Apocalypse Drift (22 page)

Most captains wouldn’t admit it, but shedding responsibility for the lives of everyone aboard was a
welcome void. Hardships, such as pulling an overnight watch or fretting over every odd little noise made by the vessel, wouldn’t be missed. Weather would cease to be the most important information of the day; no longer would the supply of water, fuel and food be the primary concern. No more adrenaline- pumping battles with storm-driven waves or early morning incidents with misbehaving navigation equipment. Wyatt remembered the warm glow of accomplishment, that sense of victory over the sea when the ship was finally tied off at her final harbor. It was an identical experience to a successful sales campaign or landing a new, profitable customer.

In Wyatt’s mind, there was little difference between Columbus setting sail for the
new world and Steve Jobs creating Apple in his garage. Both were risk-taking explorers who could be ruined by uncontrollable circumstance. Wyatt grunted at the thought. Mr. Jobs didn’t have to worry about a storm crashing his fledgling prototype against the rocks - he wasn’t going to perish due to the wind and sea.

It then occurred to Wyatt that perhaps the captain going down with his ship was the lucky one. Was that
end better than losing it all…than having nothing left? Death before dishonor?

There was also a negative aspect to coming home. The letdown of knowing the
adventure was almost over, that life would soon return to a mundane, shore side routine. Any chance to explore or experience something unique while at sea would soon be absent. No more steering the boat into a strange harbor, anxious to explore a new locale. The opportunity to sample different foods, make new friends and see exotic sights soon to be over. A smirk crossed Wyatt’s face when he realized it didn’t matter how you arrived at the end point – it sucked. A successful business generated money, respect, and gratification, but that’s not what Wyatt would miss the most. He would never again experience the thrill of quest – the challenge of the game. His last business voyage had ended the day the bank closed his doors.

Just like Wyatt, Serendipity’s homeport no longer existed, her final destination dissipated. Someone had taken it away. The c
aptain’s well-planned, properly executed voyage was all for naught. Wyatt imagined the crushing weight of despair the sailboat’s master must be facing. He was familiar with the experience. It wasn’t just empathy for what the man on the other end of the radio was feeling at that moment, there were future tortures to look forward to. Wyatt knew that joining the Fraternal Order of Failure led to being a card carrying member of Club Inactive. Eventually, you ended up with a Fellowship at the Society of It’s-all-behind-me-now. 

Sage’s head appearing at the top of the ladder snapped Wyatt out of it. She tilted her head slightly and asked, “Daddy, are you all right?”

Wyatt’s face flushed for a moment, concerned that his internal pity party could somehow be perceived by his youngest child. “I’m fine, Sage. Did everything come out okay?”

His daughter swatted his arm, trying not to laugh at the crude humor.      

Wyatt left the bridge, convinced that occupying himself with double-checking the satellite installation would distract him from such melancholy thinking. The dish was already mounted; his son was following the cable-run down the mast.

Boxer was considered a motor-sailor
and was equipped with a single mast. In reality, she was a powerboat. Somewhere, in one of the numerous storage compartments was an emergency sail. Wyatt had no idea how to rig or use the large sheet of canvas. He seriously doubted it would work very well.

David and he adjusted and readjusted the cables until almost dusk, quitting when Morgan opened the
salon doors and announced supper was ready. She didn’t have to tell them twice.

Charlie
Beckenworth was feeling like Charlie “Becken-worthless.” Being unemployed for over a year had initiated a downward spiral in his life – a seemingly unending series of blows to his esteem. The crushing waves of bad breaks eventually wore him down to the point where he began to simply not care about much of anything. The fact that his wife had become the primary breadwinner for their family had been the final straw.

When he’d first been informed his employer was downsizing, he hadn’t been overly concerned. His wife had a good job as a
software analyst, and he had never had any problem finding work as an electrician. After two months of countless online applications, resume mailings, and untold hours searching through web-based employment databases, he realized the first pangs of panic.

Charlie’s wife, Rose, had been supportive, and the couple initially worked together, trying to make the best of what both of them thought would be a temporary situation. The couple agreed that Charlie would stay at home with the kids in order to avoid the cost of daycare.

Raising children wasn’t Charlie’s forte. While he loved his kids as much as any father, the day-to-day activities associated with being a stay at home dad didn’t agree with him. That’s when the drinking began. It had only been a beer or two at first. A cold one now and then to take the edge off of the relentless boredom and ceaseless chores. Doing laundry, preparing meals, and taxiing the kids was not how Charlie had seen his life playing out.

His buddies didn’t help much. At first, they said all the right words and at least pretended to support him. As time wore on, the positive reinforcements became cruel jokes, with Charlie taking the ribbing badly. Over time, he was invited to fewer and fewer get-togethers, and his friends drifted further and further away.

Rose began accepting extra hours for a bigger paycheck. This eventuality led to even more responsibility for Charlie, and the occasional brewski became a six-pack by early afternoon. There had been a major disturbance in the Beckenworth household when Rose returned home one evening to discover the children crying in a bathtub, the bathwater icy, and the kids shivering with purple lips. Charlie was lying in his favorite lounge chair, passed out drunk.

Rose wanted to believe things would get better, and Chuck would snap out of it. She gently suggested her husband seek counseling or find a group of stay at home dads. Her loving efforts were angrily rejected, and Charlie continued to slide down the slope of despair.

The civil unrest, power outage, and subsequent martial law really had little effect on the
Beckenworth homestead – at first. Charlie stashed several cases of beer in the garage, and a small gasoline generator had been purchased for hurricane season. The kids were a little fussy at first, but Rose and he would simply shoo them outside to their swing set - a quiet home restoring order to the universe.

The morning of the sixth day, Rose announced they were out of cereal for the kids.

On the seventh day, the last can of soup was prepared for lunch.

By the ninth day, Charlie realized he was down to his last beer. By the
ninth day, Rose metered out a single can of corn accompanied by the last sleeve of saltine crackers.

On the afternoon of the tenth day, the kids were whining about the hunger pangs. Rose did her best to distract them, rummaging around in her stash and producing a new coloring book. The present had distracted the two from their empty stomachs, but only for a few hours.

Charlie knocked on the door of every house on their street. Most of the neighbors didn’t answer. Those that had opened their front doors were apologetic, but didn’t have anything to share. One older gentleman went so far as to remind Charlie he should have allocated more money for meat and potatoes and less on beer. A shoving match had ensued, the final result being Charlie returning home with empty hands, a mouthful of curses, and a bruised ego. To make matters worse, he was beginning to get the shakes from the sudden lack of alcohol in his system.

The kids were inside with Rose, so he waited outside to be alone while he licked his mental wounds.
He craved different air, thinking the change would enable him to conjure up some method of feeding the family. After a pilgrimage around the cul-de-sac, he found himself inside the garage. His unstable hands were failing in their attempt to repair his fishing pole. Frustrated and out of patience, he was just about to splinter the misbehaving pole when the unmistakable aroma from an outdoor grill drifted by.

The fishing pole was pardoned. 

February 26, 2017

Southland Marina

Kemah Bay, Texas

The citizens of
Marinaville weren’t suffering from the blackout nearly as severely as most. There were minor inconveniences, such as the constant droning of generators and the ever-present task of refilling fuel tanks. Compared to the rest of America, those ten days without electricity resulted in a mere fraction of the hardships endured by the vast majority of citizens.

The pier-people understood their good fortune, at least to some degree. A celebration was in order, a pseudo-Thanksgiving of sorts. Word passed up and down the docks that all were invited to a citywide cookout to be conducted by the pool. A pot luck extravaganza, the main course comprised of several pounds of frozen steak discovered a few days earlier in the freezer of a large sports fisherman located on pier one.  

Everyone was feeling upbeat about the way the community had banded together. In a way, the marina was like a small island ecosystem. Everyone pitched in, no one was left out, and a few people even commented that life there was actually better than before the collapse. There was a positive sense of belonging to something important and working together to solve problems.

Part of the optimism was based on a swell of confidence that life would soon return to normal. This faith was due to an increasing number of indications that some sort of recovery was in process. Occasionally, people reported hearing car motors in the distance. One of the captains residing on the far side of the marina watched a group of strangers skirt around the edge of the water. He believed they ventured from one of the neighboring subdivisions. Over the last few days, there had been a few sirens, but only a single gunshot from a far distance. The fires still lit the night skies toward Houston, but the reddish glow and associated pillar of smoke seemed to be getting smaller. As reports of these encounters passed from one boater to the next, the typical reaction was a knowing smile – a sign of confidence that mankind would soon recover. 

Charcoal was a common commodity on the piers. Practically every boater loved to fire up the grill and smoke up a mess of ribs…or steak…or whatever culinary indulgence satisfied the weekend mood. High praise, ultimate glory, whispered reputation, and hushed respect were won and lost via the pier-side smoker. 

The problem wasn’t rolling two portable grills up to the pool, nor was it difficult to start a proper fire. This issue was completing the day-to-day jobs required for life in
Marinaville. The announcement of a cookout was to blame for more unfinished tasks than any other single event since the collapse. Instead of completing daily chores, everyone was busy mixing special sauces, baking family favorites, and polishing prized grilling tongs. Top-secret spicy concoctions were assembled behind closed doors while shadowy figures stalked between boats, creating clandestine marinades on the hush-hush.    

As the citizens of
Marinaville drifted poolside, David and Wyatt were standing ready, a wager already in place regarding which of the two men could devour the most food.

Charlie stuck his head inside the house and told Rose he’d be back soon. Still stinging from the fight with the neighbor, he unlocked the car and retrieved a revolver from the console. It took him a little while to determine the source of the wonderful smell, now wafting over the area stronger than ever. After a quick stroll around the block, his nose triangulated the source as the marina bordering the neighborhood. “Why hadn’t I thought of that before,” he said to himself. “Those boats would be full of food and fuel. I’ll just take whatever we need and replace it later.”

Strolling through the empty lots to the marina, he spotted a trail of grey smoke slowly rising from the pool area. Charlie had only been to the marina a couple of times, but knew the layout well enough. He decided to head directly for the pool and ask nicely if those fortunate enough to have all that food would share with his hungry kids. He tucked the pistol in the back of his belt, reminding himself to be polite.

David noticed the stranger first. He gently nudged Wyatt and pointed with his eyes toward the man approaching their get-together. After relinquishing grill duty to another boater, David and his father slowly made their way through the crowd to intercept the newcomer.

David took the initiative, and with a firm, but polite voice said, “Good afternoon, how can we help you?”

Charlie didn’t hesitate. The smell of cooking steaks was drawing him in, thoughts of how proud Rose would be giving him courage. Bringing home a load of food would make him the breadwinner again, the hero, the man of the house. When he saw one of the men standing poolside raise a can of beer, he actually began salivating.

Charlie refocused on the guy who greeted him. “Afternoon, neighbor. I live over there and smelled your fire. I have two kids and a wife at home, and we’ve not eaten in a while. I was wondering if you could share a little of that wonderful-smelling food.”

Wyatt and David looked at each other as some of the other boaters began
wandering over to hear what was going on. Before either could reply, Hank Weathers spoke from the crowd, “We’ve not got a lot of extra ourselves, friend. Can’t your neighbors help out?”

Charlie was a little taken aback by the response. “Well,
ummm, pretty much everyone is in the same spot we are. If they don’t lift the martial law soon, there are going to be a lot of very hungry people.”

Hank didn’t even hesitate, “Sorry friend, we are all tapped out, just like you. The only reason we are eating so high on the hog tonight is because all this food was about to spoil.”

Charlie thought about that for a minute and then scanned the marina. He scratched his head and replied with a sharp tone, “Why are you lying to me? I can hear all of those generators running. Every single one of these boats probably has food onboard. You mean to tell me you won’t share just a little?”

Charlie’s response clearly offended Hank. Taking a step forward and pointing a finger at Charlie, his response sounded menacing. “Look buddy, everyone has their own problems. You come walking over here on private property, uninvited, and then accuse me of being a liar. I think you should head on home before there’s trouble.”

Charlie shifted his gaze from face to face in the crowd. Some people were nodding their heads in approval, while others showed puzzlement at Hank’s aggressive stance. Charlie started to turn away when he remembered the pistol in his belt. Hunger, fear of losing another confrontation, and the cooler full of beer pushed Charlie’s buttons. The thought of going home empty-handed and Rose’s disapproving face gave Charlie the courage to spin back around, pulling the gun. His shaking hand aimed the weapon directly at Hank’s face. Charlie growled, “You’re a liar, and I’m not going home empty- handed. Now give me some of that food, and no one will get hurt.”

Wyatt spoke up, “Now hold on, friend. No sense in all that. Just put the gun
down, and we will get you what you want.” He turned toward the stunned assembly, exaggerating the nodding of his head, “Won’t we, everyone? We can all pitch in and give this man a little food for his family, can’t we?”