Salt (21 page)

Cha
pter 35

In her dream existence, Eva could sense movement and sound, a sudden rushing of activity somewhere beyond, in another world. She was aware her breathing had become difficult, her lungs straining to filter the oxygen from the air.

Limbs like stone, hanging uselessly from her prone body, refused to do as she commanded. Ignored her pleas to gather themselves and lift her off the floor. She felt it was important, but couldn’t quite understand why.

The voices grew louder, urgent; she recognised her name, pictured her parents standing on the porch of their old wooden farmhouse, hands to their foreheads to cut the glare from the setting evening sun, calling her in from the cornfield.

She always pretended not to hear. For a while, anyway, and only to the point when Dad stepped off the porch and hitched up his dungarees. That was the sign she had pushed her luck as far as she could and would have to magically appear out of the cornfield, her dolls in hand, before Dad had to come out to collect her.

She remembered the day she stayed out too long and spent the night nursing a sore backside.

Light came now. Not the flickering light of the flames but a persistent white beam, searching ahead of her, the semi-circular shape dancing about her head, occasionally kissing her skin. Her dream-memory faded. Her mom and dad went into the field, their heads dipping below the tall crop as the sun set below the horizon, bathing the sky in a salmon-pink cast.

They never got those kind of skies any more, just a monochrome vista from a black-and-white photograph. From day to day, very little changed. Like the black smoke within the room, the dark clouds encompassed the air, trapping them against the Orizaba as though they were imprisoned.

“We’ve found them,” a voice called out. Male, familiar…

A shadow stood in front of the white beam, briefly cutting out the light. A hand touched her. With the dream world fading, Eva felt her body and mind return to the waking realm, the land of physicality and burning lungs.

Words wouldn’t come despite her lips moving, shaping to form the words. “I’m here, alive,” she wanted to say, but all that came out was a pitiful dry rasp.

“Don’t try to talk,” the voice said, the owner of which had put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her up off the floor. “We’re getting you out.”

Through squinting eyes she could make out the rough visage of Marcus Graves as he lifted her off the floor and into a fireman’s carry. Ahead of them, beyond the door, more white beams came. The smoke here was different, lighter, pale grey. She heard splashing.

More people passed them as Marcus brought Eva out into the night. She felt the breeze on her face. Her ribs were aching now as she regained full consciousness. Each step Marcus took jarred her wound. It was good, she thought.
At least I’m alive. I can feel it.

Marcus brought her down from his shoulders until she sat on the deck of the ship, her back against one of the radar towers. All around her, the flotilla citizens buzzed like worker bees. They carried buckets and wet blankets, fighting and dousing the fires.

Stanic and Brad carried Duncan out between them. They laid him next to Eva and returned back inside to get the others. Marcus stayed where he was, looking at Eva. “Are you okay, love?” he said, with more sincerity than she’d ever heard from him before. He handed her a cup of water and touched it to her lips.

The cool fresh water stung her chapped lips, but she was grateful for it.

She continued to sip the water, letting each drop slide down her throat, hydrating the parched lands of her body like the welcome rains in the desert, bringing with it life and vitality.

When Eva had drunk half the cup, she took a long, slow lungful of air, exhaling the smoke and particles before coughing up blackened sputum. Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she finished the rest of the water and turned to Duncan’s prone form, resting her hands on his chest. She felt it rise and fall weakly, his breath shallow.

But at least he was still alive.

“Thank you,” Eva eventually said, wincing a little at the soreness of her throat. “We would have died in there.”

Marcus patted her on the shoulder. “Least we could do.”

“Is Duncan going to be okay?”

As if using his name conjured some spirit within, Duncan opened his eyes and coughed. “I’m still breathing,” he said, his voice hoarse with the smoke. He inched himself up on to his elbows and then further up until like Eva he sat with his back against the radar tower. “You?” Duncan said, looking at Graves.

“Not just me. Everyone pitched in.”

“Did everyone else make it out alive?” Eva asked, thinking of Patrice and Stimson and the others. Then she remembered… “Danny? Where’s Danny? And Jim?” The words fell out of her mouth in an untidy tumble.

“My dad,” Duncan added. “Did you find him?”

Marcus turned his head to the bow of the ship. Duncan and Eva followed his gaze. Jim was standing there, watching over and raising his head in greeting. Either side of him, Dietmar and Heinrich stood. Jim’s arms were tied with ropes. Danny was likewise bound by his side.

“Dad?” Duncan said, not understanding what he was seeing.

Eva sat up, tried to get to her feet, but the dizziness made her slip back to her ass. She groaned as she hit the floor, disrupting her ribs.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Eva asked.

“There’s been a bit of trouble while you lot decided to have a bit of a nap,” Marcus said. “Faust’s dead. Her groupies decided to take revenge and”—he looked to Duncan with a brief glance of sympathy—“hold your old man responsible.”

“He didn’t kill anyone,” Duncan said.

A few of the rescuers around him gave him a pitying look.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Eva said. “And why have they got Danny? Is he okay?”

“The kid’s fine. Just a bit scared. I’ll explain everything shortly. It’s not good news.”

“Tell me now,” Duncan said, leaning over, coughing into his hand. “What’s happening?”

Marcus looked Duncan in the eyes. “Your old man admitted it. He’s going to be exiled in the morning, in exchange for the kid. I’m sorry.”

Eva couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but nothing about Marcus’s face told her he was lying. Jim… exiled. A pit of anxiety opened up inside, threatening to swallow her whole. It seemed everything was happening too fast, too chaotic.

“What’s to happen with Faust’s lot?” Eva asked.

“I’ll send every fucking one of them over if I get the chance,” Duncan said, his voice getting louder with every broken word. “They could have killed us all today, and they’re just standing there as if nothing happened. Why is no one doing anything about it?”

The various flotilla citizens shied away from his glare and carried on transferring buckets to various parts of the ship. Patrice and Stimson walked out of the door with the help of some of Stanic’s engineering staff. It surprised Eva that Brad was there after his recent blow-up.

“It’s all settled,” Marcus eventually said. “They’re leaving tomorrow, once your old man has gone. I’m sorry, Duncan.” Marcus stood and headed back towards his family, who had gathered around the door leading into the bridge.

One by one they went inside, and Eva knew something drastic had happened to the flotilla’s society today.

It would never be the same again.

C
hapter 36

Amid the rain and gales, Jim embraced Duncan for the last time. It lashed against them as they stood by the rope ladder, swaying off the port side of the Bravo in the wind. The morning sun had retreated behind thick cloud cover.

Below them, bobbing on the waves, a single rowboat with the most meagre of supplies: barely a few days’ water and food for a few small meals. It wasn’t so much exile as a death sentence.

But then, he deserved it. Even though Susan Faust hadn’t died at his hand, he had wished it, conspired for it to happen, and now it was he who had to pay the price to ensure Danny’s safety. He knew his time would come eventually, everyone’s would here on the flotilla, but knowing it was never adequate preparation. Just yesterday he had prepared for death—at his own hands—and so had come to terms with the situation. At the very least, he had brokered a peaceful situation, and no one else had to die for his mistakes.

Duncan’s strong arms gripped around Jim’s back. “I don’t want you to go,” he said, reminding Jim of when he was a small boy and Jim had to leave for weeks at a time working in the merchant navy. It wasn’t easy then, and it hadn’t changed in the intervening years.

“You’ll be fine,” Jim said. “I brought all this on myself. I have to do this, for all of us.”

“We’ll find another way, Dad, don’t do this.”

“It’s already done. Listen to me, son. I need you to be strong, okay? I need you to keep this place together. God knows Marcus isn’t up to it, and with Faust’s lot leaving, there’s going to be a need for someone to help reorganise. You help these people survive, you hear me?”

Duncan’s arms loosened as Jim stepped back to look at his son. His beard still had smoke stains at the edges, and his eyes were red and sore, but he was still standing, still breathing, and twice the man Jim had ever been.

“You’ll do great,” Jim said, smiling through the tears. “Just lay off the rum… trust me.”

Jim squeezed Duncan’s shoulder and turned, holding back the lump in his throat as he approached the rope ladder. The wind whipped at his waterproof coat, making it flap against his legs and face. Only a few citizens had gathered on the deck to see him off, a diminished repeat of the usual send-off ritual.

Irony, Jim thought, was a bitter pill to take. Over a dozen times, he had been there with the others, on the deck, as they waved away the volunteers, all the while knowing they were never supposed to come back. Only this time, Jim knew he wouldn’t be coming back. Couldn’t come back, even if he wanted to.

Eva stood behind Duncan, her hand now on his shoulder. Graves’ lot were stood outside the bridge door, having spent the night clearing out the damage, making themselves a new base of operations. Marcus wouldn’t make eye contact. Probably scared people would realise that it was, in fact, he who had killed Susan Faust. How long would he be able to feather his nest before the truth came out, Jim wondered.

With Eva on the flotilla, he doubted it’d take long. She was a canny one and would soon see through the lies. Earlier, Jim had told her and Duncan what he found on the sub, that the core appeared intact, and that the radiation monitor had been tampered with.

He didn’t doubt Eva’s sharp mind would figure out the truth, and with Stanic’s help, he hoped they’d be able to use the sub’s core to power the flotilla.

It would make life generally a lot easier for everyone.

They would soon forget him and what he had done.

“Are you sure you have to do this?” Duncan pleaded as Jim turned his back to the horizon, gripped the rope ladder and placed his feet on the first rung.

“I’m sure. One day you’ll understand… I hope. And forgive me for everything I’ve done. Just know that everything I did came from a place of wanting to help us all. Look after Danny and Eva, won’t you, son? They’ll need someone on their side.”

Like old-fashioned Brits with a stiff-upper lip and all that nonsense, they shook hands, gripping each other firmly. Jim nodded once and added, “I love you, son.” With that, he released Duncan’s hand and descended down the side until he located the small rowboat tethered to the line of fishing vessels.

Once inside, he picked up the oars and set off, not wanting to delay any further.

These people had a new life ahead of them, and he wanted to make sure they could do that with as little fuss as possible.

The tide took him out without needing the effort of rowing.

He watched as Dietmar and Monika brought Danny up to the deck. Heinrich stood at the head of the twenty-strong group. He held the pistol in hand, presumably to ensure their safety.

“Let the boy go,” Jim yelled while he could still be heard.

Heinrich looked at Jim and sneered. But they were true to their word, and they let Danny go. The boy ran across the deck into Eva’s arms. She’d barely said a word all morning.

Jim didn’t blame her. It was a lot to deal with, a lot to take in.

And she had her own problems with the killer still on the loose, although it wasn’t lost on her that Heinrich had a pistol. Though he could hardly be mistaken for someone with an American accent. Which meant either Frank was lying, purposely diverting the investigation and was in on it with Faust all along, or Heinrich was indeed innocent of the murders and his having a pistol was just a coincidence.

It was that moment that it truly hit him.

None of it mattered any more. It wasn’t his problem to worry about any longer.

He raised his hand to wave goodbye for the last time. The oar slipped through the broken oarlock, sending it floating away. Only Eva and Duncan returned the gesture. He slumped on the wooden bench, clutching the remaining oar as rain lashed against his face. He pulled his hood up to keep dry, not wanting to be too exposed to any potential bacteria, though, he thought, that was a case of locking the stable door after the horse had bolted. He had no real supplies and nowhere to go.

Bacterial infection or not, his time was now out of his hands and in the lap of whatever truly ruled the world.

Despite the waves, the tide was receding and dragging him away from the flotilla. A fleet of garbage that had washed in overnight followed him. Plastic, old pieces of wreckage, and thick lumps of seaweed.

It took an hour. The Bravo slipped beneath the horizon. He could just make out a few of the masts, but within minutes the Pico De Orizaba obscured them. Duncan stood on the rail until the very last, like a queen’s guard doing his duty.

Jim was confident he had left behind a better man. Duncan would be good for the flotilla’s future.

While Jim floated away on the tide, he took out the picture he had torn up. He had pieced it back together with sticky tape. Only the thought of seeing Morag again in whatever afterlife awaited him gave him any comfort. He wasn’t scared of dying, having desired it just a day before; he was afraid of what he might find on the other side. He knew he hadn’t been a good man and knew also how he would be judged if such a system existed.

With the rain and wind refusing to let up, Jim hunkered down in the exposed boat, crossing his arms and tucking his chin into his chest, letting his hood hang down, providing some protection from the elements. He continued to clutch the picture in his fist, waiting… for whatever might come.

***

Jim guessed he must have sat there, in a huddle, for at least a few hours. At one point he dozed off, passing in and out of a light, fractured sleep.

The sun had found a gap between the clouds, warming his back now that the rain had stopped. He turned to appreciate the rare glimpse of golden light, noting it was coming to early evening, probably around five or six. It would be a further few hours to sundown yet.

In the distance, forty degrees to his left, on the horizon, he saw the glint of something made from glass or metal. Shading his eyes with his hand and squinting, he could make out the upright sections of a number of masts. Other ships…

The science flotilla, he thought. It must be them! Without a chart to check, he decided to head that way, knowing that if these were his last days, he might as well find out what had happened and perhaps… find Angelina. Despite all their secret correspondence, he’d never met her, didn’t know what she looked like, or how she sounded.

There was something in the communications that he read as affection. It seemed crazy considering how short the messages were, but then he’d known people to have relationships over Twitter. Word count didn’t seem a prerequisite to developing feelings for someone, though he thought that could well be wishful thinking on his part. Either way, he used his single oar to propel himself towards the ships, his curiosity urging him on, giving him a new lease on life, or at least a short extension. Considering how Mike had returned, he might not want to find out what happened.

Whatever was there, he had to see, at least once. He rowed harder, feeling his muscles protest. It wasn’t like there was anywhere else to go, he thought; just keep rowing… the truth is not far away.