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The makeshift radio room glowed silver in a wash of early morning light. Wide swaths of fog hung over the shipping lanes out on Puget Sound. Far behind the fog, on the Seattle side, the sun was rising. The world took on a palette of glowing grey tones; sun behind fog, fog over silver water, the horizon disappearing between the two.
Below the windows, a concrete breakwater curved out into Puget Sound, enclosing a small harbor. A dozen boats lay silent at their moorings, each tethered to a long concrete dock that jutted into the sheltered water. Inside the breakwater, the surface of the water was as still as a mill pond. A sixteen-foot inflatable skiff was moored at the near end of the dock, its outboard engine hoisted clear of the salt water.
A man sat in the radio room, silent, watching the swirls of grey light, the flat water running north on the tidal shift. He sipped his coffee, happy to have it, wondering so many things. There was time to wonder; as much time as he needed. The radios gave off the barest hiss of static. It was that quiet lull on the island; the last stillness before the bustle of the day began.
He wondered about coffee. How much coffee do fourteen adults drink in a week? And they were boat people, notorious coffee sluts, so that had to be factored in. It didn’t matter. The kitchen was huge, stocked for sixty tourists at a sitting. The pantry shelves were piled with canned goods, heavy plastic bags of coffee beans, and enough cake mixes for a small army. Then there was the salmon, an entire walk-in freezer full of salmon.
I never thought I could get tired of salmon, but I’m sure tired of it now. When that big diesel tank runs dry, the generators are going to stop. When the generators stop, the walk-in freezer goes dead. Then the salmon feast comes to an end. How much longer? Two weeks, three at the outside; unless they could ferry diesel from the mainland.
Out across the water, a commotion caught his eye. Speaking of salmon, he thought. A crowd of gulls swirled, a pulsing ball of white in the grey glow. Below them, the flat water was dappled with silver splashes. Gulls rose and fell above the splashing, diving and rising, diving again. If we were out fishing, that would be our spot right there. Salmon hunting in the water below, driving the ball of bait fish to the surface; gulls falling out of the sky, picking the herring off from above. Bad morning to be a herring. The gulls moved into a bank of fog, following the silver splashes. Their white shapes turned dark; darting silhouettes against the grey. Then the fog closed over them and they disappeared altogether.
What will happen to the salmon, now that the humans are gone? The man pondered the fish cycles, the yearly pulse of salmon in and out of Puget Sound. No more hatchery fish, that’s for sure. What about the dams? There’s no engineers left to regulate the flow. How long before the spring runoff overtops the dams on the Colombia River? Will the rivers go back to being wild, breaking down the man-made obstacles? All that work, the busy building of the Corps of Engineers, does it all just wash away? How long? One hundred years? Two hundred? Maybe there will be huge runs of salmon again, like there were before that first boatload of whites landed at Alki. Yes, sure, there will be more salmon. And more salmon means more Orcas, more whales, more seals. Every other species benefits now that the age of the humans has come to an end.
Thoughts of the future vanished as the Ham radio squelched into life. His hand shot to a knob on an illuminated panel, turning up the volume. A disembodied voice filled the quiet room. The man reached for his QSO Log, sliding the notebook in front of him and opening the cover.
CQ CQ CQ, this is Sierra Oscar Three Sierra standing by.
CQ CQ CQ, this is Sierra Oscar...
A buzz of static cut off the signal. The man reached for the radio, adjusting the settings. He leaned forward over the table, left hand hovering over the mic key.
CQ CQ CQ, this is Sierra Oscar Three Sierra standing by.
The man keyed the mic, a mechanical pencil hovering over a fresh page in the notebook. As he began to speak, he made notes of the time and the call sign.
Sierra Oscar Three Sierra, this is India Lima One Delta, this is India Lima One Delta, this is India Lima One Delta. Over.
India Lima One Delta from Sierra Oscar Three Sierra, thanks for your call. Barry, is that you, Mate? Over.
Sierra Oscar Three Sierra from India Lima One Delta. Yes, this is Barry. Terrence, is that you? What is the news from Sydney? Over.
Not bloody good, Mate; we lost two more people last night. The marauders are running amok. It’s no damn good here, Barry. That’s why I’m trying to reach you. We are pulling out. Sydney is dead, nothing left but the marauder bands. Over.
Sorry to hear, Terrence, and sorry about your people. That is a damn shame. Where are you going to go? Over.
North Barry, we are heading north. The group decided to try for the Gold Coast, somewhere between here and Brisbane. Over.
When will you make a break for it? Is it possible to get out? Over.
It is possible, yes, but dangerous for sure. We have enough vehicles, enough fuel to make it, maybe enough ammunition. But the marauders have more of everything. The bastards are watching the roads. Odds are we will have to fight our way out, at least until we are clear of Sydney. We have to go now, today. Nineteen hours difference between Sydney and your island. It’s tomorrow here, four-thirty AM. We plan to try for a breakout at sunrise. This will be my last transmission for a few days. Over.
Very sorry to hear that, Terrence. I am wishing you all luck. Over.
Thanks, Mate, we are going to need it. Over.
Do you have any idea what the conditions are further north? Over.
No, we have no information. But it cannot possibly be worse than Sydney. Australia is dead, Barry, it’s gone. Very few survivors to begin with; then people went mad, killing each other over a jerry can of water. Same story up the Pacific side. I had Ham contacts in Indonesia, Singapore, on up into Thailand. They are all gone. Over.
Yes, it’s the same story here. My QSO Log gets shorter and shorter every day. I have lost all my European contacts. There are a few blips out of Russia, a few isolated contacts in Canada, and you. That’s all. Over.
Grim times, Mate, grim times indeed. Look, I’ve just gotten the signal that we have to pack it in. The vehicles are almost loaded. With any luck, I will be contacting you in about a week. Over.
Okay, understood Terrence. Best of luck to you all. Be careful, drive fast, keep your heads down, right? Over.
Right you are, Barry, and thank you. Listen, Mate, if you don’t hear from me, I want you to know that it has been a pleasure. Over.
The pleasure is all mine, Terrence. But no worries; we will be talking again in a week, you’ll see. Over.
That’s the spirit, Mate. Must pack it in now. Sierra Oscar Three Sierra to India Lima One Delta, transmission ends. Over.
Barry stared out across the expanse of grey water and grey sky, seeing nothing. Instead of cold water and fog, he saw the hurried packing, the last items stowed into vehicles, the wait for dawn halfway around the world. Via con Dios, Amigo. I hope you make it. His eyes fell to the notebook. He blew out a long breath and began writing in a fine, precise script. Finishing his log, he closed the cover of the notebook. Lifting his eyes to the horizon, he studied the shifting fog banks. The end of the pencil tapped rhythmically against the surface of the notebook.
Motion on the dock below caught his eye. Two men were walking out onto the dock, each carrying a rifle. Ah, there goes the morning patrol, out to circle the Island. As he watched, the two stopped above the inflatable skiff. Handing his rifle to his companion, the first man climbed down into the skiff. When the rifles were handed down and stowed, the second man climbed aboard the small craft. The men prepared the boat, lowering the outboard motor, casting off the bow line. Barry heard the sound of the outboard spluttering to life, then settling into a low idle. The second line was cast free, and the small boat began skimming across the harbor. The bow cut a vee-shaped wake across the quiet surface. Reaching the end of the breakwater, the boat turned to the North, hugging the shore of the Island as it disappeared from his view.
Barry heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind him. He swiveled in his chair, turning away from the windows. A tall man stood in the open doorway, clad in heavy workmen’s clothing. A blue watch cap was perched atop a head of unruly grey hair. Alert, blue eyes peered out from a face lined and creased by years in the sun. The man leaned against the doorjamb, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand.
“Good morning, Barry.”
“Morning, Bob. I see the patrol just went out.”
“Yeah, the boys are right on time today. Foggy out there, be good to check things out.”
“Morning patrol is always a good idea, fog or no fog. We can’t have anyone sneaking onto the Island.”
“Mind if I join you? We’ve got some time before breakfast.”
“Sure, always glad for the company.”
The older man walked across the narrow room. An empty office chair squeaked as he settled into it.
“Any news from the world?”
Barry rubbed a finger through a bushy eyebrow, eyes on the notebook in front of him. He blew a breath through pursed lips, reached to flip the cover open.
“Yes, I have news from the world, and none of it good.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t really expecting good news.”
“Then you won’t be disappointed, Bob. It sounds like our friends in Sydney are being overrun. They had two people killed last night. I received one transmission, the gist of it being that they are going to try for a breakout; a dash out of Sydney.”
“Jesus wept, you’d think that people would figure this out, maybe decide that killing each other is not the best plan. But no, everyone seems hellbent on finishing off the few folks who survived this damned plague. Crying fucking shame, that’s what it is.”
“It is that. So much for any thought of the greater common good.”
“You think those Aussies have any chance of getting out of there?”
“Any chance? Sure, there’s always a chance. But I’d say they are fighting pretty long odds. From what Terrence has told me, Sydney is at least as bad as Seattle, probably worse. We won’t know anything for at least a week. Terrence, he seems like a good guy, you know? I damn sure hope they make it.”
“Well, here’s to luck.”
The man raised his coffee cup, taking a sip. When he lowered the cup, his eyes were on Barry.
“Any other news on the airwaves?”
“Nothing new to report. It’s a grim picture, that’s for sure. The few Ham contacts that I had, they’re blinking out like bad Christmas lights. There’s no way to know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say that the number of survivors is shrinking by the day.”
“So, not much different from what we’ve been thinking. It’s a hell of a thing, living through this. What did the evangelicals call it, the End Days?”
“Yeah, something like that. But they’re all dead as well.”
“You hear anything from the Seattle side, those VHF signals?”
“Not much, but those folks are still over there. I assume it’s more than one person. Here’s the last thing I’ve got in the log.”
He flipped a few pages in the notebook, then pushed it across the table.
Bob reached inside a jacket pocket, his fingers finding a pair of reading glasses.
“I can’t read anymore unless I have these damn things. Then I lose them. I’ve got pairs of them scattered over half the island I bet; in my boat, in the galley, hell, you name it.”
With the glasses perched on the end of his nose, the older man peered down at the open page.
Any vessel, any vessel, this is Marjorie C. Over.
Marjorie C, this is Island. Over.
Marjorie C, 68. Over.
Roger Marjorie C, 68. Over.
(Frequency change to 68 - Barry)
Island, this is Marjorie C. Over.
Read you, Marjorie C. Over.
What is your position? Over?
Do not care to disclose our position. Over.
Island, best guess you are not a vessel? Over.
Do not care to play twenty questions. Over.
Island, no harm meant. Only trying to determine threats to ourselves. Over.
Marjorie C, exact same here. Over.
Island, understood. Fair warning, we will fire on approaching vessels if need be. Over.
Marjorie C, no intent to approach you in any way. Over.
Understood and appreciated, Island. Over.
Marjorie C, we expect same treatment. Over.
Island, Understood. Marjorie C. Over and Out.
Island. Over and Out.
The man dropped the log to the table, peering over his glasses at Barry.
“Not too damn friendly, or at least so I gather. Hostile would be the word I’d choose.”
“What about us, Bob? Are we hostile?”
Bob shook his head, staring into his cooling coffee.
“Yes, to the outside world, what’s left of it anyway, I guess we are hostile. Anyone who tries to force their way onto our island, they are probably going to get shot. But this is a good group of folks. If we found survivors that needed shelter, reasonable people, I think we would take them in, at least on a provisional basis.”
“There’s fourteen of us now. A dozen boats, not counting the small craft. Best case, how many people do you think this little island can support?”
“Best case, maximum, everyone working together? I’d guess maybe fifty people, tops.”
Barry shook his head.
“I put it closer to forty, but it doesn’t matter. The Island is all that we have. It gives us protection, that’s the big thing. We can spot a vessel from a long ways off. The downside is that being on an island makes foraging for food and fuel tricky. Fuel, that’s the big one. We better start building a Viking boat, one with lots of oars.”
“Yeah, that would be a hell of a sight, wouldn’t it? Back to the subject at hand, what do we know about this Marjorie C group, if it is a group?”
“Not much, but I have a few solid guesses. First, this is a VHF contact. That means the signal is more or less line-of-sight, and not more than twenty miles away, give or take.”
“So these folks are neighbors, in the broad sense of the word?”
“Exactly. If I were a betting man, I’d be laying my money on Elliott Bay. Seattle is almost a straight shot across the water, but not quite. West Seattle blocks us from most of the downtown, a lot of the waterfront, and Harbor Island. These guys are using the call sign Marjorie C. That’s the name of a boat, or a ship, unless I miss my guess. The VHF signal is damn good, so I’m betting we have direct line-of-sight. That leaves us with the north end of Elliott Bay. I think if we motored over to Pier Ninety, we’d find these guys camped out on one of those big auto carriers that dock there.”
“You’re talking about those ships that bring in the new cars from Japan and Korea, or used to anyway.”
“The very same. If you think about it, it’s a pretty good plan. A big ship like that, once you haul up the gangways, you’ve got yourself a floating steel fortress. Generators, huge fuel supply, cooking and sleeping quarters. A group of survivors could do a lot worse.”
“Hmm... makes sense to me. Has anyone spotted anything, any activity?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Do we have any lenses powerful enough to scope that far?”
“Let’s find out. It’s time for breakfast. We can ask the group, see if anyone has a telescope stashed aboard their boat. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat. Let me guess, salmon and spuds?”
“You got it, breakfast of champions. C’mon, I’m buying.”