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.”
“No thanks.” McCann frowned. “Hell, Gail. You’re getting as cynical as Novak. He’s a bad influence on you.”
“Fuck you,” Novak said, grinning. “And hey, if Hansen has any cigars stowed away, I call dibs. Unless anybody else wants to split them with me?”
Lynn laughed. “You’re the only one who smokes them. And besides, if Hansen did have any, they probably wouldn’t be dry, either. Just like his socks.”
“How did you manage to keep yours dry, anyway?” Warren asked Novak.
“You kidding?” Novak’s grin grew broader. “This is perfect cigar weather! I haven’t once had to fuck with the humidifier in my humidor since the rain started.”
Warren opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden squawk from the boat’s intercom made him stop. McCann and Gail paused at the hatch. Everyone in the galley looked up at the speaker mounted to the bulkhead.
“Hey folks.” Riffle’s voice was muffled by static. “That dude in Boston is back on the air. I’m patching him through now.”
The group fell silent, and listened
CHAPTER 32
They all recognized the voice. No matter how faint or distorted, it was always the same guy—Mark from Boston, the world’s last disc jockey, broadcasting from atop the Prudential Building in beautiful, flooded downtown Boston. According to Novak, they’d first picked up his transmissions while sailing overtop Illinois. The man had rigged up his own pirate radio station. He’d described it in one of his previous broadcasts. Gail hadn’t understood most of the technical specifics, but apparently, the roof of the building was equipped with an array of radio masts and satellite dishes that allowed Mark to transmit to anyone in the world who still had a working radio, CB or television set. He’d also recently routed one of the dishes into the public broadcast system equipment, so that he could broadcast even further.
The only drawback, according to him, was that he couldn’t receive communications. He could only transmit, and had no way of knowing for sure if anyone could hear him. To Gail, that was the most frustrating part. She wished there was some way to reach him, some method of letting him know that he wasn’t alone, and that there were survivors out here aware of his plight.
“I always figured that if I was going to bite the big one,” Mark said, “I’d go out with a fight, like Willem Defoe in
“He’s got the fuzz,” Mylon said. “Poor bastard’s infected with that white shit.”
Gail, Paris and Lynn all hushed him, and the group turned their attention back to the overhead speakers.
“Anyway,” Mark continued, “this is day two of my broadcast and nobody has shown up to rescue us yet. My name’s Mark Sylva. If anybody is listening, we’re on top of the Prudential Building in Boston. We’re sick. Boston is underwater, except for us and another building. I keep thinking about my wife and son in Ohio. I just hope things are better there.”
“They’re not,” Novak muttered.
“Everybody’s acting weird, and we’re all so lethargic and thirsty. It seems strange, being so thirsty with all the water outside. I hope help comes soon. Otherwise, I think some bad shit is about to go down.”
McCann nudged Gail with his elbow. “You ready?”
She shrugged, then nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”
The two of them left the galley and shut the hatch behind them. Then they walked down the passageway towards the berthing area. Mark in Boston’s voice followed them, echoing out of each overhead speaker.
“The rash is getting worse,” he said. “I think I know what it is now. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but yeah, what the hell else could it be? I think we’re all infected.”
“Mylon’s right,” McCann said. “Sounds like the poor bastard is infected with the fungus.”
“We need to learn more about it,” Gail said. “Find out how it spreads. How to avoid infection. We know that you can get it by touching something that’s already infected, but there has to be more to it than that.”
“Yeah, but how are we going to find out? That’s a job for scientists in a lab somewhere—not a bunch of castaways on a boat. I mean, what kind of research team would we make, Gail? Mylon was a bus driver. Warren sold cars. Lynn worked for a health insurance company. Me and Riffle and Novak—all we know is this boat. I don’t know about any of the others, but none of them strike me as the scientist type. We’re just spitting in the wind, here.”
“You sound like you’re ready to give up. How about it, McCann? Do you agree with what Novak said in there? Do you think we should just…” She choked, unable to finish the sentence.
“Quit while we’re ahead? I don’t know. I don’t think I’d have the balls to kill myself, and I don’t think I could kill any of you, unless you were dying and in pain, or trying to attack me or one of the others. Except for Morgan, maybe. Him I could kill.”
He kept his expression serious for a moment, and then a toothy, mischievous grin slowly took its place.
Gail laughed. “Yeah, me too.”
“So what were you, before all of this?”
“Divorced,” Gail said. “No kids. I was a social worker. At night, I came home to my dog, a little Yorkie named Terrance.”
