“We really are born again. I’m not talking about in any religious sense. We’ve got a second chance to reinvent ourselves, to become someone different. The professor is right. We’re on a quest—all of us. So stop worrying about the past and start thinking about the future. The past is dead.”
“So are the zombies,” I said. “But that doesn’t stop them from coming back and biting us in the ass. What kind of future can we possibly look forward to? Living on the run? Hiding out every time we go to the mainland? That’s not living. That’s existing.”
“It’s enough for me. And the same goes for you. Otherwise, you’d walk out on the flight deck right now and jump into the ocean. You’re a fighter, same as me—you do it because you don’t know what else to do. And now you’re fighting for those kids, whether you’ll admit to it or not. So suck it up and be a hero. Hell, who knows? We live through this and civilization makes a comeback, then maybe they’ll have mythology about us in five thousand years. We’ll be history.”
I shrugged. “Maybe we already are.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Mitch said, smiling, “and you know it.”
His smile grew broader. After a moment, I returned it. We crept back into the compartment and, with the lights out, crawled into our racks. Tasha and Malik didn’t stir. The ship gently rolled from side to side, creaking and groaning. Steam pipes along the wall ticked. My stomach grumbled.
“Good night,” Mitch whispered.
“Night.”
I lay back in my rack and stared at nothing. I thought about the past. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe it didn’t exist anymore. Maybe that version of Lamar Reed was as dead as the city he’d left behind when he sailed out to sea. The future waited right over the horizon, and when the sun came up tomorrow morning, it would rise on the first day of the rest of our lives. I wondered how long those lives would be.
Chapter Nine
The chief had been right about the weather. The next morning we woke to cold rain. A storm had blown in overnight. Massive gray and black clouds swallowed the horizon, obscuring the lines between sea and sky. Thunder boomed across the water. Dime-sized drops of rain pelted the decks. The waves grew larger and the ship tilted like a carnival amusement ride. Most of us hadn’t developed our sea legs yet and every time the
The weather suited the crew’s mood. But by noon, the clouds had cleared and the rain stopped. The ocean grew calm, flat like glass, the waves barely cresting. The sun shined down and the ternperature climbed again. Seagulls circled the ship, hoping for a handout. Old habits died hard, I guess. There were a million meals walking around on shore for them.
According to the chief, we were still on course for the oil drilling platform. Mitch, Basil, Professor Williams, and I had spent the morning performing other duties below deck. I also spent some time with Tasha and Malik. My late-night conversations with Mitch and the professor kept running through my mind, and I decided to try to live up to whatever the kids wanted me to be. Once the storm had passed, we met up on the flight deck, got out our deep-sea rods and tackle gear, and began the day’s fishing. Tran and Nick had saved the guts and heads from yesterday’s catch in a bucket so that we could use them for bait. We lined up along the railing with the bait bucket between us and cast our lines. The professor had found a floppy-brimmed hat somewhere onboard and he wore it to keep the sun off his head. He looked like a geriatric Gilligan. Basil was quiet and sullen. He didn’t say anything about his mutinous thoughts regarding our destination, and the three of us didn’t let on that we knew. Instead, Mitch and the professor traded jokes back and forth, and I laughed. Basil pretty much ignored us, standing off by himself farther down the deck.
We pulled in half a dozen groupers and striped sea bass, and Mitch hooked a small shark, which was about four feet long. Then the professor caught a really nice-sized tuna—enough to feed us all for one meal. He wasn’t strong enough to haul it up over the rail, so Mitch grabbed the line and did it for him. The tuna had swallowed the hook. Blood dribbled from its mouth and ran across the deck. The fish flopped around, thrashing its tail like a hammer. Its gills flapped uselessly.
“Can you take it off the hook for me, Mr. Bollinger?”
Mitch grinned. “No way, Professor. I hauled him in for you. You can take him off yourself. I ain’t baiting your hook again, either.”
“Youth,” Professor Williams said in mock disdain. “No respect for their elders.”
“You know what they say, man-age before beauty.”
Nose wrinkling in disgust, the Professor bent down and grabbed the fish with one hand. His other hand forced its mouth open. Slimy fish blood trickled over his fingers and wrists and dripped onto the deck. He tugged on the line, peering down the tuna’s gullet. It wriggled in his grasp.
“Oh dear,” the professor said. “He really did swallow the hook. This must be what is meant by ‘hook, line and sinker.’ Poor thing. He’s in bad shape. Will one of you gentlemen please hand me the needle-nose pliers out of the tackle box?”
Basil leaned over and picked up the pliers. As he handed them to the professor, he suddenly drew away.
“What the hell’s that on its tail?”
We all looked closer. Near the bottom of the fish’s tail was a small, ulcerated sore. It was raw and open, leaking pale fluid.
The professor frowned. “It appears the fish is infected with something; perhaps a parasite or fungus of some kind, or a reaction to some pollutant.”
Mitch shook his head. “Looks like a bite mark, doesn’t it?”
“That’s not a bite,” Basil argued. “More like a sore. Professor’s right. It’s probably a parasite, maybe a worm of some kind. We won’t know for sure until Tran and Nick clean it.”
The professor took the pliers from Basil and forced them down the tuna’s throat. It was still bleeding, and his grip kept slipping as a result. The fish continued struggling. I had to give it credit. Like us, it kept on fighting, even if death was inevitable. Suddenly, the tuna jerked in the professor’s grasp. He dropped the pliers. The hook ripped free, taking a chunk of fish innards with it. The line went taught and the hook’s point speared the professor’s hand, right between his thumb and forefinger. It dug deep, the barbs slipping beneath his skin. Professor Williams shouted in pain and the fish flopped away across the deck. The professor stared at his hand—his own blood flowing overtop the fish blood.
“Jesus,” Basil gasped. “You okay, Professor?”
The color drained from the older man’s face. “No, I am most assuredly not okay. It hurts a great deal. Could one of you please get it out? I’m feeling light-headed.”
I held him up from behind while Mitch went to work on the hook. The professor was bathed in sweat, but his skin felt cold. He hadn’t been kidding. He was limp in my arms—on the verge of passing out.
“You’ll be fine,” I assured him. “You’re just in mild shock. Take deep breaths and try putting your head between your knees.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m afraid that I don’t deal very well with pain. I feel pretty silly.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’d freak out too, if I had a fishhook in my hand.”
Frowning, Mitch jiggled the hook. The professor groaned.
“It’s in there pretty good,” Mitch said. “The barbs are underneath your skin. I’m going to have to work it out slowly.”
The professor gulped. “Will it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I suggest that Lamar and Basil hold me down. I’d hate to lash out at you in the heat of the moment, Mitch.”
Mitch grinned. “I’d hate that, too. Hold still, now.”
