LeRoy Clary - Humanaty's Blight

“Yes,” I called back. To Sue, I whispered, “Sneak into the bow cabin. Put your pistol between the seat cushions and make sure you sit there next to it. Wait inside, with your shotgun pointed out here and don’t be scared to use it. I will always stand to one side, so you won’t hit me.”

The man said, “We think we are immune to the plague. Are you sure about yourselves?”

That was a considerate statement and question for him to ask. The speed the flu had spread was incredible. One day it struck, and three days later nearly half the people in Arlington had been dead. After that… I reviewed what little I knew. It seemed that there hadn’t been any new people struck down after that first week.

By then, I’d been in my mine tunnel, so things became confused since I hadn’t seen any more get sick. The bodies I’d seen had all died at about the same time. There were no fresh ones unless they’d been shot. I called back, “People got sick and died for about a week, then no more new cases of the flu that I know of. Am I right?”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “No new cases after that for me either. I hadn’t thought of it until you mentioned it, but you’re right.”

I motioned for him to come over while calling, “Come aboard.”

On the other boat, he started to untie an inflatable. A small man joined him—the unseen partner from inside the cabin. While the tall man I’d spoken to seemed to be nautical in his movements, the shorter, wider man was giving the orders.

They let the rubber boat slide off the top of their cabin roof, telling me they didn’t have the solar panels we did, or the boat would have blocked the sunlight. It splashed, and the man that had done the talking got nimbly in first. He wore a gun at his hip.

The other man, the smaller of the two, wore a light jacket. When he tentatively attempted to step off the deck of the sailboat, the wind bloused out his jacket and revealed a shoulder holster. He awkwardly climbed into the inflatable and more fell than sat in his hurry to get in. The other took the oars and rowed.

One sailor. One landlubber like me. They pulled up to our stern and I tied the little rope off and received an odd look from the taller of the two, the sailor I’d talked with. A squint of his eyes and a furrow of his brow that quickly disappeared. I assumed I’d either not used an approved sailor-knot or had tied it to the wrong thing and he disapproved.

They came aboard, the taller man moving like a cat, the other almost falling into the saltwater with his awkwardness. Neither made a move to the cabin where Sue was hopefully in the bow sitting on the Vee-berth, the shotgun on her knees. I gestured at the seat across from me.

The seating was in a U shape, the stainless-steel helm in the center. I sat to one side to give Sue her line of fire and told them my name. They sat in the rear, together. The taller of the two pulled a semi-automatic from his waistband, using only his thumb and index finger. He held it out to me. I took it and placed it on the seat beside me. It was a gesture of sincerity and I appreciated it.

The sailor said as he jammed a thumb at his chest and then to the other, “Steve. That is Micky.”

“Friends before the flu?” I asked, puzzled because they didn’t seem to fit together at all. Steve was over six feet, mid-thirties, slender, and comfortable in boats. Micky was five inches shorter, heavy, and older. Maybe nearer fifty. Micky didn’t talk much, and his attitude was sullen.

And he had a hidden gun in a shoulder holster I’d seen under his windbreaker. One he hadn’t offered to me. For that, I distrusted him. And Steve hadn’t said anything about it, so again I wondered.

Steve said, “No. I found him two days ago floating out in the bay in an aluminum boat with a small outboard, out of gas, no oars. He had the right idea about getting away from others on land, just didn’t know how.”

The story made me think more of Steve, and less of Micky, who didn’t seem inclined to talk. Since Steve had surrendered his gun as a show of trust and was probably aware of Sue’s presence, I still waited for the other to offer the same, in which case I decided to refuse it and hand the other back to Steve. Trust must work both ways.

It didn’t happen. Micky glowered and peered inside the cabin a few times. Sue was in his line of sight but in the dim interior, he couldn’t see her. She had probably partially closed the door to the bow-berth, leaving only enough for the shotgun to poke out. I decided that small talk was not my thing. Never had been. I wasn’t feeling like it now. “What can I do for you?”

Steve said, “Maybe we can work together. There’s safety in numbers, and you may know things I don’t and the opposite.”

The offer made sense, if true. However, a few things bothered me. “What can you help us with?”

“May I be blunt?” Steve asked as Micky leaned back as if stretching, his eyes thoroughly searching the cabin without really trying to conceal his intent. It was insulting.

“Please, do,” I said, shifting my position slightly so I could reach my holstered gun easier and faster, and the movement put me more out of the line of fire from Sue.

“My boat is small and poorly provisioned. It was built for afternoon sails for my wife and me.” His voice choked when he mentioned his wife and his eyes watered. He went on, “I know how to sail. You don’t. I could teach you and you could share your boat and supplies with us. We’re out of water, food, and almost out of fuel.”

I didn’t like the idea of two strange men moving aboard the Truant . I was jealous that Steve knew how to sail, and I didn’t trust the other who was still more interested in finding out of there were others aboard than joining in the conversation. I looked at Mikey and said, “What do you bring to the party?”

“What?”

“Steve knows how to sail. I have a boat. You have offered nothing, and you seem distracted and unfriendly.”

“Who’s here with you? I saw you talking to someone,” he demanded. “A woman holding a rifle, right?”

My hand eased closer to my holster as I turned to better face him. “Listen, this is my boat. What right do you have coming here and talking to me like that?”

Before I could react, he reached under his jacket and pulled his gun free. He swung it to point at me as I fumbled for mine. A shot rang out, a sharp crack right next to me. Neither Sue nor I fired it.

Steve held a small gun dwarfed in his hand. A compact twenty-two or similar. He let it fall to the floor as he turned and barfed over the side. He was on his knees, his head puking into the water, his exposed back to me. My gun was in my hand.

I looked to Micky, who was now slumped on the seat, arms held at odd angles, eyes wide open and lifeless. A tiny red hole just above his ear. Sue crept outside; the shotgun ready to defend me. She silently took in the scene and waited, the barrel on Steve.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his bare arm and turned, not surprised to find Sue there. His complexion had faded under his tan.

I glanced meaningfully at the gun he’d surrendered to me when coming aboard, and then at the one he’d shot Micky with.

“About that. I didn’t trust him. I kept a second gun in an ankle holster and palmed it when we came aboard. I had a feeling.” He kicked it across the floor in Sue’s direction.

She remained stoic, her shotgun centered on his chest.

“He would have killed me?” I said to Steve.

Steve sighed. “Probably would have killed all three of us and lived aboard your boat right here until things quiet down. Plenty of supplies for one. As soon as I rescued him from that little outboard, he pulled a gun on me. He emptied the magazine of mine. Check it if you like. Did you hear all the gunfire earlier?”