Brian Keene - Deluge - The Conqueror Worms II

“Is that so bad?” Tatiana asked. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve been coming across any dry land anyway. Drifting is better than drowning.”

“Sure it is,” Novak replied, “but there are a few things to consider. If we get attacked again—and let’s face it people, we will get attacked again—we’re going to have a hard time outrunning whatever it is if we have no fuel. Drifting might work if we’re dealing with something like those little fish that killed Hansen today, but we’ll be shit out of luck if something big shows up—like one of those sea serpents we saw a few weeks back. The other problem is our location. If the GPS is right, we’re over the middle of Kentucky right now. I was hoping we’d find some dry land—mountaintops or whatever. But we’re not. As hard as it is to imagine, the waters are still rising. Either that, or the world is melting.”

Morgan snorted in derision. “Don’t be ridiculous, Captain.”

“I’m not,” Novak said, “and I’ve told you before, Morgan. Don’t call me Captain. Anyway, my point is this. There’s not a lot of stuff above the waterline anymore, but there’s a whole bunch of shit beneath us. Buildings and treetops and hills—hitting those is like hitting a reef. We’ve been luckier than most. Because of our multi-hull design, we’ve been able to ride above a lot of it. But sooner or later, we’re going to hit something and it’s going to bash a big fucking hole in our side. And then we’ll be screwed. I’ve been trying to avoid the cities since Cleveland. Figured if I got us out here over the country, we’d have less debris. Now, I’m not so sure. I’ve talked it over with McCann and Riffle. Our plan is to head for the Atlantic—or the place where the Atlantic used to be. Shit, the whole world’s the Atlantic Ocean now. But I want to get us out over the original ocean, where we won’t have to worry about running aground.”

“Do we have enough gas to get there?” Mylon asked.

“Not without drifting. That’s problem one. Problem number two is that our chances of scavenging anything useful are probably lessened out on the open sea. Granted, we’ve been seeing less stuff as time goes by, but we’ve still been able to snag stuff from the debris. There will be less chance of that in the real ocean. Which brings me to problem number three.”

Caterina groaned. “You mean there’s more?”

Novak nodded. “Fuel’s not the only thing we’re running low on. Beginning immediately, we’re going to have to start rationing our food and water. Riffle says if we keep eating the way we have been, we’ll run out in the next two weeks.”

Mylon frowned. “But what about all the stuff we found a few days ago? Those crates of food?”

“Most of it was already spoiled. Some of it had that white fuzz shit growing on it. I had Riffle toss it back over the side.”

Several of them stirred restlessly. After a moment, Gail asked what everyone else was thinking.

“He didn’t come in contact with the fungus did he?”

“No. He’s fine. You don’t have to worry about that. But the fact remains, we’re running low. We’ve got rainwater to drink, of course, although I personally think we ought to stop drinking that unless we absolutely have to.”

“Why?” Paris asked.

“Well, keep in mind, I’m no scientist—but what if that white shit is in the rain? What if that’s how it’s spreading?”

Ben sighed. “Then we’d be pretty much screwed.”

Nodding, Novak took another puff on his cigar, which was now burned down to a stub. Then he took it out of his mouth and snuffed it out, grinding it on the tabletop until it was extinguished.

“That was my last one.”

He didn’t seem to be speaking to them. His eyes remained focused on the floor. Gail thought his voice sounded sad.

“So,” Novak said, looking back up at them again, “to recap—we’re almost out of gas and food, and tomorrow’s forecast calls for rain. The only thing we’re not low on is ammunition. So we need to decide if we want to keep going and take our chances in the Atlantic, or if we want to explore a more final option.”

“You can’t be serious,” Morgan scoffed. “You’re talking about a suicide pact?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

CHAPTER 31

“So,” Ben said, “do we like, take a vote or something? A show of hands?”

Novak shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever you guys prefer. I don’t think we should decide right now, though. My point was to apprise you of our situation—make sure you understood just what we’re facing. Personally, I think we should take our time. Mull it over. Talk about it amongst yourselves.”

“I agree,” Warren said. “I mean, we’ve got time. We don’t have to decide right this second.”

Paris nodded. “It’s not like we’re going to die tonight.”

“Tell that to Hansen,” Mylon muttered in his thick southern accent.

“Which reminds me,” Novak said, “we’ve still got to divvy up his stuff. Anybody want to volunteer to help McCann inventory it?”

Gail raised her hand. She’d done it before, when Andre had died after being infected with leeches. The act itself was morbid and sad—separating and listing the belongings of a dead shipmate—but it made her feel useful. Also, she didn’t trust some of the other survivors to be honest with their tally. After Lieberman had been lured over the side by a mermaid, Paris and Riffle had been assigned to inventory his personal belongings. Gail suspected—but had no proof—that they’d kept four packs of Juicy Fruit gum that Lieberman had hidden beneath his pillow. Gail had known about the gum because he’d shared a stick with her. The day after his death, she’d seen both Paris and Riffle chewing gum. When she stood close enough to talk to them, she’d noticed the unmistakable smell of Juicy Fruit.

“Thanks, Gail,” Novak said. “Same rules as always. Anything like food, batteries, toiletries or medicine should go in the communal pile. Anything else—clothes, books, shit like that—gets divided up among whoever wants it.”

Morgan sniffed. “Why bother?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why bother sorting through Hansen’s effects? Fighting over the Advil or toilet paper he may have left behind seems pointless given the fact that you’re suggesting we decide whether or not we want to enter into a suicide pact.”

“Suit yourself.” Novak turned away, effectively dismissing him. “If you don’t want his stuff, that just leaves more for everyone else.”

“I call dibs on dry socks,” Tatiana said. “If he’s got any.”

“Nothing’s dry anymore,” Lynn said.

“If they are,” Caterina replied, “then you’ll have to fight me for them. His underwear, too. Mine’s soaked.”

Warren nudged Ben in the ribs and both men smirked at the unintentionally lewd comment. Caterina seemed oblivious to their reaction. Gail felt a momentary flash of anger. Was this what they’d been reduced to—arguing over a dead man’s personal belongings just minutes after his death? Maybe Novak was right. Maybe they should think about killing themselves now. Maybe the human race would be better off extinct.

Shaking her head, Gail stood up and walked over to McCann, who was nursing a cold mug of instant coffee. “You ready?”

“Sure. Might as well get it over with.” He drained his mug and grimaced. “God, that tastes like shit. I’d kill for a Starbucks right now. I always hated those places before. Thought their coffee was overpriced and tasted like something had died in my cup. Now, I’d love to come across one. Remember how they used to be on every corner?”

“They still are,” Gail replied. “All you have to do is dive straight down.”