, there was no offending smell. Not at first.

I stepped inside and found the room filled with the odor of years of stale tobacco smoke. My tiny beam of light fell on overflowing ashtrays, two of them, each six inches across sitting on a small table. While not the same stench as the house occupied by the dead, it reeked all the same.

Steve came in after and said, “This may be good.”

“Good?”

“This isn’t a vacation house.” He moved ahead as he said, “People lived here full time. Take the kitchen again, Cap?”

“Why do you call me Cap when giving me orders?” I knew it was not the time or place but needed to say something.

“Respect,” he promptly said. “Giving you the option to override what I suggest.”

Without another word, I went to the kitchen and found cupboards full of food. Past experience had taught me not to open the freezer or fridge because of rotting food since the power had gone out. I gathered items, including two can openers, the kind you twist a little handle to work, a wonderful find. No more stabbing cans with our knives.

A muffled cry of delight came from the bedroom. I ran down there and found a first aid kit on the bed, along with piles of aspirin, antiseptic, pain relievers, and dozens of other bottles and tubes. However, that was not what he was excited about.

Steve held a double-barreled shotgun.

The pump shotgun Sue had was better than the side-by-side one in his hand. His excitement didn’t transfer to me, until he pointed at four boxes of shotgun shells, and held up another. “Slugs.”

He’d found plenty of ammo, and while having a box of slugs instead of shot for Sue’s gun was nice, it didn’t account for his level of excitement. Then, I remembered his shooting at the hull of the cabin cruiser that had come after us and all the bullets he’d put into it. I also thought of the bullet holes in our hull. Considering what a slug the size of my thumb would do in contrast to an enemy boat, he had reason to be excited.

Steve put the shotgun aside and pulled a rifle out of the closet, then another. Both were large, deer rifles, probably. They had black plastic stocks, and after setting them on the bed, he reached up to a shelf and pulled down more boxes of shells. And more shells.

One thing about ammunition is that in any quantity; it’s heavy. We had pounds and pounds of it. Steve starting sorting through the various calibers, finding some that either it didn’t fit our weapons, or they were for the weapons in the house that we didn’t want to take with us. It was better to have plenty of nine-millimeter bullets, rifle shells, and those for the shotgun. We wouldn’t take any other weapons with us. He also must have realized the weight and the number of things we had already gathered. Using the kayaks would take many trips. He said, “There’s a shed behind the house. Go see if you can find a boat behind any of the houses.”

“Boat?”

“Like a rowboat. I thought I saw one back there when we sailed past here earlier. We can carry all this in one trip if you can find one.”

My feet took off. Before searching the shed, I found it, an aluminum boat about ten feet long with tall sides. No motor on it. The shed held the motor on a stand, but we didn’t need it. There were oars, lengths of rope, and tools. I also grabbed a sledgehammer, shovel, and ax. There were coils of rope and even two crab pots. I loaded it all inside the boat, then drug it down the bank to the edge of the water before loading it with the rest of our booty.

Dragging the aluminum boat sounded like dragging large tin cans across rocks, which was a fair description. I settled the boat with the stern in the water, checked to make sure the plug was in the bottom and tied the rope to a ring in the bow so we could tow the kayaks when we retrieved them. The other end went around a log twenty feet long that had washed up on the beach. I’d been silently readying the boat for a while, trying to tie a knot that wouldn’t come undone when we tugged on it. Each attempt required another until I made a series of overhand knots and called them good. The sound of a snapping branch and the huff of someone breathing hard stilled me. It was close.

“Where are they?” The hoarse whisper came from the trees not twenty feet in front of me.

I didn’t duck or stoop. Material brushing against material or a knee joint popping would alert them. Movement of any kind might reveal me. I eased my hand to my holster—and paused. The flap was held down with Velcro. The sound of it ripping open would have them looking this way.

Against the night sky, I saw their backs as they spread out and moved up the hill in the direction of the house, and an unaware Steve. If he came outside, they had him cold. If they went inside, the same. From their hunched postures, they were sneaking up on the house, their shoulders slumped forward, and although I couldn’t tell for sure, their postures suggested they were carrying guns.

I carefully opened the flap of my holster and hoped the sounds of the small waves covered the noise of the Velcro. Then I paused, pistol pointed in the air to fire a warning shot. Too many people would hear it.

They were close to the house and might discover Steve at any moment, or he might blunder into them. I had to warn him. Their backs were to me.

I peeled the tape off the end of the LED flashlight and pointed it at the house. From that distance, it didn’t illuminate anything more than five feet in front of me, but straight on, the light was intense. I waved it in my left hand at the house, ready to fire my nine-millimeter with my right.

Steve would be wondering where I was, and it would be natural for him to glance down at the beach. I waved it in wider arcs, and up and down. My mind raced. What else could I do?

I was about to charge up the hillside firing when a tiny spot of light flashed in a window, so quick and small, I briefly wondered if it was a reflection. But no, it was the pinhole light of the LED similar to mine. Steve had seen me.

I shut my light off and crept up behind them. They were concentrating on what lay ahead and none turned to look behind. It always struck me as odd that people sneaking up on others seldom look behind to see if anybody is sneaking up on them. I moved from the cover of one tree trunk to another as silent as the shadows I flitted between.

“I don’t see or hear anything,” a nasal voice complained.

“Three, maybe four of them in there,” another corrected, misjudging the number, but speaking as if he knew things the others didn’t.

“I don’t give a damn if it’s ten of them,” a third person said in an authoritative tone. “Billy Ray said to kill anybody, so we don’t get sick from them. He said, no excuses, and don’t get close enough to catch it. Too many friends already died.”

They were going to shoot on sight. It grew very quiet as if the night creatures knew more than me of what was to come. Maybe they all fled when they heard what was to happen. I moved to the shelter of a larger tree, a towering evergreen with a trunk so large I couldn’t wrap my arms around. The men were only fifty feet in front of me, crouched at the edge of the shed where I’d gotten the oars and rope.

Three of them. In the starlight, their silhouettes were clear. I controlled my breathing, so they didn’t hear me. It was hard not to pant with fear filling me, and I waited. It was not in me to fire first.

A wooden dining-room chair smashed through a window facing them, clattered across the wooden deck, and struck the railing with a bang. The sound shattered not only the window but the calm night.

All three fired at the same time. They raked the dining room with bullets, each of them firing ten or more times in a few seconds. Steve didn’t return fire.

The fastest of them inserted a new magazine and fired three more shots, trying to draw fire from anyone still alive in the house. Steve didn’t react or take the bait. He might be dead. Or wounded. My anger took control. They had given him no warning. They were there to kill us.

I centered my sights on the one to my left, since he was closest. I took one shot aimed at his chest. Before the bullet struck, my sights moved to the right a fraction of an inch to center on the next one and two more pulls of my finger happened before he could turn to face me. His arms were thrown wide upon impact, which assured me both bullets had struck him. I shifted my aim to the last man as he spun, his handgun already moving in my direction and I was exposed.

Before I could duck behind the tree trunk, a single shot rang out, but there was no flash from his gun. Instead, he fell as if struck by a hammer from behind.

Steve called softly, “Don’t shoot me.”

“I think there were only three,” I called back but didn’t move. Steve must have thrown the chair and scrambled out a side door to arrive in time for that last shot.

He moved into view. “Stay here. I’ll toss everything over the deck. Did you get a rowboat?”

“Waiting at the edge of the water.”

“Great. Get everything down there and get in the boat. Two trips to get it all there, at least. I’ll cover our backs.”

It took me three trips to carry it all to the boat, and he assisted on the last. The sacks were heavy. I tossed them into the bottom of the boat. My fingers fumbled to untie the knots that held the rope to the log while Steve stood with his back to me and watched for others. None came.

He climbed in, took the oars from me, and rowed us out into the water. We went beyond where a shot from a pistol was likely to hit us. He rowed directly for the Truant. I sat in the front of the boat, watching behind us, my gun in my hand. I briefly thought of the abandoned stuff waiting for us at the first house. We didn’t need it enough to go back.

We reached the boat to find Sue waiting, willingly taking the rope tied to the front of our rowboat and securing it as we climbed aboard. Steve took a few seconds to untie it, feed out more line, and tie it again as he said, “The rowboat will need room to move around.”

Sue looked at me and shrugged in wordless confusion at the nautical concept. I returned it. We had no idea what he was talking about. It had become a game with us. Steve ordered me to pull in the anchor while he hit the button to unfurl the jib. There was a brisk breeze. The sail filled instantly. He tightened the line to the corner of the jib and turned the wheel to take advantage of the wind. We were moving before the anchor was aboard.

Nobody talked. The Truant moved almost silently away from shore. Behind, we left a small wake and were picking up speed. Only a few minutes later, the first flashlights and lanterns appeared on the shore. It was either the friends of those we’d killed, or others drawn by the shooting. I held my fire.

I couldn’t hit them with a shot from a boat that bounced, swayed, and rolled. I’d have to learn to talk like a sailor, meaning to learn the terms, not using a minimum of two swearwords in every sentence. The point is, the deck of the boat was in constant movement. Even if it had been steady, the distance was too great for me to hit a target with a handgun. And the distance was increasing quickly as the Truant picked up speed.

Flashlights swung from side to side, searching the water for us. They found the kayaks and sank them with a few shots. Then they started a search of the area, certain we were stranded because of the kayaks.

Steve didn’t start the motor or raise the mail sail. We moved away like a whisper upon the sea.

Later, we sailed south, keeping to the center of the channel, without lights.

Sue asked, “Other than starting a small war, how did it go?”

Steve glanced at me and when I didn’t answer, he said, “Better in some ways than we expected. Not as good in others.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Listen, I’m worried they might chase after us in a motorboat. Can you bring me a couple of blankets and a coat? It feels like rain coming, and I’ll stay out here tonight, just in case.”

“I’ll stay with you,” I offered, thinking of the raingear in the rowboat with the other supplies.

“No. Stay dressed and warm. Be ready but get some sleep. You’ll be at the helm tomorrow while I sleep. That goes for both of you.”

He had a way of giving orders while not antagonizing. We went inside. Sue had patched the window I’d broken so well no draft entered. The cabin was warm, and that reminded me that we needed propane. She went to the sink and filled a glass with water, then pointed to the U-shaped bench around the small table. She sat across from me.

“What happened back there?”

I relayed the first three houses and the little we’d set aside to bring back from them and had abandoned. Then came the story of the last house. I didn’t try to hide facts or shade what we’d done, but when they had opened fire at Steve, I had not felt any reluctance in shooting them in the back. Even as the story spilled from me, there was far too little emotion and regret. I was becoming emotionless, a killer without regrets or feelings. Serial killers had done less damage in their careers than me in the last four days. So much had happened. And was still happening.

That reminded me of my first rule that Sue and I had discussed so long ago—probably only three or four days ago when I considered it. Not really so long ago but it seemed like it. In the old days, a few weeks ago, four days was nothing.

In the woods outside the first cabin we’d raided, I had told her I wouldn’t kill anyone who was not trying to kill me. Or that I believe was about to harm me. That was the new rule of survival, I’d said. It hadn’t changed. I felt regret but little guilt about shooting those two an hour ago. Overall, I felt dead inside.

She watched me, what she could see of me in the dark. I didn’t sob or whimper. She shouldn’t have been able to tell I was crying. I suspected she knew.

I placed my forehead on my arm, like a child in grade school taking a quick nap on his desktop. I woke sitting up, a blanket tossed over my shoulders, the morning light gray from the heavy clouds that hung low. A light drizzle fell and made seeing through the windows fuzzy and indistinct.

Sue was curled up and asleep in the cushions across from me. Neither of us had spent a night in the bed at the bow. I slid out of the bench seat and went quietly to the hatch, or door, or whatever naval name the exit to the rear of the sailboat was called. Steve sat at the stern, the blankets around his shoulders and over his head like a hood. His eyes were red, his face pasty, and he’d been up twenty-four hours or more. At that time, he’d killed two men, his first and second.

I said gently, “Go get some sleep. Anything I need to know?”

He pointed to the GPS. “Try to stay on that route. If any vessel, I mean from a rowboat to a ship, comes on an intercept course with us, wake me.”

“I will.” There seemed to be no more to say.

“Thanks, Cap,” he muttered as he went below.