DoG

think this diary counts as a breach of that promise, but he can’t carry through on his threat at this point anyway.

I didn’t carry any good luck charm with me. Maybe I should have…

3

The cousins toured the island in Frank’s antique pick-up truck, which he’d driven across the frozen sea in winter. It seemed to Culann like a needless risk, since the entire island could be circled on foot in under an hour. Every other shack had its own truck rusting contentedly out front; they had all presumably gotten out here the same way as Frank’s. Most had long-expired or completely missing plates. The dashboard clock said it was seven-thirty in the morning, but the sky maintained the same hazy, twilit glow Culann had seen when he fell asleep. Northern Alaska in June really disrupts the circadian rhythms. As they drove, Frank explained who lived where and whether the resident was “a good dude” or “a guy you don’t fuck with.” Everyone, it seemed, fell into one category or the other.

The island was heavily wooded and swarming with mosquitoes. The windshield was encrusted with squashed bloodsuckers, and the cousins kept the windows rolled up to keep the bugs out. The inhabitants of Pyrite lived in haphazardly-spaced dwellings along the island’s eastern edge, which faced the mainland across a mile of calm, black water.

The western edge of the island was rockier and subject to the year-round tantrums of the Bering Sea. The eastern half of the island was bisected by Pyrite Avenue, the gravel road they now drove upon, with a few dirt side streets. “Downtown” Pyrite, which was about a quarter-mile from the ferry dock, consisted of a general store called Wal-Mart Jr. and a saloon with no sign. The latter was their final destination. So much for drying out today.

“C’mon,” Frank said, “you can buy me breakfast.”

Half of the men in town were there already. They were all large men. The shorter ones were stocky, while the skinnier ones were tall. Most were stocky and tall. They all wore dirty denim and scuffed boots. The youngest man couldn’t have been much over eighteen, with ruddy cheeks and a sparse goatee, yet the hand he extended to Culann was encased in about four decades worth of calluses. The oldest man was easily seventy, yet his shining, black eyes and erect shoulders suggested a spry youthfulness. Culann didn’t think he could compete physically with any man in this bar, although he realized that he would have to once they were all at sea together.

The tavern was little more than a smoke-filled shack with a bar along one wall and a long table down the middle. Culann tried to stifle a cough — he couldn’t remember the last time he’d encountered cigarettes indoors. Frank and Culann plopped down at the table next to a wiry, white-haired man.

“Hey, Frank. This your perverted schoolteacher?”

Culann glared at Frank, who pretended not to notice. Culann had wanted to make a new start out here, but Frank had evidently already soiled his reputation.

“Gus, meet my cousin, Culann.”

Gus nodded. The barman limped over on a bad right leg. He had a shaved head with a thick hunk of muscle at the base of his skull. Frank introduced Culann to the barman, Alistair, who also happened to be the mayor of Pyrite. Frank asked for two orders of “the special”—a plate of burnt scrambled eggs served with a draft beer and a shot of Canadian Club.

“Gus is the first mate of the Orthrus,” Frank explained. “He’s gonna bust your balls good.”

At this, Culann took a closer look at Gus. He was the smallest man in the bar and nearly the oldest. He was also nothing but muscle and bone, all sharp edges, and he sipped his whiskey with the calm contentment of a man who knew his business. Though Culann outweighed him by easily thirty pounds, he had no illusions about which of them were the strongest.

“You work hard,” Gus said, “and you’ll be fine. I don’t begrudge a man his perversions as long as he pulls his own weight.”

“Hear that, Culann? He don’t begrudge a man his perversions.”

“Well, I appreciate that. I don’t actually have any perversions, though.”

“We all got our problems, or we wouldn’t be here.”

“Amen, Gus. Why don’t you tell Culann why you’re here?”

“Stabbed an Indian back in Utah.”

“See, Culann, your little attempted statutory rape is not that big a deal.”

“Leave him alone, Frank. Why don’t you tell us what you’re doing up here?”

“Yeah, Frank,” Culann chimed in. “What are you doing up here?”

“I wanted to go some place with no women.”

“I always knew you were queer,” Gus said with a snort.

“Hell, I’m not queer. I been married three times.”

“Three?” Culann asked. “I only knew about Cathleen and Alison. You got married again?”

“Yeah, my mom doesn’t even know about it. I married this crazy girl in Memphis. Lasted a month. At that point I realized I’m just too love-stupid to take any more chances. So I’m up here hiding from women, living like a monk.”

Alistair hobbled over with their breakfast and another round of drinks.

“How about you, Alistair?” Frank asked.

“How about me what?”

“What’re you doing up here?”

“I don’t know how civilization’s gonna end,” he answered after a reflective pause,

“but I know it’s coming soon. Maybe nuclear war, race war, some new super-virus, hell might even be some kind of computer virus. All I know is, Pyrite, Alaska, has got to be the last place on Earth that would be affected by that kind of thing. I figure this is the safest place for my wife and boy to be.”

“That’s bat-shit crazy,” Frank said. “Julia goes along with this?”

“Of course she does,” Alistair said. “She’s from Toronto. She’s seen societal decay up close. She knows I’m right.”

“Toronto?” Culann said with a giggle.

“God sees you laughing, boy,” Alistair snapped. “When it happens, He’ll come for you first.”

After this declaration, Alistair spun around and stomped away. Culann made a mental note to apologize later.

“He’s got a kid out here?” Culann asked.

“Yeah, little Marty,” Frank said. “He’s about six, I think. Cute little guy.”

“Is there a school out here?”

“No, but you heard the man,” Frank said with a smile. “The world’s coming to an end, so school’s not going to do the kid any good anyway.”

A tall, rangy man of about thirty-five in overalls with bushy red hair and a neatly-trimmed red goatee walked over.

“What’s up, Frank? Is this the pedophile?”

“Nah,” Frank replied, “he’s a hebe-a-phile.”

“What’s that?” the man asked Culann. “You like little Jews or something?”

“The word is ephebophile,” Culann said. “It’s someone with a predilection for teenage girls. But I’m not an ephebophile.”

“Predilection?” the man said to Frank. “Is this guy like a dictionary or something?”

“Yeah, that’s why I call him Noah Fucking Webster.”

“Who’s Noah Fucking Webster?” the man asked.

“He’s the guy who invented the dictionary or something. Isn’t that right Culann?”

“He wrote a dictionary,” he replied. “It’s called Webster’s Dictionary.”