The Apostates (36 page)

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They all sat in the dingy wardroom. The air was smoky and the mood was grim. They sat around an old, battered, white laminate table with metal supports bolted into the floor. There was Pale-Silence, Hades-Perdition, Gale-Whirlwind, Blaze-Scorch, Angel-Seraphim, as well as several captains of the battleships, like Captain Eldridge of the Iowa, and Captain O’ Leary of the New Jersey. Not present was Ravine-Gulch, who seemed to have no regard for the proceeding. They sat silent for a time with the odd whisper between participants. Finally, the door opened and there stood Ravine-Gulch. He entered nonchalantly.

“Okay, now that we’re all here, we can
start.” Hades proclaimed, glaring at Ravine as he took a seat.

“So, what is this about?” Blaze-Scorch
asked with curiosity.

“We’re here to determine our next move, as a team,” Pale answered back with his usual calm demeanor.

“Okay, that’s easy to answer. We keep
searching for Aqua’s killer until we corner the rat and deal with it,” Blaze
replied, short of temper.

“Unfortunately, a number of the captains
and I feel that the search is putting us behind schedule. We think it is best to
continue on our journey, and just keep vigilant for the culprit,” Pale
explained.

“You’re saying we should just let the
assassin roam free on the ships of the fleet, and allow him to kill us in our
sleep?” Blaze was livid.

“No, we ain’t sayin’ anything of the sort.
We gotta high tail it outta here. There’s big storms comin’ up from the west.
We don’t want to get caught in them, or else we risk ships sinking. We gotta
get through the Panama Strait,” Captain O’Leary stated gruffly. Who could argue
with a sea captain with as much experience as her?

“You all are making a huge mistake, just
letting the assassin go,” Blaze warned.

“Look, I know you feel guilty for the death of Aqua-Deluge. We all feel responsible in some way. I agree with the Pale and Captain O’Leary. We are putting the entire operation in jeopardy. There’s no telling if the assassin is still even with the fleet,” Hades concurred with the prevailing opinion of the group. Ravine-Gulch just sat silently looking down at the table.

“I agree with that course of action,
better than sitting around here for another day,” Gale agreed.

“Si, let us go,” Angel confirmed her
position.

“Marvelous. Then the matter is settled. We shall set sail for the Panama Strait post-haste,” Pale announced. The captain’s all nodded in agreement, a couple shook hands, happy to get underway. They all filed out of the room. The only one left sitting was Blaze-Scorch, who sat in silence.

The ships of the Mothball fleet began to buzz with activity. The roar of engines igniting and pistons firing were heard across the vast expanse of water. Smoke stacks released pillars of black clouds that slowly drifted off to the heavens. Numerous anchors were weighed, and the metal hulks steadily lumbered back to life. White ripples were displaced from the hundred vessels in their wakes. Seabirds of a wide variety followed the fleet from the sky, gliding on lazy winds. The birds waited patiently for the opportunity to snag a morsel dropped onto the weather deck.

As the ships steamed south the epic storm clouds from the west loomed ever closer, threatening to engulf everything in their path. The clouds were dark and towering, flashing with the internal violence of lightning strikes, like an X-ray, revealing the anatomy of the storm. Behind the storm was only the darkness of night that crept along behind the lumbering storm: the harbinger of darkness that would roll over land and sea consuming everything in existence.

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Jacob Greenbaum’s lower back had been aching from digging a section of ditch. When he had started this day, he thought he would count the amount of shovel loads of dirt he moved, but by mid-morning he had lost count. By noon, he had worked up a monstrous hunger, so that when it was time to break for lunch, he made a beeline to the chow wagon. When he saw what was on order he had a panicked morally. It was a large vat of pasta with a cream sauce and what looked to be pork sausage. This dish violated Kashrut dietary law. Jacob was a practicing Jew and took his belief seriously. So he stood silent for a moment, allowing other workers to cut in front of him for food. Everyone else’s spirits rose at the sight of the food; his spirits sunk.

After some deliberation and observing that the vat of pasta was being depleted he made a split-second judgment. He would eat the food, as to not starve. He claimed his spot in line and held out his bowl to receive the sacrilegious concoction. A scoop was slopped into the bowl. He was also given a dented, metal cup of water. Jacob’s hunger got the better of him, so he took a bite and began to chew. As he ate the bowl of pasta he wondered what price he would pay in the afterlife for breaking the Kashrut law. His God, YHWH, would surely make an exception to the law for his survival, and the survival of his family. He scarfed the pasta down quickly and washed the residue away with water. He sat thinking upon his situation. Did short-term sustenance really matter since they would all be dead before long? They were being dragged into the afterlife before their time by gentiles.

Jacob reflected upon the circumstances
that led up to this current plight. The ferry meant to transport the
townspeople of Ukiah across the Great Lake had broken down and a replacement
had not been sent. The townspeople and the L.O.V.E. personnel were forced to
make camp. It had only supposed to have been for a day or two, but now it was
going on a week. The people were getting restless and picking verbal
altercations with the authorities.

The Head Ranger, a man named Rick, had feared a mutiny from the restless people. He had made the decision to create a work program to keep the people occupied as to stave off mutinous plots. Jacob was assigned to ditch digging detail, the goal being to create a security perimeter around the encampment. Not that there was much threat from the outside. Jacob had a suspicion its purpose was to keep people inside. The people assigned to the ditch digging detail were being worked hard for ten hours a day. A few workers had collapsed from heat exhaustion. Many were worried that the ferry would never arrive and they would miss the B.A.G. altogether. Murmurs of rioting and attacking the L.O.V.E. forces had spread through the camp. Jacob was afraid for his family’s safety and that of his neighbors.

Jacob thought that if he just immersed himself in his work that everything would be okay. But, then what? They would all be sacrificed to a Christian God. Maybe the idea of joining one of the plots would gain his family freedom and they would avert the fate ordained for the townspeople?

The end of lunch was called by the foreman. Jacob got up and threw his dirty dish into a bin. He looked around the work site and saw that numerous L.O.V.E. Rangers patrolled the perimeter, carrying their signature automatic, scoped assault rifles. Jacob mulled over the likelihood of unarmed townspeople overcoming Rangers in a pitched battle. The odds did not look good for the townspeople.

Jacob returned to his shovel. They were digging an earthen rampart, and then wooden stakes were being driven into the ground at the top of the rampart, to make palisades. It was beginning to resemble a frontier fort that he had seen in old books during his childhood. It was either a fort or a prison shaping up: he couldn’t decide which. Jacob started back on his section of the ditch, scooping soil up and tossing it onto the embankment. There was something strangely comforting about repetitive, mindless labor. After a while, he had realized that he got lost in the work and had forgotten his troubles, and for a time had stopped fretting about rebellion.

Jacob had heard a loud voice. A workman
was shouting at the top of his lungs. At first he could not make out what he
was yelling about. Jacob thought maybe it was an argument between workers, but
when he turned to check out the commotion he saw that it was between a worker
and a Ranger.

“How dare you work us like dogs and not
even give us decent rations! We’re supposed to be at the B.A.G. being raptured
by the Lord, not being worked to death!” The angry man screamed, he had a
shovel in his hands that he was brandishing threateningly.

“Sir, please calm down. Calm down and get
back to digging.” The Ranger was remarkably restrained considering the
situation, but he kept his rifle at the ready. The racket had attracted other
workers and Rangers alike. The other Rangers were not as restrained as the
first.

“Drop the fucking shovel! Do it now—down
on your knees!” One Ranger shouted, pointing his weapon at the enraged man with
the shovel.

“You assholes need to bring the ferry now! What are we even doing here? I am a fucking lawyer, not some day laborer!” the man shrieked like his pride was wounded.

“Drop the shovel now!” Another Ranger shouted approaching from the side of the man. The man decided that the Ranger had gotten too close for comfort and he swung the shovel. The Ranger skillfully parried the shovel with his rifle and then planted the butt-end of the gun directly into the man’s temple. The man collapsed like a rag doll.

“That’ll teach him to disrespect his fucking
betters,” the Ranger snorted, standing over the stricken man. The man was
bleeding out of the side of his head, and he did not stir, laying on his side
in the ditch.

“What did you do?” the Ranger who had
tried to reason with the man asked, with dread in his voice. He checked the
man’s vital signs. There was no pulse.

“He’s dead,” the concerned Ranger said.

“Serves him right,” the Ranger dismissed
the remark. Just as he spoke a line workers were approaching the scene.
Murmurs sounded through the crowd. The three Rangers at the scene turned to see
the workers surrounding them.

“They killed him!” one man said. “He
didn’t do anything!” another yelled out.

“Stop! All of you get back to work. This
is none of your business!” One Ranger barked. The Rangers all raised their guns toward the crowd
of workers. Jacob held his shovel with two hands and approached the edge of the
crowd that encircled the Rangers. The tension in the air was explosive; one
spark could ignite the powder keg.

“Let’s get them! They can’t do this to
us!” one worker cried out.

“Disperse! Get back to work, the Lord will reward you in the afterlife!” the Ranger, who wanted to avoid bloodshed, yelled to the crowd.

A man stepped too close to the overzealous Ranger. He raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, firing a round into the man’s chest. He fell, lifeless. A shovel crashed down on the back of the overzealous Ranger’s skull. The impact caused the Ranger to fire off several shots involuntarily into the crowd, which struck another worker. The powder keg had blown wide open. Jacob watched as the Ranger was set upon by the crowd: pickax and shovel were brought down upon the Ranger. The other two Rangers began to fire in self-defense, striking several workers. This time, Jacob felt enraged as he watched innocent workers fall to the ground, dead. The Ranger who had appealed for calm was backing away from the crowd. A man charged the Ranger with a raised shovel, and the Ranger fired, dropping the man where he stood. Jacob couldn’t help himself: what seemed to be a reflex action caused him to swing his shovel down on the top of the Ranger’s head. The loud crack was heard amongst the crowd. The Ranger lost consciousness, and soon the workers were cheering their victory against their overseers.

The celebration did not last long: Rangers and soldiers from other sectors of the camp came scrambling with weapons drawn. With tactical precision, they surrounded the ragtag group of workmen and fired their guns in the air. Head Ranger Rick was among them, clad in his blue and white, ballistic officer’s armor. Ranger Rick wore a waxed mustache akin to those in fashion during the middle of the Nineteenth century. He was a god-fearing, cowboy type, who tolerated no disobedience. Disorder was ungodly to him.

“What in the name of the righteous Lord is going on here?” Ranger Rick yelled with a smoke-scarred voice. He was red in the face and paced around the group. Some of the Rangers were pushing workers tighter into a circle; the occasional rifle butt met a backside.

“Sir, we were being treated poorly—not
enough rations and water. One man spoke out about it, they beat him; killed
him,” one older man chimed in, trying to defend the dead man’s legacy. He had
been a respected doctor in Ukiah, so the people listened to what he had to say.
Others confirmed what he said with cheers of approval.

“Alright, Alright! Since three of my Rangers lie here, one dead, two others wounded, means I can’t ask them their side of the story. But this matter ain’t over. I will investigate what happened here. In the meantime, all of you back to work! I will order shot anyone who causes trouble!” Ranger Rick yelled loudly, with veins protruding from his neck. He strode away like he had something urgent pending. The other Rangers snapped to action, ordering the workers back to their stations. They yelled for workers to dig double time. A flurry of activity broke out in the ditch.

Jacob loaded his shovel with dirt. He
wondered if he had killed the Ranger. He looked back over his shoulder and some
medical personnel were tending to the two wounded Rangers, included the one
Jacob had struck over the head with his shovel. It seemed the medics were
putting in quite a bit of effort to stabilize the man, so he assumed that he
was still alive. Jacob said a silent prayer in thanks. He resumed his
meaningless digging.

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Gertrude had been assigned to food preparation duty for the tent city. L.O.V.E. had little concern for gender politics; they assigned people to duties according to an arbitrary call made by the Head Rangers. Gertrude had said that she cooks for her family when asked what she was good at, so the Rangers placed her with a crew that operated the All-terrain Dining Drone. The A.D.D. was equipped with most industrial kitchen equipment needed to feed hordes of people. It was not known for the production of gourmet cuisine, but it kept the masses alive. However, as the saying had gone, the A.D.D. was only as good as its operating crew and head chef. The operating crew worked longer days than any other work detail in the encampment. After all, they were responsible for keeping everyone fed and Rangers provisioned. The A.D.D., when needed, would unfold from a massive cube configuration with smart tires, to a fully-equipped industrial kitchen. The A.D.D. was also pre-war technology so the machinery contained within was rustic and aged. This particular unit was prone to power outages if run for extensive periods of time.

The camp stock of ingredients like spices and condiments was sparse, and many staples were not present, so dishes were often lacking. There were no special considerations for diets and allergies. One would either eat or starve. Tonight’s dinner was being prepared by Gertrude and her coworkers. The dish on order was an Irish-style beef stew, but several key ingredients were not to be had. They were out of spices like thyme and garlic, and the pepper was being rationed strictly. The beef that they had on hand had been frozen for quite some time, having come from a military stock house. The men and women on A.D.D. detail did the best they could with what they had.

Earlier in the day Gertrude had heard the
commotion and gunshots that rang out on the outskirts of the camp. She had been
worried because she knew her son Jacob was on digging detail. There were now
rumors going around the A.D.D. detail workers about what happened. Gertrude had
befriended the middle-aged woman, Vanessa, who had lent her supplies in the
first days of the encampment. They were both worked side-by-side processing
potatoes.

“Gertrude, that ruckus earlier, I meant to
tell you but—” Vanessa paused for a moment.

“Oh, go ahead, you can tell me,” Gertrude
urged her on.

“Well, I was passing by the perimeter of the camp, when I heard raised voices; an argument raging. I went to the see what it was. The diggers were clashing with the Rangers overseeing them. A man was killed by one of the Rangers, and it enraged the crowd. There had been a physical altercation and guns went off. I couldn’t make it all out, but, one thing I did see with great certainty: I saw your son, Jacob, and he took a shovel to the head of a Ranger!” Vanessa said with a concerned voice.

“Are you certain?” Gertrude asked with a
dismayed look on her face.

“Yes, now, believe me, no one thinks the Rangers had it coming more than I do, but they are conducting an investigation. There is talk of execution for the parties involved. I just thought you should be aware of this.” Vanessa laid a hand on Gertrude’s shoulder. She embraced Vanessa.

“Thank you, I will try to get word to Ernest. I have heard the talk of plots brewing all through the camp. People do not think that a ferry is coming. They are beginning to think that we will perish here,” Gertrude informed her.

“Yes, I know. I am part of the plotting. You have to keep this secret. Communicate only through tangible media. Don’t talk about this through the [Virtue-net],” Vanessa instructed her. Gertrude nodded in agreement, and the two went back to peeling potatoes. They placed the potatoes in a containment rack, and with the press of a button a matrix of blades was hydraulically pressed into the potatoes, cutting them into cubes. The cubes were fed by a conveyor into a boiling caldron. The women used a nozzle to spray the rack down and then they were handed boneless cuts of beef from the butcher’s station, which they placed in the rack. The meat was cut in the same manner as the potatoes, then, the cubes of meat were fed into the beef stock inside the caldron. Onions and carrots were chopped at a station on the opposite side of the caldron and were fed in.