 
## **CONTENTS**

Dedication & Copyright

Prologue

Part One - Winter Is Passing

Chapter One - The Boy and The Kid

Chapter Two - Stewart Dean

Chapter Three - The Ultimatum

Chapter Four - Plum Island

Chapter Five - Meet Hansel & Gretel

Chapter Six - Sea Trial

Chapter Seven - Sea Battle

Chapter Eight - Second Guesses

Excerpt from Part 2 A Nation By Another Name
Thank you to my B-Readers, Mom, Leslie, Jane, and many others who don't necessarily seek out genre fiction for the beach. Having the opinions of people who aren't beholden to the genre helps make the work that much stronger. Richard Pine at Inkwell, gets a shout out for timeless and thoughtful advice that has helped make me a better writer.

I am most especially grateful to my editors, Chance, Peter, Robert and Tony. Your insight is invaluable. You keep me from looking the fool.

Children Of Fiends - Part 1 Winter Is Passing

Copyright © 2014 Christopher Harwood / Fate & Fortune Press

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mail@cchaseharwood.com

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Studio City, CA 91604

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Thank you to my B-Readers, Mom, Leslie, and many others who don't necessarily seek out genre fiction for the beach. Having the opinions of people who aren't beholden to the genre helps make the work that much stronger.
Men rarely (if ever) manage to dream up a god superior to themselves. Most gods have the manners and morals of a spoiled child. -Robert A. Heinlein, science-fiction author (1907-1988)

**_PROLOGUE_**

It seemed impossible. The combined forces of North America were running out of ordinance. They had used so much to take back everything east of the Hudson River, to kill literally millions of infected people that the few munitions manufacturers left in infection-free America and Canada couldn't keep up. They were quite simply bereft of raw materials. When the last Fiend in New England was gunned down while running out of a parking structure located under the Boston Common, the U.S. had a chunk of its nation back. Now the race was on to fortify what was ultimately called the Champlain Line. In effect, it ran from the terminus of the Hudson River at Lower Manhattan, up to Lake George, to Lake Champlain, to the Saint Lawrence, then on to the Ottawa River and its source: Lake Timmiskaming where there was a gap. The Great Gap lay in the central province of Ottawa and was open for sixty miles until the water barrier picked up again at the Little Abitibi River, where it ultimately flowed to the massive Hudson Bay. Through mountain, swamp and grassland, a massive engineering project to join the gap between the Abitibi and the Ottawa was nearly complete. Fiends, most of them anyway, couldn't swim. The learned skill was lost with nearly every other higher function when the infection took hold.

The ironically named Lac Fortune lay in a lovely but not terribly notable portion of Trans Canadian Route 117. It was there that the final canal was underway.

On a warm Indian summer day, the engineers and soldiers who had been working 24/7 for two months, stopped what they were doing and watched in awe as a great herd approached in the distance. Caribou, hundreds of thousands, blackened the gap that was the hilly border between Ontario and Quebec. A Canadian Air Force pilot flying a circling spotting plane called it into the command headquarters and was patched through to the Canadian lieutenant general who was overseeing this last bit of the line. The astonished pilot reported on the million or so Fiends who were behind the heard. It seemed that the collective population of infected Western Canada was coming down the road. The general who watched the approaching herd from his command post knew he was out of time. Without question, he needed three more days minimum to complete his task.

Later, in the square of a park overlooking the Saint Lawrence, a statue would be erected to honor his sacrifice, along with the thousands of men and women under his command. On that day, the man, who had, more than anyone else, helped to subdue the Taliban-led Wazir tribes of Waziristan, now faced his final impossible challenge. There would be no negotiation. One couldn't negotiate with what were in effect, zombies, much less the children of these infected people. The general had heard rumors about the children over the past month or so; babies being born with some kind of fantastic mutation.

As the caribou herd stampeded through the Lac Fortune gap, the men and women who had bonded, forged relationships, been filled with pride over their accomplishment, could only watch in awe as the panicked animals ran past in their desperation not to be swallowed up by the monstrosity that chased after them.

Back in Ottawa, the powers-that-be of course knew about this coming threat; they could still operate their satellites. They had plenty of planes. What they didn't have was ammunition. To little effect, they had dumped the last of their air-based weapons on the gathering masses days earlier with the hope of slowing the infected down, giving the engineers the time they needed to complete their digging. Time was up. As the horde converged from many scattered groups into one mindless sea of approaching death, the sole munition left in the stockpile was unfortunately the one that no one wanted to contemplate. Everyone who had volunteered and/or been commissioned to build the canal was fully aware that they were ripe for nuclear annihilation – it didn't mean they actually expected to die that way. They were North Americans: by their very nature, they were optimists – they expected to finish the canal.

A helicopter stood by to whisk the general and his staff away, but to a man (and woman) they chose to stay. They drove out to the front to stand firm with everyone else, stoically watching the approaching horror. Many had already dealt face to face with the so named Fiends: your friends and neighbors, now victims of a simple greed driven biological mistake. Through an illegal combination of antibiotics abuse and genetic manipulation, a small time chicken farm in Southern Florida, in an effort to make less thirsty and plumper foul of all things, had inadvertently released a catastrophe that would balloon into a North American pandemic, driving two nations to ruin and then sending the world into an economic tailspin. None of the onlookers had personally seen one of the Fiend's, or infected person's children. Morbid curiosity caused the general to hold a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He scanned the mad mob that was now no more than half a mile away and spotted one in the firm clutches of its rabid mother. The child's overly large orbs seemed to focus on him like a lover's eyes, boring in, seemingly inches away.

A lone B-2 bomber followed the line that was Route 117 below. The pilots sat rigidly erect as they approached the drop zone. They had to restrain themselves from gawking as they watched the earth turn black with caribou, then the horde in the distance. They checked one last time to confirm that they were weapons free; the determined voice of the U.S. president himself having confirmed the go-ahead. With resolve built on endless training, the pilot touched the button that would, in one fiery hellish minute, turn 20 square miles into a no go zone for decades to come.

The general, with his eyes still locked to that of the child thing in the distance, sensed his mind buzzing with sensations that were outside his body, yet also inside. He felt desperate hunger, fear. Not only his fear, but the child's fear, its mother's fear and devilish ravings. He found it impossible to lower the binoculars, to break the extraordinarily intimate connection that held his gaze. He could smell its mother; hear the howls of the Fiends nearby. More than anything, he felt utterly compelled to offer himself up – to be the nutrition that the child deeply needed. Then he saw the flash. He was instantly blinded and the connection was broken. He never felt the heat.

A month later, the Champlain line was finally finished, and, like shutting a door against a room full of soul-crushing grimness, the thousand mile long wall, buttressed by massive fencing, thirty foot tall concrete slabs and a twenty foot deep mine field, was complete. Twenty miles to its east and along its entire length, another fence was built to keep healthy citizen wanderers from ever approaching the line of demarcation. The space between was labeled 'The Terminus Zone' and was strictly off limits to all. Period. No exceptions.

Finally able to breathe, the healthy population of North America celebrated for a day and a night, and then rested for another before taking on the huge task of picking up the pieces. Further infection within the healthy zone had been eradicated. The primary conduit – fouled water and bird migration – was under strict supervision and no longer a factor.

It was thought that the outbreak had been contained on the North American continent. Unfortunately for the rest of the world that wasn't true. A few hundred kilometers north of Lac Fortune, the seeds for pandemic continued along the same path from which it started: a plague spread by birds. The Arctic Tern is one of the most remarkable birds on Earth. As it follows the seasons from its southern summer nesting grounds in the Antarctic north to the summer months in the Arctic, its typical 22,000-mile migration pattern lets it experience temperate (for the bird) weather all year long. It spends the majority of its life in the air, rarely landing but to eat and breed. Its habitat ranges across the tops of the northern continents: from Denmark to Northern Russia, Alaska and across Northern Canada and even the Northern Continental U.S. In the Southern Hemisphere it can be found in nations such as South Africa, Australia and Argentina. It is an ocean bird, but is also found in inland waterways. Fiercely defensive of its nesting grounds and willing to attack even large predators, other birds do well to build their own nests near Arctic Terns that act as body guards for their feathered brethren.

During the summer that North America fought to save itself from oblivion, infected Tree Swallows (the original carriers of the plague) mingled with the Terns that nested in Northern Canada and Alaska. The protection that the sea birds offered, mixed with their discarded feathers that the swallows used for nesting, made for the inevitable exchange of bodily fluids between the two species. The great migratory birds took on the germ and then flew off to other points on the globe, infecting domesticated and wild birds alike. In short order these infected animals passed the contagion onto a planet overpopulated with humans. Within a year, the rest of the world knew firsthand the agony of the North Americans.

The end of the world, as it was known, had no specific date. The event, referred to as Omega, took place over five or six seasons. The waves of destruction would ripple out for a decade or more.

**PART ONE**

**WINTER IS PASSING**

## **CHAPTER ONE**

### **_THE BOY AND THE KID_**

The boy had found the map in the attic among the boxes that his father had never sent for. His old man had been a collector of souvenirs during his time in the Navy, and the boy had spent hours and hours over the years sifting through the collection, imagining adventures and playacting battles. There were trinkets and bits of clothing, and all manner of small artifacts stuffed in with the uniforms, letters, and photos. His father had been to places in the world that, as far as the boy's teachers knew, no longer existed – at least as far as human populations were concerned. There were photos of his dad wearing a turban; standing among dangerous looking turban-wearing bearded men. There were also photos of Dad with men on ships and assault boats – rugged looking men in black fatigues or scuba gear, a surplus of weapons, their eyes a mixture of mirth and deadly intent. The insignia on an old uniform indicated that the father soldier had been a Navy Seal Captain. There were many medals, and the boy's imagination would fill with wonder as he gazed upon the three Purple Hearts. Omega had happened when he was two and he had no memories of his father who had never come home. He knew he was still alive. After all, way back, Dad had sent for some things, or so his mother had said. They had never spoken.

His mother had lived with Roy until the bad day. Roy had been okay, but he wasn't a dad. Never considered himself one. He made feeble attempts to discipline the boy, but it was more about keeping the boy out of his hair. The boy was his mother's responsibility. Roy provided shelter and food. Roy was more like a brother – a mean one – like when he'd make fun of the boy's slight lisp – copycatting him when the boy back-talked in protest. Mom had never come to the boy's defense, saying instead, "Roy's your Daddy now. You best listen to him". No, Roy had been no daddy. Roy had been good for one thing; he'd taught the boy how to camp. He hadn't exactly been a survivalist type, but he knew his way around a campfire, could set up a tent. The boy and Roy had gone several times into the deep woods that abutted their home. Once, they even camped at the edge of the Terminus Zone and the fifteen-foot high double fence that insured that they could walk no further.

As the boy grew older and his lisp faded away, he would stare for hours across the great icy expanse that began on the other side. As far as he knew, he was the only kid in his town that had ever seen it. The other kids weren't interested – most had been brought up to believe scary stories of the boogeyman out beyond. Besides, who would want to walk in the great dead frozen forest when there where so many lush virtual worlds to explore? Multigenerational shock over a lost planet made life as an avatar the choice for so many of the survivors.

His best buddy was the one other kid who had seen the fence, and that was only because the boy had taken him out there one day. The kid had been scared half out of his wits until he saw that it was just a stopping place marked by a huge sign, repeated every forty feet or so and bearing a single bold word – FORBIDDEN. As preschoolers they had been told that the fence went on forever. The boy knew of course that that was impossible, but he and the kid had walked along it for a long way. As far as they could tell, it went farther than their own town of Pawling and probably past Webatuck and South Dover as well.

For the last two of his twelve years, the boy had been studying his dad's Seal Team Field Manual and any other book on survival that he could get his hands on. He loved adventure tales; downloading them as fast as he could read them...until his mother found out, saw the credit card that he had taken out in her name, and the bill for online purchases. Roy had whipped him good for that one. Then the bad day happened. A typical Friday; they'd left the boy with a meager dinner to tie one on at the local tavern. As they had stumbled home in a stupor, one of the unpredictable blizzards that made the very long winters so very hard took them. Roy was found a hundred yards closer to the house, clearly leaving the boy's mom behind to fend for herself. Or, that's how the boy figured it.

The boy lived with the kid now, the kid's daddy having died during Omega, his single mom working two jobs, leaving the boys pretty much to themselves. The boy still had access to his now abandoned house and they'd begun stashing their gear there. It was their hideout, their sanctuary. They'd been plotting their trip for six months, soon after the boy had found the map. They had slowly built up their supplies while occasionally doing test camps in the woods right near the house. Tomorrow would be the first day of August: D-Day for the boy and the kid.

They had set an alarm for 4am, but neither of them could really sleep. At ten 'til they got up and snuck quietly down the bedroom hall of the single story house, listening to the kid's mom snoring away, making sure she didn't stir. When they got to the kitchen they grabbed the apple juice and the last bag of cereal. The kid's mom would be angry (apple juice was really expensive) but they would need the energy. They went over to the boy's house and got their packs. Knowing that they would be heading out in the dark and not wanting to forget anything, they had double-checked it all the day before. Their wind-up flashlights, which they had cranked to the max before dinnertime, were cranked again. Then they quietly marched into the backyard, ducking into the woods.

The kid had been nervous the day before. He didn't want to worry his mother, but then the boy reminded him that his mother never worried about him. She came home to sleep and was out the next morning. The most the exhausted woman would do is make them meals in advance while bitching about her life; how hard the two preteens made things for her. That memory set the kid's mind at ease and he was able to enjoy the hike. Heck, the way the boy figured it, they'd be giving his mom a break. They walked quietly, saving their voices for a distance beyond earshot of other homes and passed the apple juice back and forth and stuffing their hands into the bag of cereal. The sky behind them began to slightly brighten and within an hour they could see well enough to douse the flashlights. Half an hour further brought them to the fence. They had found the gate on their last trip out – the location clearly marked on Dad's map. The boy's daddy had been the commanding officer overseeing this part of the Terminus Zone - Captain Stewart Dean it said in bold print in the upper left corner. They assumed correctly that the gate was for maintenance and inspection; a way to get to the second fence.

There was a dirt road, which on the town's side of the fence followed its length as far as the eye could see. They had watched an Army patrol truck drive by on their first visit out. The driver seemed bored, barely looking out west as he cruised slowly along.  The gate had a keypad lock on it. The boy pressed the digits to match the numbers that had been hand written on the map. He'd read them a hundred times. The gate's electronic lock clicked, and when he gently pushed, it swung open with ease.

The second fence had no gate. Any maintenance could be done from the settled side only. The tops of both fences were thickly crowned with heavy gauge razor wire, but the boy had done his research here as well. The survival books had a solution for everything. They set down the one heavy duffle bag that they had carried between them. The boy unzipped it and drew out two thick lengths of rope. Attached to the end of each was a homemade grappling hook that they had fashioned from a couple of hand held garden tillers. The kid had the better arm, so it was agreed that he would make the tosses. With a spin of the hook to get some momentum, the kid heaved it high and they watched it sail over the fence. A straightened wire coat hook was passed through the fence to retrieve the swinging tiller, which the boy anchored into a triangle of the wire fencing. The kid tossed the next one over about three feet to the right of the first. The boy anchored this one as well and then they each put their weight on the ropes, slowly compacting the razor wire above. They tied off the first and then did the same with the second, effectively flattening out the razor wire and creating a gap roughly three feet in width. At the bottom of the duffle bag there was a small sheepskin rug, rolled and tied with a strap. The boy pulled it out and slipped the strap over one shoulder. They gave each other a look. The time had finally come. They were going where no one went. At least not for the past ten years, when the boys had just been toddlers – before everything had changed. The boy started climbing first. Despite the weight of his pack, the fence wasn't much of a challenge. He and the kid had been training for this - scaled many other fences. At the top, he clipped himself to the fence with a carabineer attached to the webbed belt around his waist. This gave him the luxury to remove the sheepskin from his shoulders and unfurl it with both hands. He then gently laid it across the compacted razor wire. It was then a simple matter of finishing the climb, stepping over the top and climbing back down.

When the kid set his feet down, joining the boy on the other side, the boy raised his hand and accepted the high-five. The young lads looked around them as though they had just stepped onto another planet- and for all practical purposes they had. As far as they knew, for the ten years after the Terminus Zone fence was completed, not a single soul from the Seven States of America had set foot on this ground.

As the weak sun threw the black forest's thin shadows across the great rocky plain, they laughed with nervous delight at this first small accomplishment. According to the map, it was twenty miles to the river called the Hudson. They had a long hike ahead of them.

The land beneath their feet had once been part of the same blackened forest that abutted the boy's home. When they built the terminus, thousands of men had cut the forest down, leaving nothing but stumps out to the horizon. The felled trees had been collected and stocked for future use, but according to his daddy's map, the clearing had not been for timber, but rather the removal of that which could provide cover.

As they marched, they left the recently thawed lake named Whaley to their right. The terrain was hilly, and at the peaks the breeze was quite cold. The spring, as they still called it, lasted a mere two weeks in July before ushering in the anemically short summer. It often tricked people weary of nine months of perpetual winter. They would sally forth, wearing improper clothes and soak up the forty-degree weather with a tease of sunshine lightening the permanent cloud layer. A sudden cold snap would catch many a fool unawares. The lads were not fools. They'd brought plenty of warm gear.

They hiked for a couple of hours until they saw a great road. It was like one of the highways on their side of the fence, but in deep disrepair and clogged with thousands of old hulks. Like the stumps behind them, abandoned vehicles filled the horizon. A road sign still showed Highway 84. They planned to follow the road to where it crossed the wide river. This was the point where the map became critical: the highway, as a natural path for foot travel, had been mined. The map offered the way through. Only by hugging the inside shoulder of the westbound side could they avoid tripping the explosives and leaving their disappearance a mystery at home. At various points, they would have to cross to the outside shoulder as the minefield crisscrossed the highway with the intention of avoiding any discernible pattern. Before stepping onto the road they paused for lunch. They had planned out their provisions so that there would be eighteen pre-packed meals. They planned to hike for five days: two to the river, one to walk its shore, and two to go back; returning as explorer heroes, the first to report back on the lands past the Terminus Zone. The boy brought his digital hand pad to memorialize it. The first interesting shots were the ones of the dead highway.

After giving themselves a short time to digest, they marched on, agreeing on three hours more. They'd made it fifty yards when they found shocking evidence of the decade old disaster: human remains lay scattered amongst the cars and trucks; more along the sides of the road. Bones were strewn about in a haphazard fashion and the lads found themselves staring in fearful wonder. They hesitated only for a moment before resuming their pace, discussing their lessons at school, trying to correlate this scene with that which they'd been told. The kid was more frightened than the boy, and had to be convinced that these bones were almost as old as them and certainly weren't coming back to life.

They found themselves poking through the detritus that was the remains of so many lives. Furniture and clothes, toys and electronics; some of it what the lads knew from their own world, but also many things that neither of them recognized for their function. Their hike had become a stroll, the stroll a casual wander, each lad showing off to the other some form of rotting artifact – a smorgasbord of curiosities.

They chose to set up their tent beneath an underpass and a faded sign that read Shenandoah Road. The trees, this far away from the Terminus Zone, had been left alone and while most still bore the blackened trunks of a long ago inferno, some had sprouted the hints of the short summer of growth. They ate by a small campfire, the warm embers helping ward off the growing night chill. They were quite tired by the time they rested their heads. It had been a sleepless night before, followed by a strenuous day and as young people without the weight of the world on their shoulders tend to do, they slept hard and with ease.

The lads awoke on the lighter side of dawn. The air was quite cold and they watched the steam of their breath rise to the top of the tent while they waited for full consciousness to return. They ate their breakfast quickly, accompanied by a light lavender cloud layer. With the mighty river only a few hours away calling them, the perpetual graveyard that surrounded them held less interest. They picked up their pace and the kid was chattier now as they passed a big burned out high school. At lunch they entered a town called Fishkill and were amazed at the depth of destruction. The remnants of a couple of motels greeted them first, followed by a mall turned to rubble. The boy took pictures as they ate and then they moved on.

A sign read Down State Correctional Facility and pointed toward an immense facility, a network of geometric looking buildings surrounded by multiple fences, not unlike those that bordered the Terminus. The open land between the ruined buildings and the fencing was covered in a sea of what looked like bleached white coral, but not coral: thousands upon thousands of human skeletons. The lads stared dumbly at the sight, cement-like fear replacing the ignorance and bravado in their veins. Only the sign above them fortified their resolve. It told of the bridge that lay ahead: the Newburg-Beacon Bridge. Just one mile more.

They walked as far out on the bridge as they could; perhaps thirty yards. The structure was really two bridges, one for the westbound traffic, and one for the east; both jutting over the water in mangled amputation. The boy pointed out the melted and twisted steel at the edges and explained that the bridge had been demolished so that whatever roamed on the far side could never enter the Seven States again. Over there, beyond the water's edge, the black forest continued. Bits of green sprouted here and there, but otherwise the landscape was just as dead as on their side.

They took the shore road north until they reached the town of New Hamburg, from there they would make a right and follow the county roads back toward home. As they walked, they hadn't really accounted for the view of the river to be obscured. The eastern shore had been built into a great fortress wall. Since perpetual winter froze the river for much of the year, it began with a concrete barrier that was at least thirty feet tall. Should snow drifts build themselves so high as to offer a ramp, the wall was backed up with a quadruple deep fence system, the spaces between laden with land mines. The shore road had been cleared of any broken down vehicles, and since the wall gave them little to look at, the boys made quick time to the town. When they arrived they found the wall cut the small town in half, reducing their ability to explore it the way they had hoped. A big house on a hill attracted their attention. It had a long curving driveway off a street called Conklin. Unlike the surrounding houses, it was intact with a roof of bright red shingles so they headed up the hill with the hope of a view.

The house was large and though weathered, the windows were intact. Every other house that they had passed had either been burned or damaged in some fashion, with most windows smashed out. There was an expansive lawn area that had long ago turned brown and which still had a thin layer of melting snow on it. While standing at its western edge, the lads had a commanding view of the river and the lands beyond. They could see a big bluff, where smoke appeared to be rising up through the black trees. The boy turned and looked back at the house. Something in one of the big picture windows caught his eye. Movement. His heart gave a leap as he pointed it out to the kid. There was nowhere to duck and hide, yet they both found themselves instinctively crouching. The kid gave the window a harder look and saw that the movement was mechanical. They cautiously crept forward until they could get a good look inside. A camera attached to a beefy looking tripod slowly panned across the view. The boys turned to look back across the river. As they did so, they didn't notice the camera change its trajectory, instead, coming to rest pointing right at them. They spotted other electronic gear inside the room and agreed that they should check it out further, see if there was an unlocked door or window.

On the backside of the house they noted a few struggling weeds breaking through the gravel topped circular drive. They tested the first floor windows and doors and found them to be securely locked. Frustrated, the boy suddenly got impulsive and tossed a rock through a kitchen window. Why not? Every other window in town seemed to be broken. They ran several yards away and turned to watch. After two minutes and nothing, they stepped back to the window. The boy reached in, flipped the lock and they both pushed the stiff casement up and open. After clearing the bigger pieces of glass they slid inside.

They were greeted by moldy doors and dark corners as they crept forward, passing through a formal dining room, stopping short of the living room. The roof wasn't in as good shape as it had appeared from the outside. There were several places where leaks had destroyed floors, furniture and cabinets. There was no electricity out here of course, but something was making the equipment work. They could hear a quiet electrical hum followed by a sound of a winding motor. The boy called out a hello, but got no response. They peeked further and spotted the camera slowly scanning back and forth. A second camera panned back and forth as well, the search patterns overlapping. There were also huge binoculars mounted to a tripod of its own.

The boy called out another hello. With no response, they relaxed. The kid walked up to the big pair of binoculars and put his eyes to the glass and focused on the bluff on the far side of the river. He could see the smoke well now and there seemed to be movement. He adjusted the focus knob slightly and things became sharper. Then he saw something queer, something not right, and he gasped stepping back. He couldn't speak at first, his psyche trying to sort it all out. The boy pushed past him to have a look for himself. There were men on the far side of the river. They were dressed in heavy furs and had long shaggy hair. Some were tall, others not, but all looked fit and strong. They seemed to be building or maybe repairing a dome shaped shelter made from logs, branches and mud. It didn't seem too unusual, just somehow ancient. Like the people he had learned about who lived on this land hundreds of years before. Then he looked a little harder and saw what the kid had seen and he felt his throat constrict. The men had an odd gait, as though walking on tiptoes. They had long tapered ears that seemed to swivel on their own. Then there were the eyes: large dark eyes, like those of an owl. One of them stretched his jaw and a mouthful of sharp shinny teeth caused the boy's heart to skip a beat. He took a quick breath. The kid told him to stop looking - but he couldn't - something compelled him to keep staring. One of the men... things... stopped doing his work and turned around to face him, his great owlish black pupils intimately staring, as if separated by a few yards rather than a couple of miles. The boy let out a small cry as he felt his mind fill with a jumble of confusing images and sensations. He could smell the man over there, the fire, the forest; could hear the movement of the others. He could see the house that he himself was standing in. It was just a dot on a chopped top hillside, but the red roof gave it away. Then something else entered his mind – it wasn't language, but communication nevertheless – it said to him, COME. COME. COME. BE HERE. COME. It became urgent and the boy felt his whole body filling with it and suddenly all he wanted to do was run out of the house and down to the river. He would scale the fence, climb the barrier, swim across the frigid river – he had to! COME. BE HERE. COME. BE HERE.

The boy turned from the binoculars sporting a thousand yard stare. The kid now crying, trying to stop him. The boy pushing right past, heading back to the kitchen, the window. Outside, with the kid pleading, pulling at his sleeve, the boy yanking his arm away and beginning to run. COME. BE WITH US. The boy began to sprint. Nothing mattered but to get to the other side. The kid gave chase, but he was quickly winded as his friend, his brother, ran faster. The kid didn't give up. He screamed over and over for the boy to stop, but the boy ran through the town, down the river road, right for the blown out bridge.

The kid watched in amazement as his friend sprinted to the end of the bridge. The kid was about to be left alone - out here – the boy jumped. The kid ran to the edge of the bridge screaming no! Then his mind was filled with an odd sensation, a warm buzzing, and he had to look, wanted to look, was compelled to look at the opposite shore where the smoke rose, and at the small dots that were the odd men – an overwhelming feeling - COME HERE. BE WITH US. Staccato images flashing through his head – His friend, the boy, swimming away toward the distant shore. Then a high pitched whine. Small cc engines behind the kid – skidding tires on gravel – two men on motorcycles – black fatigues, their heads covered in some kind of crazy helmet, the front the same as the back, no way to see out. One dismounted and grabbed the kid, pulling him toward his idling bike, the kid struggling, screaming that he wanted to be over there, gloved hands slapping over his mouth, his eyes – a visor slightly raised, a gruff, but kind voice, offering reassurance.

The kid was returned to his home, the hand pad taken away, his trembling mother taken aside, instruction given: They'd been camping in the local woods. The boy got lost. There was no further explanation, just a stern warning to never do such a thing again, that their home would be watched, their conversations recorded. They were to speak no more of the boy or the land beyond the Terminus Zone. To do so would mean permanent removal. No second chances – erased from the earth. But, what about the boy? They said the boy was dead. But you'll say he ran away.

And the kid thought about it, his friend, the boy; he did run away. Who could say he was dead?

## **CHAPTER TWO**

### **_STEWART DEAN_**

Stewart Dean's eyes slowly opened to observe that the water in the glass on his bedside table was frozen solid. Sometime during the night, the electricity had gone out. His ceramic space heater sat idly in the corner. He had a heap of quilts on top of him, but that didn't keep his nose and forehead from feeling like they'd been packed with cold clay. A thin layer of ice on the window diffused the dawn light. His condensed warm breath had collected there during the night and then frozen in harmony with the drinking water. He looked at the bare wooden floor and dreaded putting his feet on it. He glanced about for his slippers and then cursed himself, recalling that they were neatly set under his reading chair by the fireplace in his office. The night before, when the novel he was reading could no longer hold his interest, the warm bedroom and the knowledge of the space heater, tricked him into shuffling barefoot to bed.

He noted the heavy blanket of snow that had gathered outside, some of it drifting higher than the window ledge. He should have known better. The spring storm had howled around his small house for most of the previous day and into the night. Storms like that frequently brought down electric lines or fouled transformers. It was probably the tenth time since New Years that a storm had knocked out the power. How could he have forgotten his slippers? The rotgut that the islander's called whiskey probably hadn't helped.

Groaning, he threw off the blankets, gingerly set his feet on the floor and hopped into the bathroom where he could at least grab his robe and stand on a terry cloth rug. His morning routine usually started with a hot shower, but with no electricity, the instant hot water heater would be dead too. Instead, he ran a wet comb through his hair (at thirty-six his vanity was still very much intact) and let the faucet run to wash his face and brush his teeth. His were strong features, with cheeks and forehead assembling themselves into hard Teutonic plates accented by thick lips and a blunt, hawkish nose. It was the face of a man whose genetic mix suggested a long lineage of warriors. As he filled an empty toothpaste-stained glass, feeling grateful that the pipes hadn't frozen and that there was still a bit of water pressure, he slapped a handful of pills into his mouth. The capsules kept him from turning into a mindless killing machine and were a drag to swallow without water. The only other liquid in the house was the so-called whiskey.

Normally he ate his breakfast cereal with goat's milk and a glass of weak tea, but the weather had kept Mister Helprin from making his usual delivery. The sturdy farmer had managed to breed a hardy herd that could survive the harsh climate of Nantucket, producing enough milk for the whole colony. Dean stoked the bed of coals beneath the ash of the previous night's fire and got it roaring again and sat, absorbing the warmth, brushing last night's book to the dock on his reader and scanning the Boston Globe. The headline: Moroccan Freighter Arrives With First Citrus caught his eye. He knew the reporter. Had met him as an embed during the Exodus. Two years earlier, the same guy had come out to the colony to do a story. As one of a handful of immune people, the fellow was the first outside voice to offer an opinion on the life and times of the Nantucket exiles. His fame had brought the plight of the Halflies to the public back on the mainland. Things had turned a little for the better after that.

There was another article on the gradual re-warmth of the planet: the effects of millions of tons of smoke, ash, and dust trapped in the Stratosphere finally dissipating. The hope was that the next half of the year might see freezing weather wait until the end of September, offering the first growing season outside of hot houses in nine years.

He shoveled his walk. He didn't expect any visitors, but the exercise felt good and his military mind simply couldn't abide a snow covered walk. One of the island's two diesel powered snowplows had been by and the street was relatively clear. The colony had agreed to use some of its precious fuel for the two vehicles; the need to support commerce far too great to allow the roadways to be impassable. Despite the previous day's storm, the village was slowly coming to life. Dean could smell Fitzwell's Bakery pumping out the scent of the day's bread, and he quickened his pace as his only slightly sated stomach reminded him that onboard the Ginger Girl, Cookie would have biscuits hot and ready.

Passing over the treacherous cobblestones that still made up the streets of downtown Nantucket, Captain Stewart Dean's long legs deftly marched him to the wharf where his ship lay tied to her berth. He could see men crawling in the rigging amongst the schooner's three tall masts. The crew had risen before dawn to prep her, sweep off the snow and ready her sails. Smoke rose from the forward galley warming and thickening the air with the smell of more baking. As he stepped out onto the long pier where the schooner was docked, he passed row upon row of massive private yachts that had been long ago converted to permanent housing. Many of his crew lived aboard these boats, their owners long dead or finding little need for a luxury yacht left behind on what was effectively a leper colony.

When America fought to reclaim the New England states, Nantucket had become the home for the Halflies; an unfortunate (or fortunate, depending whether your glass is half full or half empty) group of humans who had become infected with Cain's disease and had received what was then considered to be a miracle medication. The potent cocktail, if given in time, arrested the raging bacterium – temporarily short-circuiting its ability to breach the blood-brain barrier. To enjoy this miracle, the victim was destined to take a daily handful of pills for the rest of his life or succumb to the beast that would replace him. Captain Dean was a former Navy Seal who had contracted the disease nine years before, while trying to finish an impregnable wall against millions of his infected fellow Americans. Dean's team had the job of securing and ultimately destroying the Newburg-Beacon Bridge, the last major crossing for the Hudson and the final escape path for thousands of uninfected refugees. Inevitably a hoard of Fiends had come on the tail of the fleeing healthy. The Seal Team hadn't finished setting the demolition charges and to their profound frustration, after urgently setting off what they had, the bridge stayed in place. Despite a huge amount of firepower, the Seals had been overrun. Only Dean and one of his ensigns had escaped, both bitten and in rough shape. A medivac to a converted euthanasia station had got them to a medic with access to the then experimental drugs. Dean and the ensign (now his boatswain) survived and had been living in exile ever since. He would leave behind a son and wife, and he let them go rather than remain a haunting reminder of someone they could never touch or lay physical eyes on again. That's what he told himself anyway.

Despite the cocktail of pills, he and the rest of the island's residents were still highly infectious to healthy people. As such, they were offered permanent, so called, accommodations on the 48 square mile island of Nantucket. The residents also had to agree to sexual sterilization (infected persons passed the disease on to their offspring in a genetically mutated form). A child of such a union was, by all accounts, an evolutionary nightmare and the foundation for modern day fairy tales that spoke of demons born with nothing but wickedness in their DNA.

As he approached the gangplank, his boatswain, Ensign Lance Palmer, spotted him. The man brought out his whistle to announce the arrival of the ship's captain and Dean offered a brief salute as the crew paused and came to attention. Though the Ginger Girl was a commercial vessel, many of her crew were, like Dean, former Navy and used to the hierarchy of the military. The captain moved to the stern and found his First Mate, George Sanders, in the master's cabin at the navigation table. Sanders stood along with the Pilot for the Nantucket harbor, Kevin Jenkins. The men had been bent over a chart of the Nantucket Sound, steaming cups of tea in their hands.

"Morning, Stew," said Sanders, offering Dean a cup.

Jenkins nodded at Dean and set his cup down, pointing at the chart, "Telling Sanders here, Rights spotted last evening about here. Twas the timber ship comin' in. 'Er cap'n said it was a big pod. Maybe twenty adults, several calves. Noticed 'em from afar. Orcas, must've peeled off a calf. Said it raised quite a froth."

Sanders said, "Ship's about rigged, Cap. We could be out there in two, three hours. Jenkins here, says they were heading southwest, practically crossing our front door."

Cookie entered with a steaming tray of biscuits, "Mornin', sirs. Fresh out of the oven."

"My growling belly says thank you, Cook," said Dean through a quick mouthful.

Cookie nodded with pleasure, "Sir."

As he chewed, Dean pointed at the chart, his finger hovering over an area of ocean covered in Xs. "Gonna get themselves into the mills, looks like."

"Could be, sir," said Sanders.

"Well, what are you waiting for, George? Let's put out."

"Aye-aye, sir."

One hundred and forty years before, the Ginger Girl had been a trading schooner. At 132 feet long (172 with her bowsprit) she was among the last of her type when steamships replaced nearly every commercial sailing vessel. Her primary route had taken her to Shanghai where she brought back ginger root in exchange for cotton grown in South Carolina. In the early twentieth century, she had come into the ownership of a railroad magnet who had converted her for pleasure cruising out of Newport Road Island. During the next half century she passed into the hands of other wealthy men, remaining a large luxury yacht, always with a full-time professional crew. There was a brief stint from 1942 to 1944 when she was commissioned as a submarine watcher during the war. In 1969 she was trapped in a probate battle and allowed to rot on a dock while an unsettled estate paid the rent for a decade. In the nineteen eighties she was donated to a maritime school in Connecticut, which used her as a dry-dock classroom for wooden ship construction. Later, the school put together the funds to repair her and she became a floating classroom. Then in 2002 the school failed and she was sold off at auction, finding herself a sixth life taking tourists out on day cruises from Nantucket. In 2021 she survived the U.S. Marine invasion of the then infected island to wipe it clean of Fiends. Now she found herself converted to a fast whaling ship. Her cargo: a precious resource of both food and lamp oil – a rare commodity that could be bartered for goods from the mainland and beyond.

In absence of a large resource hungry polluting human populace, and despite the ravages of a ten-year nuclear winter that left all but the planet's equator in permanent overcast, the world's whale populations had veritably exploded. After calving in the warm and sunny center of the planet, they continued to return to their traditional feeding grounds in the colder climes, where surprisingly, the krill population remained robust. The Ginger Girl didn't have to roam far to get her share of the great fatty mammals, which was fortunate since her hunting grounds were geographically limited. As a condition of her use in the sea beyond the three mile zone surrounding Nantucket (the limit of where the island's fishing fleet was allowed to work) the schooner, like all Nantucket boats, was fitted out with a radio beacon that broadcast her position to stations along the mainland at all times. Additionally, every resident of the island was implanted with a transponder chip. As a requirement of accepting exile over euthanasia, the residents were required to be monitored 24/7 to make sure that they never encountered the healthy. To insure that no healthy came within spitting distance of the Halflies, shipments to and from the island were left at floating wharfs out in the harbor.

The breeze was up early and the Ginger Girl cut through the two-foot swell with a full set of sails. Dean stood by the helmsman, Mr. Burrows, enjoying the feel of the salt air. Despite the deep chill, the gritty moisture brought some rose to his cheeks; a bracing sensation that his skin never failed to enjoy. He glanced toward the lookout, perched two-thirds of the way up on the forward mast, and felt a tinge of sympathy for the man. The frigid breeze up there would be very harsh. The sailor was fitted out with the warmest gear but his eyes would still be exposed to look through his binoculars. Along with searching for their prey, the lookout also had the important job of gauging the depth and breadth of the submerged parts of the hundreds of icebergs that dotted the ocean around them. A berg that appeared as a small lump on the sea's surface could just as easily be a deadly floating mountain - its sharp edges capable of shredding the wooden planking of the schooner's hull.

After an hour, with the Ginger Girl making a healthy twelve knots, the lookout yelled out, "Whales ho!" and pointed to the north-northwest. In the distance, a small geyser of water separated itself from the chop of minor whitecaps, followed by another. The whale's means of breathing was, unfortunately for them, a great white flag that drew in their pursuers. Beyond the whales stood a man-made forest that rose from the sea: wind turbines, thousands of them, dotted the horizon and disappeared over its edge. They had been placed there before Omega, after a hard fought philosophical war between green thinking futurists and oil addicted presentists. For America, or what was left of her, they were much of the lifeline that kept a society dependent on electricity alive. They were also strictly off limits to anything but navy shipping.

Sanders let his binoculars fall to his chest and spoke to Dean from the side of his mouth, "Awful close to the line, Cap."

"Mmm," was all Dean replied then turned to the helmsman, "Ten degrees to port and hold your course, Mr. Burrows."

"Aye, Cap."

Sanders yelled out to the crew who handled the sails, "Coming ten to port, close-hauled!"

The Ginger Girl's deck slowly tilted to the right as the men brought the sails in tight, keeping the same airflow over what were really inverted wings while the boat beat to windward. Just like an airplane, which gets its lift from the vacuum created at the top of the airfoil, the Ginger Girl's sails pulled forward in an effort to fill their own vacuum. At such a tight angle of sail to the wind, the speed of the ship bled off with the less efficient arrangement, giving Dean just what he wanted, a direct path to the whales while not over shooting them.

"Prepare the boats, Mr. Sanders."

Sanders called out to the harpoon crews who were already getting one of the two skiffs hanging off the starboard side ready to lower. Each boat had a team of three men - two to pull the oars and a third as the harpoon man. As the schooner bore down on the pod of Right whales, the lines holding the sails were released to reduce the speed further and the deck crew lowered the first skiff with its hunters aboard. As the skiff hit the water, the lines holding it were released, and as the two men at the oars pulled hard, the pod dove out of sight. The Ginger Girl pressed on and the second skiff was lowered, with the hope of boxing in the big mammals when they surfaced next.

Jamesbonds Boonmee was a small man in stature, but made up for it in muscled bulk. Ten years before, his parents had made the unfortunate decision to visit family in Virginia. The FND-z epidemic was beginning to germinate in Florida, and was only weeks from exploding into a national pandemic. As members of a nomadic seafaring people, the Boonmees were considered sea gypsies (or "chao lei" - in Thai) who made their livelihood fishing off of and around the island of Phuket. Jamesbonds' auntie Nim had made the rare choice among her people to live abroad, emigrating to America, getting a degree at Georgetown, and finding work in hospital administration at Walter Reed. Auntie Nim had saved hard and had finally sent for her family so they could see where she lived and discover the amazing country that was America. Days after the Boonmees arrival, there was a sudden ban on international flights to and from the U.S. Later, in the madness that became the evacuation of Washington, twelve-year-old Jamesbonds had become separated from his family, never to see them again.

The Harris' had been on a family spring-break cruise when the news broke of multiple Cain's outbreaks, and they had sailed to Annapolis to try and find more of their kin who lived there. Instead, they found chaos. A failed search for family had them scrambling to get to their 40-foot sloop. They cast off with hundreds of desperate people charging the docks, swamping other fleeing boats. Once safely out into open water, they were surprised to find Jamesbonds hiding under their inflatable dingy. Taking pity on the orphan, they brought him to their home on a small islet attached to the greater island of Jamestown Road Island. The residents there destroyed the bridges to their sanctuary and survived most of the madness that befell the country. In the face of growing hunger on the overcrowded island, Jamesbonds became somewhat of a savior, putting his vast skills at fishing to work to feed the Harris' and many of their neighbors. It wasn't quite enough, but it kept them all from starving.

That luck turned when Jamestown had been liberated before the infected population in greater Rhode Island had been eradicated. Suffering from malnutrition, Jamesbonds had been transferred to a field hospital outside of East Providence. Days later it came under assault from a pocket of roaming Fiends. The creatures were destroyed by the well-armed hospital staff, but not before several people had been attacked and infected. While he lay weakly on a hospital bed, seconds away from having his throat torn out by two rabid females, a doctor ran in and shot the ghouls down. Alas, he had gotten a fair amount of their spittle in his screaming mouth and that was that: He was immediately treated with the new drugs, which arrested the disease, but doomed him as a carrier.

With the salty spray of a breaking whitecap dousing his face, Jamesbonds found himself at the bow of the whaling skiff, harpoon in hand. With exceptionally well trained eyesight born from diving for fish as a youth, he could see the shadow of a Right whale off their port side rising to the surface. "Left! Come left, my friends! Pull hard!" he called out to the oarsmen.

The rowers drove their oars into the sea, the port man pulling harder and deeper to turn the boat. Making sure that his feet were firmly placed under the webbed strapping on the deck, Jamesbonds leaned out over the bow and raised his harpoon. Ten yards ahead, the whale broke through, its white callosities giving the animal the appearance of a rising rock. A spout of breathy seawater rained down upon the men. The rowers too pulled with greater urgency. They had but a few seconds before the animal dove again.

Spying the point just before the whale's spout, in the general area of the brain, Jamesbonds heaved the gear with all his might. A spool of heavy nylon line spun out from the bucket between his knees. The fiercely pointed object plunged into the top of the whale, driving its tip at least two feet into the animal's thin skin, thick blubber and muscle. At the moment of impact, a short fuse was ignited on a grenade-like charge just behind the spear tip. The grenade went off just as the whale's body heaved at the unexpected assault. Shrapnel fired deep into the beast, shredding much of the brain. At eight times the size of a human brain, there was much neurological damage, but not enough to stop the big mammal's muscles from connecting with its final instinct, to dive.

As the harpoon line spun out to its end and snapped taught to its mooring, Jamesbonds ran to the stern of the boat to counter the weight of the impending heave on the bow. At the same time, the rowers had spun around in their seats and heaved back on the oars. The bow of the boat pulled down into a crossing wave, sending six inches of water across the deck and over their feet. The skiff moved forward as though on its own for a hundred yards or so and then slowly came to rest.

The second skiff attempted, but failed to spear another Right and the pod dove out of sight.

Long seconds ticked by as the schooner jibed about and with the wind now behind her, she came back for her skiffs. Jamesbonds and the rowers remained braced for another yank. Instead, a great dark gray mass broke the surface to their left. The cetacean's tail gave one last jerk and then it laid still. A large oily blood bloom covered the water around its once graceful head. The harpoon flopped over as the whale rolled onto its side.

The men on the schooner cheered with the men on the skiffs. The oarsmen patted Jamesbonds on the back then rowed to take charge of the kill. In the distance to the North, a high speed Coast Guard interceptor was coming directly toward them. By the time the schooner had stopped alongside the dead whale the interceptor was hailing via radio and a loudspeaker. "This is the USCGC Vigil. Keep your bow pointed to the wind!"

Captain Dean turned to Sanders with a one-sided smile, "Guess we crossed."

"Guess so."

Dean turned to Burrows, "Continue maintaining point to wind as the Coast Guard suggests."

"Aye, Cap."

Dean called down to the recovery crew who where using gaffes and rope to tie the whale along side. "Quickstep it people. They're going to tell us to go home. We want to keep our prize."

In moments, the Coast Guard boat came to a halt approximately fifty yards off the Ginger Girl's port stern. A sailor stood on her bow aiming a deck mounted fifty-caliber machine gun while several others leveled assault rifles at the schooner. Her captain lifted the loudspeaker mic to his lips, "Our radio interceptors identify this ship and her crew as infected persons living on the isle of Nantucket. You have crossed the boundary allowed for your vessel. You are fishing illegally in U.S. waters. You will release the catch and return across the boundary forthwith."

Dean called out to his crew, "Keep working everyone." He picked up a cone shaped hailer that was mounted behind the helmsman and stepped to the stern. "Good morning. Nearly finished here. On our way as soon as we've recovered our boats."

"You will recover your boats, Captain, and release the whale."

"Thank you, but we need to keep the whale."

A sailor handed the Coast Guard captain a note. He paused a moment to read it and then spoke back into the mic, "Captain Dean. You are in violation of the quarantine agreement between infected persons and the United States of America. By rights, we can sink your ship with all aboard. You have one minute to release your catch and be on your way."

Dean crossed his hands behind his back, letting the hailer hang from his wrist. He turned to Sanders, "What do you think? You're good judge of a sailor's tone. Is he bluffing?"

"No, sir."

"No." Dean paused and scratched his beard. "They're scared of us and rightly so. Please ask Mister Kneedham and Mister Kile to prepare the persuaders."

Sanders got on a walkie-talkie and spoke to someone below decks. Some of the crew had stopped working and looked to Dean for guidance. He smiled at them, saying, "Don't stop, people. We need that whale much more than they do." He turned and raised the hailer back to his lips. "We've got folks starving and in need of lamp oil. You'll please excuse the crossing of the line. Thrill of the hunt caused us to lose our bearings."

The Coast Guard captain stepped out from behind his windscreen, still holding the mic. "You have ten seconds to cut that whale loose Captain or we open fire." He started counting down.

Dean sighed. "All right, Mister Sanders."

Sanders spoke into the radio again. Suddenly the windows opened on the lower stern revealing a M242 Bushmaster chain gun. Mr. Kneedham trained the heavy weapon on the interceptor while Crewman Kile revealed a second gun at center deck. Rather than for threatening the Federal Government, the guns were meant as a deterrent to pirates. Desperate times equaled desperate gambles and even the uninfected might attack a Halflie ship to kill her crew.

The attitude of the Coast Guard crew changed dramatically.

Dean spoke again through the hailer, "We'll be on our way in just a moment. Again, I apologize for missing the line. We will endeavor to not let it happen again."

The Coast guard captain could be seen consulting with a few of his crew before speaking into his mic, "We can have a Navy destroyer intercept you within the hour. You will follow my order."

"Again, I apologize Captain. We both know that the U.S. government doesn't have the fuel for such fool errands. You're bluffing. Now please leave us be. We'll be on our way in five minutes."

The Coast Guard captain smartly chose to argue no further. Instead, they stayed on station until the Ginger Girl got back under way and followed her to the invisible boundary that separated the healthy from the Halflie and kept watch until the schooner's hull dropped below the horizon line.

Back at Nantucket Harbor, a celebration was waiting for Dean and his crew. Great cauldrons were set to fire for rendering the blubber. Butchers waited with sword sized knives at the landing, ready to receive the beast that would provide them all with food and oil for a little while longer. Nantucket had one fortunate aspect to offer its exiles: In the years prior to Omega, the island's residents had privately invested heavily in offshore wind turbines. Though several of the great machines had stopped working due to storm damage and a dearth of parts, there was still plenty of electrical generation to keep the island working and warm. Light bulbs, on the other hand, were a luxury and difficult to come by. With the limited trade allowed between the colony and the mainland, more often than not, whale oil was used in traditional kerosene style lamps. With the bright burning oil, a home was warmly lit at night and often during the day as a counter to the ceaseless overcast.

With oil being so precious and chances good that the Rights would still be in the neighborhood, Dean planned to have his ship back out on the hunt the following morning.

## **CHAPTER THREE**

### **_THE ULTIMATUM_**

Captain Dean could smell it as the Ginger Girl moved quietly on a light breeze through a dense fog over calm water. He'd always had it: a nose for trouble. As a young Seal, he had been promoted quickly during combat tours. His keen senses and consistent ability to make rapid and smart decisions had gained him great trust. This was no less true on his schooner; where even at a relatively young age for a captain, he received deep respect and unwavering faith from his crew. The sound of multiple approaching engines confirmed his intuition and he found himself hating his proverbial nose. The omni-directional nature of sound in fog made it nearly impossible to detect which direction the boats were coming from. The near idle setting of their RPMs told him that they were closing in on his ship and that whomever was driving didn't want to smack into the heavy planking on its sides. The engine noise was deep and as he and helmsman Burrows turned their heads, listening in opposite directions, the sound moved through the air like an old hi-fi stereo recording: first left, then right, then both left and right as the sound split onto both sides of the Ginger Girl.

"Hold steady, Mr. Burrows. The Navy is about to pull up nice and close." Dean looked over to his first mate. "Rest easy if you please, Mr. Sanders."

"Pissed them off I guess. So much for not wasting oil." Sanders raised his voice just above the level of the approaching engines. "No silliness, lads. Professional seamen."

Two high-walled battleship gray Navy frigates appeared through the gloom. Steel canyon walls gently closed in on either side, cutting off the light breeze that had been carrying the schooner forward. The sails fell slack and the old wood of her hull creaked with the gentle swell. Several officers backed by armored up Marines leaned over the port rail of the starboard frigate. A Naval commander, spoke up. "Permission to tie up to you Captain Stewart." It was a purely rhetorical request.

Dean smiled grimly. "Granted." He turned to Sanders and nodded.

Sanders called out. "Right. Look lively. Stow the sails. Boonmee, Cinders, be ready to receive lines and raft up."

As the crew got busy an Army colonel spoke from between the Marines. "Colonel MacAfee, Captain Stewart. Permission to come aboard?"

"We are a Halflie crew, Colonel. Not mad, but highly infectious."

"Understood. I'll take the proper precautions. I'm sure none of your crew intends to bite me." The man was covered from feet to neck in heavy camouflage leather and wore a battle helmet. He snapped on a surgical mask. He would be pretty safe.

"We don't bite visitors, sir. However, I can't guarantee that someone won't accidentally sneeze. Infection can enter through the eye."

"I'll take the risk."

Dean thought the man either overly brave or a fool, the two positions being roughly the same. A grappling net was hung from the side of the frigate and the Colonel quickly scrambled down onto the Ginger Girl's deck walking straight up to Dean. He held out a gloved hand. "Stewart Dean, Dusty MacAfee. I'm an admirer of yours. Is there somewhere that we can speak in private?"

Dean settled them into the cozy but cramped navigation/officer's room. "I'd offer you a brandy, but I only have some island bathtub gin. I can't guarantee that there isn't a trace of Cain's on the glassware."

Colonel MacAfee removed his mask and smiled. "Captain Dean, I'm not here to empathize with your plight or talk of rogue behavior from a ship full of cast outs. I've come on behalf of our government. I have a mission for you."

Dean looked at the man for a moment with an arched eyebrow then cleared his throat. "Colonel, I am no longer a citizen of the United States."

"Nonsense. You're just an American who has ended up with one of life's shittier deals. You have never been anything but an exemplary soldier. Your country needs you, your crew as well."

"I don't speak for my crew - outside of their duty as members of this whale hunting operation. When back on shore they are their own man or woman."

MacAfee leaned back in his chair, letting the anxiety that he rightly felt, loosen from his neck and shoulders. "How is Nantucket doing with electricity?"

"I'm sure you know we get by."

"My intel says you've got a lot of idle wind turbines. Here's what I need. I need a group of volunteers who happen to be immune to or in you and your crew's case, infected with Cain's, to travel across the country and bring back a shipload of new wind turbines and parts. The mainland, like your island, is running out of juice. In exchange for this, the United States Government will install one new high-efficiency wind turbine on Nantucket along with the spare parts necessary to maintain it for ten years."

Dean looked at the Colonel carefully and decided that despite the ridiculousness of the request that this wasn't a joke. Before he could respond, MacAfee continued, "I'm also required to inform you that if you and your crew don't volunteer for this mission, your ship will be impounded for its many boundary violations. Your crew, while awaiting prosecution, will be disallowed from any further work on any other vessel and potentially subject to solitary imprisonment." MacAfee cleared his throat again. "Those are the secretary of the interior's words, not mine, but they have the backing of the president."

"I see." Dean smiled and quietly stared into MacAfee's eyes until the man uncomfortably shifted his gaze to glance about the room. Dean finally said, "Though you have yet to impart the details, and I think the likelihood of your mission succeeding is preposterously low, should we actually succeed, in exchange for near certain death for me and my crew, you will give Nantucket two wind turbines. Option two is that I let my bosun, Ensign Palmer, who is standing on the other side of that door, spit in your eye while I send my crew to climb up that net and take that frigate. The rest I'll improvise afterward."

Ensign Palmer made an earnest hungry sound on the other side of the door.

MacAfee laughed. "I do admire you. You're perfect for this thing. I can't guarantee the second wind turbine, but I figure if you can get the things all the way back here, we can drop one off on Nantucket on the sly before we cruise back up to Boston. Oh, and yes, I'm going with you."

## **CHAPTER FOUR**

### **_PLUM ISLAND_**

Wenfrin Blakely was a very black man. Whereas most African Americans looked like they had at least a splash of cream in their coffee, Wen was a dark roast, so dark that he could be legitimately called black. At the height of his law enforcement career he had been known as Black Blake, but he preferred to be called Wen; as in Wen is he going to come get me? He had thick, pockmarked, leathery skin on his face, offset by an intense winning smile and eyes that seemed bright enough to illuminate a train tunnel. The image was capped off with a crown of thick silver hair that beautifully contrasted with his dark chocolate coating. He was a semi-retired U.S. Marshall and trains were his passion.

Before Omega and the whole world getting fucked up, Wen chased bad guys across rail yards and little side towns from Seattle to Tijuana. His prey was a gang of killers known as the Freight Train Riders of America: an anonymous group of shadowy men and women who first became known for going after transients, but who later became drug runners. They were an odd assortment of train freaks; folks who literally loved everything about trains and wanted to keep the world of freight trains free of those who didn't. Their original crime was hobo killing, "cleaning up" anyone unfortunate enough to be hitching a free ride without the say so of the FTRA. That's when Wen Blakely got involved – simple homicide. But it wasn't simple. The killers were smart and they left almost nothing that could be called evidence. It was an adventure for Blakely. He got to work with trains and do some sleuthing. Then the game changed when a search for a ringleader nicknamed Downtown Crossing turned into a major manhunt. Several college students who had been hopping trains for fun were brutally murdered; an X like rail-crossing sign carved into their foreheads. A year of hard police work had ended with Crossing and several of his followers trapped at the top of a water tower. A sniper bullet to Crossing's head finally ended the stand off. Drugs came into the picture and things got sloppy. The members of Wen's taskforce found themselves dragged into the world of the DEA and the madness that was the war on drugs. For Wen it was a morale-crushing spiral into fruitlessness as they swept up one homeless person after another and jailed them for addictions that they would never really get help with. The ringleaders were all south of the border and very much free of any consequences; running the government there in all but name. Wen wasn't a fan of the effects of drugs, but he was less of a fan of how the black market destroyed more life than the simple use of the stuff. When he loudly advocated for the Federal legalization of most narcotics, he was gently pushed into retirement.

Boredom had him founding a tourist-based program for faux train hopping. With the blessing of the Burlington North Santa Fe Railroad, he took people on paid trips hopping freight trains across the country. When the Cain's pandemic happened, it was his knowledge of the nation's rail system that had allowed him to shepherd perhaps a hundred people to safety, getting them to New England. With law enforcement decimated by the plague, Wen was asked to come out of retirement and work for the Feds in Boston. Surprisingly perhaps, his assignments were few. In a society suddenly united against turbulence and disorder, he found himself spending long days at his local pub. His life took a celebrity turn when a martini lunching literary agent overheard him telling his escape story. The Adventures of Black Blake had been turned into a book, a children's book and a Virtutrip that was growing in popularity.

Decades before, Plum Island off the eastern tip of Long Island, had been shut down as a research facility and the Federal government had tried to sell it for private development. Unfortunately for the U.S. taxpayer at the time, a horrible economy mixed with rampant stories of an island covered in diseased animals and God only knew what kind of human experimentation, killed the idea of a new Shangri-La for the rich and famous. Abandonment had allowed nature (even in perpetual winter) to survive and thrive. The former laboratories had been converted to a museum, which, post Omega, had been restored to their original purpose: the study of the most virulent animal borne diseases to befall mankind. Cain's disease or FNDz (frontal negation dementia) as it was scientifically termed by one Dr. Andre Zachariah, was the primary (actually the only) subject.

It was bitterly cold but dry as the Navy patrol boat carrying Wen Blakely approached the island. The location of the Sun could almost be made out through the uninterrupted cloud layer. Despite this heroic back-story and his sort of job as a U.S. Marshall, he was at a loss as to why he had been summoned to an island that had once held the U.S. research labs for the most virulent animal diseases in the world.

A large schooner, outfitted for whaling, lay at anchor two hundred yards off shore. A thin trail of smoke trickled out of one of the deck cabins. A cheerful looking passenger dock, clearly built for when the island was for sale, greeted him with a brightly painted sign: _Welcome to Plum Island. Where Nature's Bounty Meets The Sea, USAMRIID_. A machine-gun emplacement was built into the hillside above the dock with two very alert soldiers occupying the post. Wen noted that the gun appeared to be aimed toward the anchored schooner. A squad of Army regulars greeted him as he stepped ashore, and he waived at the sign snickering, "Really?"

The sergeant leading the squad offered Blakely a frown in response. "Welcome to Plum Island, sir."

Wen continued, "Thanks, but really? Nature's bounty?"

He was whisked via Humvee into the interior to the main labs and greeted by another soldier who reconfirmed Wen's identification with a retinal scan before escorting him into the building. Colonel MacAfee and two people wearing lab coats, one holding a cocktail, stood inside. MacAfee said, "Marshall Blakely, Colonel Dusty MacAfee. We spoke briefly on the phone. I'd like you to meet Doctors Tina Freigh and Nathan Schiller."

In total contrast to his lab coat attire, Schiller offered Blakely the cocktail (complete with mini umbrella) and said, "Welcome to Fantasy Island, Marshall Blakely."

"Nice to meet you. Call me Wen." He held the straw to his lips, then hesitated, looking at the drink with suspicion.

Tina said, "Everyone is a guinea pig on Plum Island, Mr. Blakely."

"Tina is joking, Marshall," said MacAfee

"No I'm not," said Tina. "But the cocktail is meant for what it does; takes the edge off."

Wen shrugged and took a long sip.

"Glad you could make it," said MacAfee

Wen let the straw drop from his mouth. "Colonel, the only thing getting me here was an order from the Justice Department. Apparently, I still follow orders." He smiled at Schiller. "Real rum."

Schiller gestured at the doors behind him. "This way please, Marshall Blakely... Wen."

As they entered the conference room Wen stopped short. Two rugged looking men wearing surgical masks sat on one side of a long table. Their cocktails sat on the table untouched.

MacAfee smiled and waived his hand in the direction of the men. "Marshall Wenfrin Blakely, meet Captain Stewart Dean and his first mate Mr. George Sanders. The Captain and Mr. Sanders are infected with Cain's, thus the precaution. And yes they are from Nantucket." Dean and Sanders took in the new arrival as MacAfee said, "U.S. Marshall Blakely, is an expert in trains among other things. He also hails from the Port of Los Angeles."

Wen nodded while taking a step back toward the door. The two men nodded back.

"Introductions made, let's cut to the chase." MacAfee indicated for Wen and the scientists to sit. Wen sat with deep reluctance. MacAfee grabbed a remote off the table and nodded at a technician who stood behind a window inside a projection room. "If you'll all direct your attention to the screen in front of you." The lights dimmed and a PowerPoint presentation came up. The first image was of the former Continental U.S. with a purple line indicating the border of The Seven States of America and the Eastern Canadian provinces. The rest of the map had a gray overlay with the word UNKNOWN stamped across the expanse of it. MacAfee pointed at the map. "By unspoken consent of both the people and the combined governments of Canada and the U.S., those of us who have survived the last decade seem to have chosen not to acknowledge the fact that we are amputated from the rest of our nation. Despite reports to the contrary, with the exception of a few observations from mostly unmanned surveillance posts that are out at the periphery, the government has no working knowledge of what lies beyond the Terminus Zone. What those posts reveal is sketchy at best, but what we do know is too disturbing for public consumption."

"Too disturbing?" asked Wen.

MacAfee clicked the remote. The map became an animated video showing the frigid but healthy parts of the nation and its bustling infrastructure: electric vehicles on highways, massive vertical green houses built into former skyscrapers, industries of many types – a working population of modern humans. "Now obviously this is a virtual representation of the nation, given that Satellites are either no longer operational, have fallen out of orbit, are incommunicado or subject to partial blindness due to perpetual cloud cover." The video settled on a wind farm where hundreds of wind turbines turned in huge lazy circles. "The primary source of all of our energy." MacAfee nodded at Dean and Sanders, "including for our friends on Nantucket. We're rapidly running out of parts for existing units and the rapid rise in birthrates and general productivity is putting an unsustainable strain on what we've got."

The presentation zoomed back out to the map of the Continental U.S. and paused. "So here's the deal. In some records office in Boston, a clerk dug up the manifest for a shipping company and, based on a purchase order from a now defunct wind energy company based in Maine," the map zoomed to the port of Los Angeles where miles of massive docks and cranes hung over hundreds of tankers, container ships, general cargo, roll on off vessels and even a few ocean liners, "we think we have isolated a vast cargo of wind turbines and parts in this vessel here." The video zoomed to a huge cargo ship at the end of a commercial dock. "This is a satellite image that was taken approximately one month before the Russians went for their suicidal bid to stop Cain's, and gave us this fucking decade long white Christmas." He glanced around. "Sorry. It still irks me. At that time, this ship," MacAfee looked at his notes, "The Delfshaven, had been left in port for more than a year after Los Angeles was lost to Omega. Obviously, we have reason to believe that it hasn't left this position. I've been asked to put together a team that is capable of getting this cargo and bringing it back."

Wen put up a hand, "Here is where I get off the bus. It sounds very heroic and exciting, but I've sworn off that kind of stimulation since retiring from chasing drug runners."

MacAfee offered a patient smile. "Let's discuss your options when I'm done, Marshall Blakely."

Wen shrugged and gestured for the man to continue. "Suit yourself. Just sayin'."

The map zoomed out again and paused over the East Coast. "The mission is more than just bringing back badly needed and difficult to manufacture parts for our energy infrastructure, it's also about finding out what's out there. The president has fashioned himself as a new Thomas Jefferson. We're the new Lewis and Clark Expedition. We all talk as a nation about taking our country back, but from what? Do Fiends still roam the countryside? Doubtful. Zombified madmen have little hope of surviving a ten-year nuclear winter, but what of their children? We've all heard tales of their children."

On the screen an animated dotted line traced its way from Plum Island down to Richmond Virginia. "In addition to his crew of mostly former military personnel, Captain Dean has offered up his schooner, Ginger Girl, for the trip south where we will make port in Hopewell, Virginia and, from there, utilize his whale boats to row up the James River to Richmond and Old Town Manchester. There we will rely on your masterful knowledge, Marshall Blakely, of the Nineteenth Century wonder that was the steam locomotive." Another satellite image zoomed in on an old rail station located next to a major rail line, then zoomed tighter to an attached modern glass and steel building. A long commuter train was stopped on the tracks. The entire area around the train was covered in dead, mangled bodies - hundreds of people. "Sorry. This was the only available image. It was taken when Cain's broke out of the last Southern containment zone. Focus on the building if you please. Inside is a 1919 P-5-A Atlantic Coast Line Pacific tank engine. The building is a museum. They converted the engine for rides in 2016. Chances are excellent that despite the harsh climate of the past years, this well built old machine is still operational. Assuming so, it will provide us with the basic transportation needed to make our way across the country. They were offering tours right up to the months when the shit hit the fan. It's possible that the coal tender is full and if not, there are additional supplies to be had." He clicked the remote and a satellite image of a coal-fired power plant came up. "This is the Contex power plant just down the main line from Hopewell and the museum. Note the line of loaded coal cars on this spur. As a back-up, if these cars are no longer there, the engine can run by burning wood. Given that we can't count on a consistent supply of diesel fuel, it has been deemed logical that we use this older but proven tech."

Dean interrupted. "Forgive me, but what kind of bullshit intel is this? The government still has access to aircraft. You got tar sands for fuel. Why not do a proper recon on this?"

MacAfee paused, the light from the projector illuminating half his face. "Yes, that's the rumor anyway."

"Wait. Are you saying the U.S. government has no ability to fly a plane down there?"

"Captain. Transportation on the mainland is reduced to electric vehicles only. We have not had the ability for several years now to create enough biomass for all the food we need, much less fuel. The tar sands you speak of were either made radioactive by Russian nukes or are locked in permafrost with weather so extreme that... Suffice to say that poor planning by the previous administration as well as wonton wastefulness, and a general unwillingness of the surviving population to accept our circumstances, has left us mortally short. Only our ability to produce electricity through alternative methods has kept the lights on. Every mission, including chasing around a Nantucket whaling schooner, needs a sign off from the top. We have satellite pictures. The chance that anything has moved out there since these were taken is close to nil. Now, may I continue?" The US map suddenly filled with overlays of color, each with a skull-and-crossbones on top. A yellow line zig-zagged its way across the nation through the Southern States. "You will note the highlighted jagged line. That is our intended route. It doesn't skirt every potential hazard, but a lot of number crunching was done, and this seems to be the best way to avoid the various nuclear melt downs and toxic waste zones that resulted from or hasty exit ten years ago. We will occasionally have to don our hazmat gear and drive fast."

"This just gets better," blurted Sanders.

Dean said, "Assuming that this intel sucks, what's your plan B?"

"Whether we go or not is not an option. As far as transportation - the commuter train next to the museum is plan B. We locate whatever diesel we can as we go. There are options via the whole route but nothing is guaranteed. As I'm sure you recall before being bitten, in the end every type of fuel was being rationed."

Wen gestured at the screen disapprovingly, "Can I go home now?"

Putting on a stiff smile, MacAfee continued, "Four hand picked volunteers from my own Special Forces unit will be along for the ride and will be responsible for shaping us into a fighting unit that can handle itself in this unique circumstance."

Dean offered a wary look. "Fight what?"

MacAfee signaled for the lights to be brought back up. "Part two of our presentation. If everyone will follow Doctors Freigh and Schiller, they will escort us to the laboratory."

An elevator descended twenty stories to reach a maximum quarantine zone, requiring the passage through two airlocks and a decontamination chamber before the group came to a stop in a foyer that could have been the entrance to any dentist office in America, sans magazines. Tina said, "What you are about to experience is more than top secret. There is no paper that you will be required to sign nor is there a penalty that you will be threatened with if this information makes it to the general public. The nature of this is such that few would believe it anyway." She put her eye in front of a retinal scanner and a door opened to a small room with two desks, each outfitted with a computer. A large frosted window took up one entire wall. There was a well-used sofa with a bed pillow and a coffee table with the crusts and crumbs of a meal or two. Seated at a desk was a woman who finished dictating into a headset. She looked up, removed the headset and smiled... and such was her stunning beauty that Stewart Dean found himself almost floating off his feet. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties with soft shoulder length brown hair and deep hazel eyes that in the low light of the room were dilated into dark pools. The smile was of a genuine nature, both open and inviting. Dean had to scold his heart, commanding it to slow down even as he could feel a flush rising through his neck. The woman took no notice of this. Despite Dean and Sanders' masks, she warmly parted her lips in anticipation of an introduction.

Tina said, "Captain Stewart, Mister Sanders, Marshall Blakely, this is our chief research assistant, Elizaandra Sherr.

Elizaandra offered a quick wave and spoke with a deep voice. "Hi. Eliza, if you like."

Tina nodded to Schiller. "Nathan?"

Schiller put his hand on a switch by the wall. "Please keep your voices in check and observe the window." He flipped the switch and the frosting disappeared revealing a one-way mirror. They were looking in on what seemed to be a fairly nicely furnished apartment. Then Wen Blakely gasped as a figure moved near a desk in the corner. "What the fu...?" And everyone gasped. A man, or sort of a man stood up on legs shaped like that of a gazelle. They were covered in human flesh, but they were unquestionably bent, made for running or perhaps leaping at high speed. That was just the legs. The man, if that was what it was, wore only a pair of customized boxer briefs. He had a broad, hairy chest and a long thick neck that led to the head of a predator. Long sharp teeth filled a casually chewing mouth while huge deep-set eyes looked out from under a heavy brow. Large pointed ears seemed to cast about for extra information until they suddenly focused, along with the eyes, on the mirrored wall.

"Fuck me," barked Sanders, his voice muffled under his mask.

"This," said Tina, "is Hansel."

A door opened and a female version of this being stepped out of a small bedroom. Her focus briefly scanned the male, then she too poured all of her energy into looking at the mirror. "And that," continued Tina, "is Gretel."

Dean found his voice. "These are the children that only exist in fairy tales and the nightmares of those who have seen them as infants."

Eliza said, "Like you, Captain Stewart, I had one of these infants stare me straight in the eye ten years ago. We had no idea then that this," she nodded at the creatures, "was what would come."

"They're so fucking big," said Wen. "Pardon my French, but what the fuck am I looking at?"

Schiller said, "Though they are only eleven years old, these twin Children of Fiends, Homo Telepathus, or Pucks as we've nicknamed them, are for all intents and purposes fully grown adults. We have been studying them since they were captured just before the Terminus was complete. They are the progeny of two infected persons. An evolutionary leap that is far more than the physical attributes that you see before you. They can't hear us or see us, yet they sense us. If we were to be in the same room together, they would be inside your head the moment they noticed you."

"Wait a minute," said Dean. "What do your mean in your head?"

Tina said, "Hansel and Gretel, as well as the rest of their species, are telepaths. They have voice boxes, but they don't really need them. They have an overwhelming power to enter each other's, as well as other people's, minds."

"You got to be shitting me," said Wen, backing up against the couch arm. "What the hell kind of science fiction shit are you people pulling here?"

"Marshall Blakely, this is quite real," said Schiller. "We didn't create them. They came from the union of two people infected with FNDz. These people... These sentient beings, are the result of a massive shift in DNA."

"Yeah? So can you get infected from them too?" Wen briefly glanced at the masked Halflies.

Eliza stood on long legs and buttoned her lab coat. "Yes sir, but it's different. It's not as easily transmitted as it was when their parent's contracted the disease."

MacAfee had remained silent until this point. He gestured at the pucks. "We have conjectured that there are millions of them still surviving today. If that is true then they are such a threat to humankind that even Cain's will seem tame. From peripheral observations... yes we have seen some with our remote surveillance stations - they are... remarkably resilient, cunning, resourceful, and... merciless. It has been theorized that given the chance, they will naturally replace us on this planet." He looked at Tina for confirmation.

"Your words, sir. But it's certainly possible."

Hansel and Gretel moved closer to the mirror, scanning it with curiosity. Suddenly Gretel picked up a heavy looking chair and heaved it at the glass. The chair bounced off harmlessly. Still, everyone but Schiller, Eliza and Tina had stepped back expecting the worse.

Gretel spoke. Her voice was loud and clear over the speakers. "Get in here Eliza! You know that we hate being looked at through the mirror."

Eliza turned to the guests, "Like I said. They have vocal cords." She looked at the assembly and said, "I need a volunteer. Captain Dean, since you're already infected?"

## **CHAPTER FIVE**

### **_MEET HANSEL & GRETEL_**

Dean stood with Eliza in an anti-chamber to Hansel and Gretel's apartment while the others watched them on a closed circuit monitor.

"You can remove your mask, Captain Dean,' said Eliza. "Like yourself, I am infected."

In the next room Wen slapped his hand over his mouth and said through his fingers, "What the hell?" He pointed at Sanders then at Dean and Eliza. "If they're sick, what about the rest of us?"

Schiller replied, "She is not contagious."

Eliza began fitting Dean with a visorless black helmet that covered his head to his shoulders. She said, "Forgive the industrial version. It works just as well as the latest tech that the Colonel's people have. What you're wearing is not unlike a Virtuhelmet; only this processes three hundred and sixty degree A/V in real time. Without it, Hansel and Gretel can overcome your mind the moment you step into the room; something they can do even at great distances. If they are aware of you, they can lock on you." Dean found some of her words slipping past his attention as he tried not to be affected by her physical closeness. The woman was like a colorful coral dwelling fish: beautiful and completely unaware of it. She seemed unconscious of the fact that her breasts were brushing against him as she snugged up the strap. She was saying, "Though we have raised them since toddlerhood, they are very distrusting of strangers. They mature at a very rapid pace. Though they are post-pubescent, which occurs around age five, emotionally, they aren't very different from eleven-year-old humans. For your safety, unless I instruct you otherwise, please keep the helmet on the entire time that you're in the room." She finished tightening a strap. "How does that feel?"

"Fine," said Dean. His voice sounded perfectly natural coming over the speaker in front of his face. "A little disorienting." From his perspective, he only had to think about the direction that he wanted to see and in his mind's-eye he saw it with binocular vision, sharper than his own. Wanting to see what was behind him suddenly shifted the image to the monitor where he could see Sanders stretching to reach a spot between his shoulder blades. "Got an itch you can't scratch, George?"

Sanders stopped scratching and glanced at his hand in amazement.

Wen's head was overwhelmed with questions. He pointed at the things on the other side of the glass. "I mean, what about a bite from one of those things?"

Tina brought up her hands up in a conceding gesture. "That would be a problem. Saliva injected directly into the bloodstream would likely produce infection. The results are the same as the original: a complete devolution of the brain, rendering it to its primal parts and a significant rewrite of the genetic code, particularly in the male sperm. Unlike Mr. Sanders and Captain Dean, Eliza is the beneficiary of the latest treatment. She is infected, but she is no longer contagious and no longer needs medication. The pathogen remains dormant in her cerebellum. As Elizaandra has proven, we think it's safe enough for further experimentation."

MacAfee said, "And that's the sweetener on this deal. You and your crew, Captain Dean, will be the next level of the drug trial."

Wen said, "So wait. How did she get infected?"

"I was bitten," said Eliza from the other room. "When the children where young. An accident."

"Accident?" said Wen, taking another unconscious step back from the glass.

Dean unstrapped and lifted the helmet. "You mean we could return from exile?" He let a fleeting image of his son cross his mind.

Tina said, "That will be up to the politicians and law enforcement. Despite the new drugs, Eliza hasn't been allowed to set foot off this island." She put a reassuring hand on Wen's forearm. "No one has been bitten since."

Eliza appeared irritated and said, "Are we done?" She pulled Dean's helmet back down. " Listen carefully. They can be easily startled, so no sudden movements. It is in their nature to react swiftly, and sadly for one of our researchers in the beginning, lethally if provoked." She spoke louder for Blakely. "Just like me. That accident was long ago."

Dean hesitated, "You're not exactly filling me with confidence here, Doctor."

"Technically, I'm not a PhD. And it will be fine." She gently steered Dean toward the door while opening it. Eliza gestured to the surrounding airlock space, "Just as it did when we entered the main lab, there will be a brief moment when decontamination would have taken place. You can ignore that. The system is shut off. Then we will step into the apartment." She pressed on an intercom button. "Guy's, I'm coming in now. As Doctor Freigh promised, I'm bringing a guest. You will treat him as you treat every guest."

From the observation room the others watched Hansel and Gretel stare at the entry door to their apartment with obvious anticipation.

To Dean's frustration, his heart skipped a beat as the door to the apartment slid open. He'd seen the worst of urban combat and yet...

Gretel stood first, followed by Hansel who was now chewing on what looked like raw meat. The man creature had a gleaming white set of viciously sharp looking teeth. To Dean's revulsion, as he focused on the teeth, his view zoomed closer and took in the gory details. He glanced away to reset his vision, instead concentrating on the unnatural shape of their legs: something between a goat and perhaps a frog. It made his skin crawl, but he refused to let it show in his bearing.

Eliza gently said, "Gretel, please stay out of my head. You'll find out who this is as I introduce you. Thank you. This is Stewart Dean. He is going to go on that trip that we've been talking to you about. He is the Captain of the ship we will be on. Captain Dean, this is Gretel and Hansel. They are sister and brother. They were found ten years ago not far from here on the eastern tip of Long Island. They have been staying with us since then. They both speak English very well."

"Um, how do you do?" said Dean. "I'm sorry, but did you just say trip we are going on?" He looked toward the two-way mirror, the question left hanging. Gretel said, "Very well thank you. You have a very athletic body."

"Who cares, Gretel?" said Hansel. "I am also well. Why are you wearing the helmet?"

Eliza said, "He's wearing –

Hansel interrupted "I asked Stewart Dean, Eliza. Do you mind if Stewart Dean answers?"

Eliza let her mouth fall open with barely hidden displeasure, then smiled. "Indeed you did, Hansel. Forgive me."

Dean hesitated then said. "I prefer it if you refer to me as Captain Dean or just Captain. The helmet... Um, I've been told that you have a great gift, but that it can be... troublesome for someone who hasn't experienced it."

Hansel said, "We think it would be more reassuring to us if you removed the helmet. We promise that it won't be troublesome. Captain."

Gretel gingerly stepped over to Dean and held out her hands.

Eliza said, "Guys, I'm not sure the Captain is ready for –

"It's okay," said Dean. "I can tell that these are good people."

Gretel offered a razor sharp grin to her brother. Dean unstrapped the helmet and pulled it off. He was immediately taken with a strong smell of musk followed by a taste in his mouth of some kind of meat. He almost gagged.

Eliza put a hand on his shoulder while keeping her eye on the pucks. "Even if they don't purposely try to enter your mind, they can't help but release a certain amount of what their senses are experiencing. It will inevitably mix with yours."

Dean rubbed his tongue along the inside of his cheeks. "You don't say?" He was suddenly sickeningly overcome by a feeling of deep foreboding. An old sensation he hadn't felt since being overrun and bitten those many years ago. He felt a sudden loss of self-ownership. With feelings of pure shame over the unmanly nature of it, he felt his knees begin to buckle and he involuntarily blinked and yawned to clear his head.

Eliza used her other hand to hold his elbow. "Captain?"

"Um." Dean rubbed his fists into his eyes. "I'm... I'm fine."

"Do you frequently begin sentences with um?" asked Hansel.

"Um, no. Forgive me." He stood straighter, forcing himself to attention. He needed to grab some initiative. "I can taste your lunch, young man. Among other things, I haven't eaten meat cultivated on land in some time. Virtutrips haven't captured it as well as I thought." Slowly he got his bearings back. Like the bright lights, sounds, and smells of a carnival being turned down and then just fading away, his head cleared and he looked at the large owl like eyes of the beings before him.

"You're very handsome," said Gretel. "Isn't he handsome, Eliza?"

Eliza looked at Dean as though for the first time, quickly taking in more than just communication through the eyes. "Uh, I suppose so." She smiled warmly at Gretel like a teacher to the student. "That's very kind of you to say, Gretel."

Hansel said, "It doesn't require getting into your head to know that you are wondering if we know how different from you we are. We know our origin. We remember our days before this place. We remember the constant hunger."

Eliza said, "We have always felt it best to make sure that Gretel and Hansel are fully aware of what is going on. They know that they are here as subjects of research. They know that they are part of an evolutionary shift that we are still attempting to understand. They know that their parents were people just like you and me who succumbed to a disease that has both directly and indirectly destroyed at least eighty percent of the world population of Homo Sapiens."

Gretel said, "We know that there are others like us."

"Well, yes and no," said Eliza. "There are others who are like you, but as to language, education, the basic elements of civilization..."

Hansel interrupted. "We are excited to see the world."

"Yeah, about that" said Dean while glancing at the mirror.

MacAfee's voice came over the PA system. "Let's wrap things up for now. Lots to discuss and sort out still. I believe Ms. Sherr has classes to conduct with these young folks."

The would-be explorers assembled again into the conference room where a soldier in her late-twenties sat alone at the large table typing on a piece of viewing paper. Even though she was seated, her athletic build was obvious. Dean, followed by Sanders (both again wearing masks), noted her but chose to ignore her while sitting down. "There is no fucking way those things can come on my ship!" barked Dean. "I experienced them face to face ten years ago. A mere toddler stopped us in our tracks. Took over our minds. You're insane to let them out. They're behaving now, but what's to happen when they're truly free? Nothing can stop them from messing with all of our heads, eating us for lunch. You feed them red meat for God's sake! You know what real meat costs in this world!"

MacAfee said, "Captain. Control yourself."

Dean shot a look at the superior officer and repetitive obedience to rank snapped him out of the rage.

MacAfee pointed generally toward the wall as though to indicate the outside. "Captain Dean. From what we can tell, not only are the children of the infected surviving, they are likely thriving and reproducing. We know they build shelters. They use fire and from what you saw of Hansel and Gretel, they are very intelligent. Think of those two downstairs as our Plymouth Indians. We don't know what we are going to meet out there, but wouldn't it be prudent to have a couple of these beings with us who are on our side?"

"You must admit that it makes sense, Captain," said Tina.

Schiller seconded her by adding, "It's a chance for us to know how the others communicate out there. Hansel and Gretel may only be able to interface with us because we taught them how."

Wen said, "This sounds crazier every minute. You said this was going to be about trains."

MacAfee ignored this, saying, "Our pucks may be our only means of communicating." He paused and said, "Chief." The soldier set her viewing paper aside and quickly stood at attention. "Gentlemen, this is Chief Warrant Officer Gloria Hernandez. She is among a select few who have been observing the pucks on our border out past the Terminus." Quickly cutting off any questions, he added, "Yes, they camp in small groups just on the other side of the Hudson. Chief Hernandez will be leading the combat side of the mission. She is up to speed." He aimed his thumb at the small window where the projector beamed into the room. "She's been observing while operating the protector."

Hernandez simply nodded at the angry men.

Dean nodded back and said, "Well, Chief, I guess you already have a sense of us."

"Sorry Captain. I like to get the gist of the people I have to work with before saying hello."

Sanders made a sour face at Dean. "Spook."

"Green Beret, Mr. Sanders."

Sanders said, "Worse."

Wen said, "Dumb old rivalries aside, you haven't told me yet how I'm supposed not get infected. And I'll ask another question. What keeps them from coming? The one's past the Terminus I mean."

"That is the question, Mister Blakely," said MacAfee. "It doesn't require that much to cross the border. It was built to stop a half-witted Fiend, not something like..." He pointed down at the floor "...them." He began to pace. "Why they haven't tried to cross the border is one of the mysteries we hope to solve. Bringing Hansel and Gretel will hopefully help answer that." He said the last part as though it was the last word and casually looked at each of them, letting his authority soak into their eyes. "I don't know about all of you, but I'm hungry. I believe that we have some dinner coming. Doctor Schiller. Why don't you explain to Mister Blakely how he will be protected?"

Schiller said, "There is no protection. The people working at this facility take a certain amount of risk. It's a small risk, but it is unavoidable. Until Captain Dean's crew has been inoculated, you and the Colonel and his soldiers will need to take precautions."

Wen held up a hand saying, "I'm out. Thanks anyway."

"The antidote, if you will, exists, Marshall," said MacAfee. "In the unlikely event that any of us gets infected, we have access to the same therapy that Elizaandra had.

Wen started toward the door. "Like I said. I'm out."

"Sit down, Marshall." MacAfee's voice was like a clamp on Blakely's neck. Wen stopped, but didn't sit. MacAfee continued, "You have peeked inside Pandora's box. There is no putting back what you have seen. You are on an island. You aren't going anywhere for now."

"I have rights."

"In the name of national security, your rights have been rewritten."

Dinner was brought into the conference room. Details were pored over. When they were again looking at the old satellite image of the ship that held the wind turbines Sanders asked, "So we find this ship. How do we transfer the parts to the train? I mean those things are huge. Are these cranes working? Will an old tank engine be able to pull a load like that?"

McAfee typed on a keyboard and brought up a schematic of the ship. "We won't be unloading her. We'll confirm that she is still operational. No reason she shouldn't be. This is a Norwegian built vessel. A company that had an outstanding reputation for making things that last." He then typed some more and brought up a map of North and Central America. "We will take her out and sail down the coast to Nicaragua where we will pass through the new canal. Technically the reduced sea levels of today will still work for us. The canal is deep. No locks. I passed through her in a submerged submarine back in the day."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," interrupted Dean. "You're 'hoping and praying' that the Nicaragua Canal is still passable?" He pointed at the map. "That's a hell of a long way from home if the thing is full of silt."

MacAfee smiled. "It's all a long way from home once we're on that train and across the country. Worst case, we go around the horn."

Dean and Sanders laughed together. "Right," said Sanders flatly pointing at the schematic. "I don't see that this ship is also an icebreaker."

Dean added, "She was likely built to handle some North Atlantic sea ice, but not break through it."

MacAfee said, "The scientific consensus is that the weather around Cape Horn likely precludes the chance of permanent sea ice. Nevertheless, we shall anticipate using the canal."

As night fell and the humans upstairs continued to plan and argue, Hansel and Gretel were lying down in their separate bedrooms. Without really being aware of it, the pucks thought together in the same way an individual human would while working out a problem on his own. As long as they were within a space of perhaps two hundred square meters, and or in sight of each other, no matter how distant, their thoughts would blend as if from a single brain. Since their time in the womb it had been so. They shared firmly embedded memories from birth to the present. They also kept the memories of others who were like them – toddler pucks - back in the time before they were captured and brought to the island. They were confusing memories, invariably contrasting with the time they had spent with the "Fresh Ones", as their brain-addled parents had referred to uninfected humans. Before their capture, the twins had been part of a collective mind of psychopathic humans brought together by their telepathic offspring. They had rampaged across the land in an unchecked quest to kill, eat, torture and rape those who weren't yet infected. The memories of that communal chaos still ran deep in the domesticated puck's minds. Rather than being a source of terror, the memories of that mayhem were a source of profound pleasure. It took every ounce of their learned self control not to try to recreate that pleasure by assaulting their keepers. Now that they had been told that they would be leaving the island, that they were to go to the lands of their fellow pucks, a conflict arose within them, and they found themselves trying to solve it day and night. They never spoke out loud of their combined thoughts. They were aware that they were being recorded. Instead, like anyone who might weigh the pros and cons of a situation, they bandied their ideas back and forth like two halves of the same brain; neither of them differentiating between which brain originated which thought.

_On the one hand, I would very much like to eat Eliza's liver. Eat it while she watched._

_But I love her and like her smell._

_She does smell so good. Like the mother when we were living in the woods._

_I want to see Schiller scream in agony. I remember this thought from the times he put the electrodes on our heads and made us take all of those tests._

_Yes that is a good thought. I can see his face contorted._

_He is such a nice man. Funny to want to see him in agony._

_It makes me feel warm inside._

_But also bad._

_Yes, bad._

_Like wanting to pluck out Tina's eyeballs and feel them pop on our tongue as we bite._

_Yum._

_Stewart Dean. I like him._

_Yes._

_I don't want harm to come to him._

_No._

_Why do I like him?_

_He is of us. I can smell it, feel it._

_Yes, that must be so. He is of us._

_Like Eliza._

_Yes, but I don't want to eat his liver._

_His heart._

_Yes. His heart._

## **CHAPTER SIX**

### **_SEA TRIAL_**

They scheduled two walks on the island so that the team could experience time outside of the lab with the twins. Except for Eliza, everyone else was fitted out with an updated helmet to filter out the puck's potential for mental invasion. Tina and Schiller stayed behind, watching from a window as the well bundled group headed out toward the large field that lead to a thick wood. To Tina's private dismay, she couldn't help feeling that she would see neither her young assistant nor her subjects again.

Despite the decade long nuclear winter, the island was filled with life. Hearty evergreens and rugged shrubbery successfully stood up to the near constant overcast and cold. Small beasts and birds continued to call the trees home. The short spring was perhaps a misnomer. Cold sea breezes whipped icy moisture across exposed skin reminding everyone about the fickleness of the weather and cutting the first trip short when hail had them running back for cover. The second walk was mostly pleasant, with a novel moment: To the astonishment of even Eliza, Hansel gestured to a small bird, which instantly flew to his hand. Without hesitation, he bit off the head, spat it out and then quickly ate the rest of the tiny creature without spilling a drop of blood. Jealous of the meal, Gretel attempted to do the same, but was stopped by Eliza with a harsh command of "No". Gretel sulked for the rest of the outing until she let herself fall toward the back of the group where she summoned a robin straight to her mouth, not bothering with the business of removing the head. Her brother snickered while also enjoying the sensation of small bones and silky feathers being munched together.

A day later, with his crew gathered before him, Dean stood on the rail above the Ginger Girl's Foc'sle. Behind him the ever-present overcast was giving way to stormier looking dark clouds. Sanford stood near his captain ready to brace the man should the growing ocean swell make him lose his footing on the rail, a completely unnecessary gesture; Dean stood on legs that moved with a natural rhythm as the sea heaved the bow up and down. Lying on the deck next to them was a large plastic shipping crate with a hinged lid.

"So here it is then," said Dean. "Some of you may remember that during the waning days of Omega, there were reports of, and even sightings by a few of you of children among the infected with significant malformations. Some said they were mutants. You may remember that there were also tales of mind control or as least in my case, finding myself having feelings or more accurately, the sensations of another person other than myself."

Several of the crew grumbled. One, a tough looking woman named Alice Pike barked out, "Babies that looked like devils. That's what they were. Could make a person cut their own throat. Saw it happen... before I got bit. My girl Sally, squad mate for five years, shooting at the thing while stabbing herself with her own knife."

Dean continued, "Well, as Alice says, they are most definitely real." He nodded toward Plum Island "The doctors over there say that these things are part of a genetic mutation due to Cain's and that the world is probably full of them."

Many of the sailors found themselves unconsciously glancing toward the island or the western horizon. All of them took notice of a small Navy tender that was launching from the Plum Island dock.

"Eyes on me," said Dean. "Now I've explained to you all the nature of the task we have been asked to accomplish. If we can get our hands on those wind turbines, it will make life a lot easier for all of us back home. There's just a few hitches. The notion that there are any Fiends left roaming the countryside is just that, a notion. There's no chance any of those brain-addled folks have survived the past ten years. Their children on the other hand.... Like I said, the folks over there think there's lots of them." He paused to look at the approaching tender. "Sanders and I have met two of them already."

The crew broke into garbled talk and grumbles, most eyes focusing back and forth on the island then the approaching boat.

"Eyes on me!" The crew stood at attention again. Dean said, 'Yes, they've got two of them over there and they're all grown up, and yes they look like some kind of devil's spawn, and yes they can get into your head and mess with it, and yes, you guessed it, the government wants to send them with us across the country."

The crew broke into frenzied shouts of fear and protest.

"Quiet!" yelled Sanders joined by Boatswain Palmer pulling out a whistle, blowing and yelling "Settle down, settle down!"

"Silence!" yelled Dean. The crew settled down. Dean nodded toward Sanders. "Your first mate and I have been fully exposed to these things. We stand before you completely unharmed. They have been in captivity since they were toddlers and appear to be civilized. They speak English and they have control, if you will, over their abilities. Nevertheless, precautions must be taken." He cast a hand toward the crate. Sanders opened it and lifted out a black faceless helmet. Dean said, "These pucks, as they are being referred to, and you'll know why when you see them, will be joining us for a short sail to see how we might all fair together. Mr. Sanders is holding one of the helmets that you will all wear while they are on board. The helmet is quite a piece of tech. It allows you to see but stops their ability to get in your head." Sanders and Palmer started passing out the helmets.

One of the armorers, Mr. Kneedham, spoke up. "So that's it then, Captain? These things are coming on board without so much as a vote?"

"You of all people know, Mr. Kneedham, that a ship is not a floating democracy. After these tests, anyone who chooses not to continue will get a first class ride via the U.S. Navy back to Nantucket. Now please put on the helmets as you receive them. It will be slightly disorienting, but you'll be amazed at how well you can see all around you. For those of you who haven't been able to get a new eyeglass prescription in years, you may not want to take it off. The device is motion sensitive. In addition to the photovoltaic skin, piezoelectrics charge it up while you wear it. It can also be charged at a universal charger. It will just turn on when you put it on."

The helmets were different than the one Dean wore the first time. These were more like a cowl and covered the top of the head from the bridge of the nose up with what looked like a black bowl on top. A double chin strap held it in place. As the crew put them on, there where various oohs and aahs of amazement. The other armorer, Mr. Kile, blurted out, "Look at that. I can zoom without even thinking about it. I could shoot anything with this thing on."

Dean nodded at Sanders again who yelled out, "Eyes forward!" A few crewmembers kept their backs turned. Sanders spotted Jamesbonds Boonmee. "I said eyes forward, Seaman Boonmee!"

Jamesbonds giggled and said, "But I'm staring right at you sir."

Several other crewmen laughed at this.

"Don't try me Seaman or I'll have you cleaning the bilge all week."

Jamesbonds and the others turned around.

Dean continued, "These things.... These guests. Hansel and Gretel. Yes, that's their names. They will be treated like any other guest onboard. A scientist, an Army colonel, three Army special ops, and a U.S. Marshall, who are part of the mission, will also join us. Colonel MacAfee, Marshall Blakely and the soldiers are susceptible to Cain's and therefore will be taking the proper precautions. The scientist, Ms. Sherr, who is the puck handler of sorts, is, like us, a carrier. As might be expected, the pucks are also carriers. And there is some good news on that front, which I will share with you after today's sail."

The Navy tender came aside the starboard beam and a sailor wearing a full MOPP kit took hold of an offered line where he tied up next to a gangway that led down from the Ginger Girl's deck.

Dean called out again to his distracted crew. "You will note that Mr. Sanders and I are not wearing helmets. The pucks are used to us and know to refrain from anything but spoken communication. If all goes well, we will only have to wear these helmets on an as-needed basis. Now, you're going to be shocked. Gretel and Hansel are sensitive. Behave like the disciplined crew that you are. Once our guests are aboard, we will raise sail and hoist anchor for a short run around the island. Mr. Sanders, the crew is yours." Dean turned to greet his guests.

Sanders called out to the crew, "Face starboard and remain at attention."

MacAfee and Hernandez came up the gangway first followed by Wen. All of them wore masks to protect them from infection. Eliza came next, gently coaxing her protégés to join her. Gretel gently stepped aboard wearing a customized snowsuit with her brother wearing an identical outfit right behind. The pucks looked at their surroundings like a pair of giant praying mantises who have suddenly found themselves inside a capture jar. The crew could be heard to gasp and murmur, but they all kept their cool.

"Welcome aboard the Ginger Girl," said Dean.

"Looks like we might see some weather, Captain," said MacAfee.

Dean glanced at the distant squall. "A bit, but it will only enhance the test."

"Of course."

"If you will all follow me to the stern, we'll make way."

Dean chose to "beat to weather", toward the squall, and then leave it to their backs as they rounded the eastern part of the island to make the long run along its south side, thereby keeping them in the lee of the storm on the western side. This would leave a beat into any heavy weather as they tacked eastward to get back to their anchorage on the north side.

The breeze began to come up and the pucks were enthralled as the gaff-rigged sails were raised three quarters high and reefed for the impending wind. Only the time-testedness of the crew kept the men and women from tripping over each other as they stole glances at the strange looking decedents of man; the new headgear being perfect for understandable voyeurism. As the anchor came up and the heavy ship got underway, the heaving bow smoothed out as it cut through the growing swell. Hansel and Gretel let out yips of excitement as the sails began to fill out and the vessel slowly healed to port. For Dean, Sanders, Wen, MacAfee and Hernandez, who were experimenting without the helmets, the puck's exhilaration bled through into their consciousness filling them with the thrill of the ship's movement. Dean looked to Eliza and exclaimed, "This is intense - what I'm getting from them. I can't say I'll be able to concentrate on the job if it stays like this."

With futility, Wen tried to yawn the sensation away.

Eliza, her high boned cheeks flushed from the cold damp air said, "Bear with it. You'll learn to filter it out."

As the Ginger Girl and the squall got closer together, snow flurries drove in with sharp little stings of ice and, like sand on a windy road, the puck's emotions shifted from elation to fear, to wonder and delight. Though grown to adulthood, they remained mostly curious children. Wen was surprised to feel his tongue grow cold as Hansel opened his mouth to catch the falling flakes.

As they came along the eastern point of Plum Island the waves began to grow, their foamy peaks whipped off by the breeze, sending salty spray across the deck. The crew reefed the sails in further, drawing the tack down along the masts and making them fast. For the first time in a long time, Dean allowed himself to feel genuine pleasure. He was removed from the isolation that was the banishment to Nantucket. He could mentally stretch his arms out again. As a descendent of explorers he needed to be free. To wander, to find adventure, was built into his DNA. As he breathed freely, taking in his surroundings anew, the puck's unintended invasion of his senses seemed to dissipate. Perhaps that was the key: focus on something else and be aware that such focus would diminish the puck's hold. He called for a tack and the three heavily timbered booms swung to port. Everyone shifted their weight as the Ginger Girl heeled to the opposite board. Eliza found herself briefly leaning against Dean for support. He glanced down at her face. The cold wind brought tears to the edges of her bright hazel eyes. She smiled at him briefly, caught her balance, and patted his gloved hand.

The pucks observed all of this, absorbed the emotions, and felt the gamut of sensations that both humans had felt. What Dean couldn't know and what the puck's knew intimately, was that Eliza's pulse had quickened, that she had tried to stay it while regaining her balance, that the sensation troubled her as she attempted to concentrate on anything else but the man standing beside her. Stewart had also had a brief uptick in his heartbeat. For the pucks, this was new. Their primary experience with the human heart was one of fear and loathing. This was different. This was something that they had only read of in books: angst, warmth, yearning and regret, mild embarrassment, and most of all, hope, desire, and the fear of their consequences.

Fascinating," said one half of their shared mind.

I don't think I like it.

No, not one bit.

As the Ginger Girl turned west, the crew let out her sails for the downwind run and the keel righted itself to almost level. Though she ran at a good clip, the following seas were faster, lifting the stern, rolling under the hull, then lifting the bow and carrying on toward the distant point that was the northern tip of Long Island. With the breeze at their backs the chill was less noticeable and the passengers who were unfamiliar with sailing felt more at ease. Wenfrin Blakely, for one, was very at ease on the sea. Growing up in San Pedro near the Port of Los Angeles, he had owned a small day sailor given to him by his father who was a local yacht-racing champion. Most of his idle time as a youth was taken up with an old Catalina Capri 14.2, and as he became more confident over the years he would take the small open boat across to Catalina Island and eventually up to the Channel Islands. Once he graduated from university and decided to fully embrace the world of law enforcement, he'd let go of the joy of the ocean. Now, as he leaned on the stern rail that rose up and down with the swell, he felt regret over that loss. He'd never sailed on anything so big as the Ginger Girl. He felt downright giddy; wanting to take the helm and call out commands to the sailors. Despite his underlying fear of the challenges ahead, he was also thrilled. He would be doing two of his favorite things: sailing and driving a locomotive. He would also be seeing home. He hoped that it wouldn't be too much of a disappointment. Then his eye caught those of the pucks. They both looked rather pale. Heck, the male looked downright seasick. Shee-it, if they weren't odd-looking creatures. His first reaction upon seeing them was that they were beings from the worst of nightmares, but now, looking like this: clothed in heavy snow gear that camouflaged what they really were... They looked downright pathetic with the big moving sea beyond them. Gretel reached out to his mind.

What are you looking at Black Blake?

Wen reeled back with the abrupt entrance of another consciousness in his head. Then Hansel joined in and Wen felt instantly, horribly seasick. Almost immediately he turned to the leeward rail and vomited. "Get out! You're not supposed to be doing this!" he screamed out loud.

You think because we are ill that we are weak, Hansel barked into the recesses of his brain.

"No! Stop!" Wen heaved the last of his breakfast and continued to gag raw bile.

Hansel and Gretel spoke into his mind as one. We feel ill, but it is you who have lost self-control.

Eliza finally realized what was happening and glowered at the pucks. "Enough! You made a promise! You must not break your promise!" The pucks left Wen's mind and looked instantly chastened. Eliza pointed at both of their faces. "Never again. Do you understand? If you break the trust of these people you do not get to go on the trip. If you break the trust of these people at anytime during the trip, you ruin it for us all. Do you children understand?"

The pucks sheepishly nodded. Hansel clacked his sharp teeth together and then ran his tongue across them as though trying to get rid of a foul taste.

"Say it aloud," barked Eliza.

The pucks spoke at the same time, "Never again."

Eliza turned to Wen. "I'm sorry, Mr. Blakely."

Wen looked deeply shaken. "I'm going to clean up." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stepped down the gangway toward the head below.

When the Ginger Girl came out of the lee of the island and turned northeast again, the squall that had been slowly closing in hit her bow full in the face. Icy wind, sleet and heavy wet snow lashed into everyone on deck. The effect was like switching from a cold damp breeze to being blasted by a fire hose of freezing water. All of this while the ship heeled dramatically. The sails were further reefed and Captain Dean guided his guests down below to his aft quarters. As the pucks stepped down the gangway, they turned as one to look back. Mr. Burrows stood at the helm as though the weather didn't affect him at all. He had lifted the solid visor up on his helmet. He winked at the pucks and spoke to them with only his mind. Watching you devils. And just so's you know, it's already been agreed. You make the littlest step toward betraying us and we'll make you watch as we cut open your bellies and run your guts up the mast. Enjoy your tea. He smiled broadly and slammed the visor back down.

Below deck, Cookie had warm sandwiches and tea ready. Despite the intense rocking of the ship and a 25-degree angle to port (causing most of them to cling to the walls, table or any handhold available) everyone got to enjoy the bleed-over from the twin's happy discovery of the cheese in the warm sandwiches. No one seemed to mind this particular invasion of his or her senses.

Dean gazed at the pucks and made strong eye contact with each of them. Neither of the odd looking people... were they people?... anyway, neither of them made any effort to enter his mind. Instead they seemed suddenly shy. There was just the surprise sensation of their youthful taste buds, so easily pleased with bread and salty fat, to remind him of his age and apparently already diminishing sense of smell and taste. He watched the others of this odd assortment of would-be-adventurers and found them to be equally at ease (perhaps the marshal was still a bit put off, but who could blame him). He turned to MacAfee. "Assuming things progress as they are now, when can we expect the rest of your team and when do we start this crazy mission? Summers may be getting longer, but it's still going to be harsh weather out there and it's only going to get worse as we dicker around."

MacAfee smiled and gave a nod to Hernandez. "The rest of my team is here now. They've observed us on our two land excursions and at the beginning of today's trip. Part of their assignment has been to determine whether our current helmet tech can shield us completely from the twins."

The pucks stopped chewing and looked at each other. Gretel turned to the rest, "We have not been aware that others have been watching us."

Hernandez let a brief smile escape from her lips. "That's been our assessment as well."

MacAfee said, "When we get back to the main lab, you'll get to meet them. I think we can move forward as planned."

The Ginger Girl was safely anchored and battened down against the continuing squall. The guests had returned to shore and Dean instructed his crew to meet in the galley. It was there that he told them of the gene therapy. That Elizaandra Sherr was a successful test. That but for a small bit of inactive bacteria harbored in the most primitive part of her brain, she showed no evidence of FNDz (aka Cain's) in the rest of her body and was considered incapable of passing the disease to others. The ramifications of this were obvious. The entire crew would be offered this therapy – the only catch being that they had to volunteer to continue the mission. The government wasn't prepared to administer any therapy without it being in a controlled situation. He then asked if there was anyone who was not prepared to move forward. No one raised his or her hand. When Dean left to return to his cabin the galley erupted into speculative glee.

## **CHAPTER SEVEN**

### **_SEA BATTLE_**

Eighteen hours later, Plum Island fell below the horizon line as the Ginger Girl sailed south. The newcomers had been assigned a bunk and had already spent hours on a first, second and third attempt in a Virtusim training mission. Inside the sim, they were attempting to get an old N&W class steam locomotive up and running. Sergeant Tim Green was bored with his watch for potential Cain's-addled zombies and/or their slightly more vicious children. A firm that hadn't been informed on the real details of the mission had quickly built the simulation. This portion was focused on the team working through the myriad of difficult steps that would be their actual mission of getting a train engine, which had been built in the 1940's, and most recently commissioned for tourist rides twenty years before, up and running and out of the purpose-built museum space that it was supposedly housed in. Then onto real working train tracks and fetching enough coal to make the thing independent enough to steam its way across the country. Oh, and find water for the engine and its canteen. The logistics were daunting. Given the short notice, the programmers had pulled some sims from the very Virtu-tactics war-gaming programs that Green used to train regular soldiers up in Nova Scotia. Having never met a puck, and given the fact that the government wanted to keep a lid on how dangerous the things could be, the programmers simply made the infected human's kids a bit smarter and ten years old. Meanwhile, Wen and his "team of helpers," as he called them (actually mechanically minded Ginger Girl crew members), were having a devil of a time getting the train out of the station, much less on its way across the country. While they struggled inside the museum, Sergeant Green and his squad mates, corporals Katherine KK Kelly and Ida ID Gomez, had wiped out their potential adversaries in short order. The simulated infected people and their frightful but poorly simulated children were stacked up like cordwood down Hull Street. Green spotted Chief Hernandez – Dez – who had positioned herself along with Colonel MacAfee between the goings on in the train museum and the massacre on the street. MacAfee was armed with a Glock and a dictation stick. Green could see the colonel's lips moving as he spoke into the stick. He caught Green's look and paused to nod a good job before continuing with his verbal note taking.

Wen and his team had managed to lubricate all the moving parts of the big locomotive. The huge glossy black painted machine appeared in the Virtusim to be fully restored to mint condition. Wen figured that after a decade of winter, that was probably optimistic, but that was beside the point. Getting the monster out the door was proving to be much more difficult than he ever considered. His team had put water in the boiler and had gotten a fire going in her belly using nearby timber. In the sim anyway, there hadn't been any coal lying around. Coal and the cars to carry it were down the line at the Contex power plant.

As Green watched from his position across the street, he heard yelling, then smoke began to pour out of the museum and everyone had to evacuate. Blakely stepped out of the glassed-in train showroom last, cursed at the sky, then made a gesture toward his head like he was taking off a hat and disappeared from view.

In the real world, all of this was taking place in the galley of the Ginger Girl while the whaling vessel was under full sail. Her destination: Richmond, Virginia and the Old Dominion Train Museum. Wen finished ripping his helmet off and screamed for real in front of all the others who sat around him still immersed in the simulation. One by one they took their helmets off too.

MacAfee, who had a real dictation stick in his hand, glared at Blakely. "You can't do that, Wen. You can't just walk out of the simulation. We have the simulation so that we can get it right. If we get smoked out when we are really there, we have to figure out what to do to solve it."

Blakely slammed the table. "This fuckin' sim, pardon my French, is a piece of shit. The only thing that's gonna happen that is real down there is that old train isn't going nowhere, cause it's a rotting hulk in a weather-beaten old building with snow-buried, iced-over, rusty old tracks and switching gear that's rusted solid. Whoever wrote this piece of shit program, pardon my French, had his head up his ass. This is a stupid waste of time. And fuck if, pardon my French, them Virtu children zombies is nothing but a joke compared to Hansel and Gretel here, who given half a chance, could mess our shit up and we wouldn't even get out of the station anyway. The only thing this sim has been good for is showing us the reality of the folly you got us on." Wen held up a hand and counted off his fingers. "Sail up the Chesapeake as far as we can, hike to this train with all of our gear, get a nearly hundred year old steam engine up and running, get it out on to the main track, get ourselves some water." He started on the next hand. "Get ourselves some coal and then get ourselves all the way across the country against who knows what kind of fucked up, pardon my French, mess left over after the Exodus and years of nuclear winter and maybe Cain's folks and their young'uns. Get ourselves to a big ass ship in the Port of Los Angeles that none of us except one dude on this whaling ship is remotely qualified to operate." He started counting on the other hand again. "Get that big ship out of what must be a disaster of a harbor, sail all the way down to Nicaragua and hope, hope that big ass, pardon my French, new canal is open enough and still working, so we can get to the other side, then come all the way back up here and expect not to be long dead. What was I thinking when I signed up for this shit? Pardon my French. That's right, I don't have rights anymore! Oh, and trying to do all of this while not puking under sail."

McAfee smiled. "Well, when you put it like that, Wenfrin, you make it almost sound like a romantic saga." Blakely offered a gruff chuckle in response. "That's why we have the sim," continued the Colonel. "Now let's get back in there and figure out how not to smoke ourselves out."

Wen looked sideways at the Colonel then shrugged. "Heck with it. Not like I've got better to do." He looked at the handful of sailors who were his engineering team. "Let's get that room aired out, boys." He put his helmet on and everyone else followed suit.

After another two hours of seemingly fruitless labor, and the gunning down of the occasional wandering zombie, the front end of the big black steam engine slowly emerged from its resting place. Suddenly the sim froze and like a god from above, George Sander's voice broke through. "All hands. We have a vessel sighted two miles off our starboard bow." Everyone pulled their helmets off and immediately scrambled up the gangway.

It was wintery dusk topside with patches of ice and small icebergs drifting by. A light but steady breeze kept the Ginger Girl's sails full. Dean and his officers stood along the starboard rail holding various binoculars. Though it was getting late in the day, the full sails of a three-masted barque could be seen on the horizon. The boat was on a reach and was clearly pointed in a way that would cause it to intercept the Ginger Girl. McAfee, Dez, Wen and Eliza joined the men at the rail. McAfee said, "Down here? We should be approximately twelve miles out from Ocean City. A dead city. No reason for a sail coming from that direction."

"Nope," said Dean.

Sanders said, "Jamesbonds would have spotted it sooner but mistook it for another iceberg. Fact, there's enough bergs out here I was, with the Captain's permission, about to angle us toward shore. We need to find an anchorage until tomorrow's first light."

McAfee let his binoculars rest on his chest. "Well, clearly they mean to have a conversation."

Wen spoke up. "Not to stick my nose where it don't, but Marshals Service has been receiving bulletins on upticks in piracy. Now that there's some trade happening again.... Old time occupations and all. Ruthless stuff I hear."

"We're well aware of the piracy issue," said McAfee. "There's been no reports from down this way. No reason for anyone to come down this way."

"Well, that's somebody," said Dean. He turned to Sanders. "Have Mr. Kneedham and Mr. Kile man the guns."

"Aye aye, sir."

Boatswain Palmer kept peering through his binoculars. "It's the Eagle, sir. Could only be."

"You're talking about the Coast Guard cutter?"

"The same, sir. Steel hull. More than eighteen hundred tons. Two hundred ninety-five feet. Trainer for the academy. I know. Served on her in my first stint with the Guard. They've painted out the CG colors, but that's her without a doubt."

The approaching tall ship was big and white and they could now spot with the naked eye sailors moving about the foredeck and amongst the rigging.

"What else?" asked Dean.

"We can maneuver better than her, sir, but in a race she'll run us down. No weapons when she was a commissioned vessel. Just a trainer for junior officers and underclassmen at the academy."

"Hmm," said McAfee. "As far as I know, she's not part of the existing Navy. God knows where she's hailing from. Let's hope she's still friendly and unarmed."

When the big tall ship was within half a mile a signal lantern flashed on the Eagle's foredeck. Palmer observed the pattern and said, "They want us to heave to, sir."

"I'm not feeling they're friendly," said Dean. He turned to the helmsman. "Mister Burrows, come five degrees left. I want to put that iceberg between us."

"Aye aye, Cap."

The Eagle adjusted her course to stay on an intercept. Suddenly a short burst of 30mm cannon fire came from the Eagle's foredeck. Tracer rounds crossed the Ginger Girl's bow. "Battle Stations!" yelled Dean. The crew scrambled to preset posts. Some, including MacAfee's team of soldiers, racked and readied their arms.

"They are continuing to signal for us to heave to, sir," said Palmer as he took an offered 12-guage shotgun under his arm.

"Maintain your course, Mr. Burrows," said Dean with steel in his voice. "I want that iceberg between us. When we pass it, angle for that next one.

The Eagle was nearly twice their size and under full sail, and the tall ship seemed to tower over the Ginger Girl as it approached to starboard. Armed men stood at her rail with weapons pointed. 30mm canons were aimed menacingly from her fore and aft decks. More worrisome looking were the two mat black machines that clung like spiders to the rigging, their six legs spread amongst the stays and the ratlines. Their torsos and heads were extravagantly sculpted like Roman centurions, while a belt-fed Atchison assault shotgun hung independently below two human-like arms.

"What do they have in the rigging, George?" asked Dean.

MacAfee accepted an M4 from KK while his astonished eyes took in the spiderlike machines. He yelled to Dean, "Those are drones, Captain. Bad ass drones."

With perfect unison, the crew of the Eagle reduced and angled their sails to slow the big ship down and allow her to maneuver around the iceberg. Six men could be seen spinning her multi-wheeled helm.

Dean barked out, "Mr. Kile, put your weapon on their helm. Don't fire unless fired upon."

Jamesbonds Boonmee had climbed down from the crow's nest and grabbed one of his harpoons. He stood in awe of the big ship. He had only seen pictures of such things as a child and had almost forgotten what a big ship with spars and square sails looked like. The bow had a golden eagle affixed to it that appeared to be soaring off the frigid water. Looking around him, he spotted an emergency ax, a tool that stood-by in the event of a dismasting and the resultant mess that would be the rigging on the deck. He grabbed it and stood with determination, doing his best to stare down the men on the approaching vessel.

The captain of the Eagle stood on the forecastle and lifted an old fashioned hailer to his mouth and called out to the group on the Ginger Girl's poop. With a distinctive Mid-Atlantic accent that almost sounded 18th Century British he called out, "No point in a fuss Captain. You'll not outrun or outshoot us. Please, if you will, heave to so that you may be boarded."

Dean turned to Burrows. "Keep the bergs between us if you can." He took his own hailer from where it was hooked and called back. "This is the U.S. ship Ginger Girl under commission of the United States government. By what authority do you command such actions?"

"By the authority vested in us by the nation of The Shore. You are in our national waters and you will be boarded."

Dean turned to MacAfee, "The Shore? What the hell's he talking about?"

Ensign Palmer jumped in, "The peninsula that's part Delaware, Maryland and Virginia."

"Pretty much an island," said MacAfee. "But there's no record of survivors there, not that I know of."

Dean lifted the hailer again and called out, "Do you mean to say that there are people on the Delmarva Penninsula?"

The captain of the Eagle lifted his hailer. "I'll not ask again. You will heave to. If I don't see you drop sails in ten-seconds you will be boarded by force."

"Stay on course, Mr. Burrows." Dean called down below the stern rail where the second gunner sat at the trigger of his Bushmaster chain gun. "Mr. Kneedham, how are you doing down there?"

"Fine, sir. I can shred that steel hull." He made a sour face. "Afraid, they've just made the turn on us."

The Eagle had turned with tremendous momentum. Burrows was doing his best to keep an iceberg the size of a four-bedroom house between them, but already, the maneuver seemed hopeless. He headed for the next one that was perhaps three hundred yards away, but this put them back into open water. Within minutes, the Eagle was bearing down on and then sliding up to their port side. "Prepare to be boarded," hailed her captain.

Just then, the black machines in the rigging came alive as grappling hooks shot out, trailing thin black cables from their chests. The hooks arced across the one hundred foot space between the two vessels, the first landing in the rigging of the Ginger Girl's main mast, the second skittering amidships where it was quickly retracted until it clawed into the port rail. The machines let go of their own rigging and were suddenly launched off their perches by the self-reeling cable pulls and dropped into the ocean. The tension on the cables listed the Ginger Girl to port while simultaneously slowing her down.

"Fire!" barked Dean.

Both Mr. Kneedham and Mr. Kile let lose with their guns, strafing the railings and rigging of the Eagle. The rest of the armed crew joined in. The Eagle did not return fire, the sailors on her taking cover instead. Then one of the black machines appeared at the side of the Ginger Girl's port rear quarter. Like a mythical sea monster, it began to climb the stern.

Jamesbonds stood at the rail where the other hook had imbedded itself and watched in disbelief as the top of the second machine broke through the water. Like some kind of mythological creature, the black-eyed thing had a head with a Trojan helmet looking affectation sitting on top of an armored humanoid torso. Six steel spider legs sprouted from beneath that, each leg working independently of the other. Without even thinking, Jamesbonds hacked down on the cable with his ax, denting it, but not cutting it. The machine slammed up against the hull with a loud thud. He hacked again, this time fraying the steel. Six spider legs with miniature hands at their ends snapped their finger tips together into single points and dug themselves into the Ginger Girl's wooden freeboard, then it began to climb, its auto shotgun trained on the man with the ax. Jamesbonds hacked again with everything he had and the cable broke. The machine didn't fall, instead grabbing the railing with one of its human-like hands. The Roman head had black eyes that looked directly into Jamesbonds'. He was mesmerized for just a moment, before he dropped the ax and instead rammed the chest of the machine with his harpoon. A single shot from the Eagle rang out and a bullet pierced Jamesbonds' shoulder. The determined man hardly seemed to notice as he pushed the harpoon with everything he had. The robot (if that's what it was) lost its handhold. For a moment the thing seemed to be able to hold on with the sharp tipped legs burrowing themselves into the wood of the hull, but Jamesbonds gave it one more shove and it plunged into the water.

The transfixed crew of the Ginger Girl let out a cheer, which was immediately extinguished by the second black machine coming over the rail with its shotgun on full auto. On its way up, it had taken a moment to decimate Mr. Kneedham and his chain gun with a handful of explosive rounds. Now it landed on the deck sending a shudder through everyone's feet. It grabbed Mr. Burrows from the helm and heaved him screaming into the frigid sea. Dean, MacAfee, Wen, Dez and Eliza dove for the deck as the vicious looking thing trained its weapon on Corporal Gomez. The soldier was fearlessly, efficiently, shooting it with extreme accuracy, but her bullets were ricocheting off thick armor. Gomez kept firing with confidence. She knew she was good at her job. Though she'd never actually killed anyone (or thing) she'd done plenty of Terminus border recon. She'd killed uncounted infected in Virtusims and she had more than proven herself a steady and accurate shot. She could feel her poise, noting her rising but stable heartbeat, taking pride in her controlled breathing as she focused her aim at the spider-like machine's human shaped head, imagining that its eyes were its most vulnerable spot. In another second the machine's AA-12 automatic shotgun dismantled her into bloody red chunks and splattered them across the base of the mizzenmast.

Anyone with a gun was firing at the thing as it marched forward on heavily thumping yet clickety legs that alternately drove themselves into the decking or grabbed onto the rigging. The head whipped back and forth, tracking while explosive rounds poured from the shotgun. The remainder of MacAfee's special-forces team was particularly heavily armed, with Chief Hernandez firing grenades while screaming like a berserker. All for naught. It was quickly evident that they lacked the firepower to halt the things advance. The crew on the Eagle continued to hold their fire, instead taking pleasure watching their huge black arachnid lay waste to the opposing deck.

With Burrows lost to the frigid sea, Dean grabbed the helm while Mr. Kile wrestled with the remaining big gun; the other Bushmaster was not set up for sweeping its own deck. Eliza was hyperventilating and nearly overcome with the twin's combination of emotional thrill and abject terror. As she lay on the deck trying to become one with the wood, she noticed that the machine's grappling cable was just dragging on the deck, the hook dangling in the rigging. The retracting winch had been damaged by Gomez's fire. As explosive shells sent splinters and chunks of the wood decking flying into the air, she looked at Dean who saw what she saw. Before he could yell no, she was up and running for the mizzenmast's ratlines. She quickly climbed and grabbed the grappling hook that was still tethered to the drone. As she struggled to disentangle it, the machine, as though with eyes in the back of its head, turned and stared up at her. Faster than she could react, the machine grabbed hold of the loose cable and yanked the hook out of Eliza's hand. She lost her balance and tumbled just as the thing opened fire, the explosive slugs passing harmlessly through the space where she had just been. She hit the deck hard, her head bouncing off the teak. Dean threw the wheel hard over, causing the Ginger Girl to peel away from the Eagle. He bolted forward, grabbed the hook as it skittered across the planks. With a screaming heave he chucked it as hard as he could. The tool flew in an arc, dragging its cable behind it, and snagged in a davit holding a lifeboat off the rear quarterdeck. The line snapped taught. One moment, the menacing machine was laying waist to the Ginger Girl and in the next it was dragged over the blubber-rendering house, smashed into the gunwale and up and over the rail into the sea. The Eagle responded: its stern 30mm canon raking the Ginger Girl, punching holes in her sails and splitting her spars. Then just as quickly the shooting stopped, the sudden silence only overcome by the creaking of the two ships as a three-foot swell moved them in gentle unison. Only a shattered spar bumped against the Ginger Girl's foremast, keeping time like a lazy metronome. Several of the crew dared to look up and saw Hansel and Gretel holding hands at the stern rail. The pucks were looking in the direction of the Eagle as the crew of that ship suddenly stepped to the rails as one and heaved their weapons overboard. Like robots, two groups of men disconnected the 30mms and tossed them over as well.

Without having to be told, the Ginger Girl's crew flew into action, climbing the rigging or grabbing hold of the various sheets to set their sails for the wind. The Eagle continued to coast with her own momentum as the two sterns quickly made distance on each other. Dean scanned the enemy. The would-be pirate's faces were stricken with terror. Several were crying. Others had soiled themselves. Dean called out to her captain, "Asshole. What did you mean by The Shore?"

The captain had no words to reply with. Instead, he pulled a large knife from a scabbard on his belt. He made a move to cut his own throat, but was interrupted by a still dazed Eliza, who yelled, "No! Hansel. I know that's you."

The puck licked his sharp teeth and smiled.

The Eagle's captain dropped the knife and fell to his knees in grief.

## **CHAPTER EIGHT**

### **_SECOND GUESSES_**

With the light failing and no hope for safe passage to a shore anchorage, Dean ordered the Ginger Girl to ease up to a vast iceberg that was little affected by the lessening but still steady breeze. They dropped anchor on a submerged portion of the great slab and set to work repairing damaged sails and cleaning blood and body parts off the deck as well as the cabin below where Kneedham had been more or less liquefied by explosive shotgun rounds. There, they discovered the ham radios that they were counting on to stay in touch with home, were destroyed.

When the light faded to twilight, the twins let go of their grip on the stricken sailors of the Eagle, the barque still drifting on the horizon. Within minutes her sails could be seen rising and she made way in a westerly direction, with no intent to angle back toward their intended victims.

The crew of the Ginger Girl labored while in awe of the puck's powerful gift. Though everyone was grateful for the twin's intervention, there was an equal measure of fear and mistrust at such power. It wasn't just because their helmets offered night vision that they now steadfastly kept them strapped on. Only those who had spent the most time around the alien creatures remained comfortable enough to keep their helmets off.

Except for Jamesbonds, there were remarkably no other wounded. Bishop, the ships doctor, treated his shoulder where the lead shot had gone clean through the muscle leaving a surprisingly minor wound. Corporal Kelly, whose kit included a prep for fast healing of minor flesh wounds, offered the patch while keeping well back from the spilled Halflie blood. As for Eliza, she had a knot on her forehead where it had hit the deck, but it didn't really hurt much. Given the savagery of the assault, everyone felt extremely fortunate.

As they were being patched up, Jamesbonds said to Eliza, "What a brave lady you are, Ma'am."

"You are brave yourself, sir."

"Oh. You can't call me sir, Ma'am. I'm just a harpoon man."

"You're a brave harpoon man, Mr. Boonmee. Please call me Eliza."

"I'm happy to have you on our ship, Eliza ma'am."

Eliza smiled and her eye caught that of Captain Dean who stood near the helm, Ensign Palmer now at the wheel. Dean raised an eyebrow at her and gave a slight shake of the head. The implication was clear; he was both impressed and perhaps disturbed by her bold move.

Last rights were given for the dead and their remains given to the sea. Then the crew sat down to a heavy meal, craving calories after such an extended adrenaline rush. While the watch was set, the crew whispered dread among themselves; their mission was clearly doomed. Dean and Sanders ate with their guests in the bullet-riddled cabin that was the officer's mess. As a precaution, MacAfee and Blakely ate MREs at a separate table and drank from their own canteens. At the captain's request, Cookie poured them all a stiff belt of Nantucket moonshine and they mostly sat in silence as they sipped from their glasses or canteens. Finally Sanders said, "Crew's shook up, Cap, but I'll wager they're still solid. Dealt with crazier than that. Just that... first day out and all. Rough start."

Everyone nodded in sober agreement. It occurred to Cookie as he topped them off, that the leadership was as shaken as the crew. He'd ask the captain about giving a ration of grog later. Try to take the edge off the shattered nerves. Dean snapped out of his own reverie and smiled at Sanders. "I hear you, George. What I'm concerned about is how many others are out there like the Eagle. What the hell is The Shore?"

MacAfee cleared his throat. "Those drones are not the work of folks just getting by."

"Drones?" asked Eliza.

"First time I've seen one up close, but yes, Sentinel drones. They were part of a Carnegie Mellon effort to make a drone that could take on the Fiend epidemic. I don't think it ever got implemented. They certainly weren't some fanciful Roman centurion thing like that, but the spider legs I wouldn't forget. We'd built the wall by the time they might have been perfected. Pittsburgh is on the unknown side of the Terminus now of course. Obviously someone made off with something, maybe augmented the design."

Wen said, "Well, after the heroics of this one here." He pointed at Eliza. "And that little dude with the ax, and then the puck mind-fuck, pardon my French, and of course you Captain, the word will get out to avoid us."

Dean looked at Eliza and asked, "The pucks. Hansel and Gretel. How many people can they do that to at once?"

"I couldn't say. I've never seen them do that before. I mean with so many. I spoke to them afterwards. All they said was that they were stronger when they held hands. It's a line of sight thing mostly, but it's not like you can hide behind a tree, or a mast. If they have already had a glimpse of you, unless you can get out of sight and move quickly away from the area, they can do that to you. Obviously the people on that ship weren't going anywhere."

When they finished their meal, MacAfee, as the overall mission commander, called it a night. The group began to file out of the room and Dean asked Eliza to stay behind a moment. She stopped and stood by the table, her hand on the back of a chair.

Dean said, "Take a seat, if you don't mind." She sat crossing her legs, waiting for more. He took a long sip from his glass and scrunched his nose. "You were very brave today."

"So were you."

"It's my job to be brave. It's your job to look after our pucks. You'll forgive me if I request that you not be so brave again."

She was surprised, not expecting condescension. In an instant she felt her heart shift. Whatever attraction she may have felt for this man simply melted away. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a breath and opened them again, startled as Dean poured two fingers into her glass, leaving the thermos open on the table. She set the cup down. "Captain..."

"Call me Stewart when we're not in front of the crew."

"Captain. Everyone on this mission is brave just to be part of it. We are all going to be repeatedly challenged with life or death decisions. If we find ourselves under dire circumstances and in a position to protect each other, none of us can be allowed to hesitate for a moment. I was in that position today. So were you."

Dean smiled widely. "I appreciate that, but you're wrong."

She felt her face flush. "I'm not wrong."

"Elizaandra, you are the only person between us and your test subjects and whatever they did to the crew on that ship. If at some point, they choose not to be our friends, it is you who may make the difference between life and death or God knows what. This is not an argument. This is the way it is. We cannot afford to have you killed. Is that clear?"

Eliza set her glass down and stood. "I hear you. I respect your point of view. And for the most part I agree with you. However, today was an exception. I think you'll agree that we were within seconds of losing that battle and therefore everything this mission stands for. We don't know what the pirate's intentions were, but clearly they were lethal. Had we not all acted when we did, the way we did, the tide very much may have turned against us. Gretel and Hansel were no use to us against that machine. Whoever designed it made it well suited to deal with pucks too." She stood back from the table. "There may be other exceptions. I will continue to take action if the moment not only warrants it, but requires it."

As she turned toward the door Dean said, "Elizaandra." She had opened the door, but allowed him a pause. He continued, "This may be a case where we will have to agree to disagree."

She shut the door again to retain some privacy and looked him square in the eye. "Captain Dean, I believe our business is finished. I would prefer it if you referred to me as Ms Sherr or if you must, Eliza. Elizaandra is reserved." She opened the door again and let herself out. "Good night."

Dean sat at the table with his eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. A moment passed and Cookie let himself in, saying, "I'll be getting the dishes, Cap, so you can retire."

Chief Hernandez was a wreck. She barely saw or heard the voice of Lance Corporal Katherine Kelly, who was doing her best to console her, something that KK had never been good at.

Sergeant Green decided to use the opportunity to express his disapproval. "Been saying all along, Chief. You can't shit where you eat. You can't fuck a soldier you rack with, or eat one in yours and Gomez's case. Get it? Where you eat?"

Hernandez launched herself at the man and landed two good punches before being pulled off by Kelly. Green wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth. "Feel better?"

"Fuck you, Sergeant."

"No. Thank you. Having you weep over my dead carcass doesn't turn me on."

Dez tried to launch herself at Green again, while KK put her into a full nelson, saying, "Shut it, Tim. Asshole. You and I rack together and you've sure as shit tried to fuck me."

The Special Forces team had been given a small cabin in the forecastle. The dead Corporal Gomez's Rucksack sat in the corner still unpacked. Hernandez found herself unconsciously stroking it as she let a few tears stream down her face.

Despite what she'd said to Green, KK was pissed off at Dez. She wouldn't say it now, but she agreed with Green full on. She'd nearly gone to MacAfee before they even started out on this thing except the Chief kept saying "You got my 6, right KK?" Dragging her into the stupid love conspiracy. Now it was moot. She was pissed that Gomez was dead, pissed that it fucked up Hernandez and pissed that on day one they were down to just the three of them. Most of the crew had seen some kind of action during Omega. Kelly was just a little girl then, but none of them had any dealings with The Children until now. Only after seeing what happened to the crew of the Eagle had the crew truly gotten how fucked everyone would be if those fucking devils decided to come across the Terminus. Kelly and her team had mission experience spying on the clans that were at the edge of the Settled U.S. These kids, pucks, Hansel and Gretel. Stupid names. Whatever. They were like innocent sheltered school babes. The Children out there were something all together different. She wanted to slap the tears off of Hernandez's face. The very reason that relations were forbidden in the Army was coming true before her eyes. Hernandez was a mess and KK could tell that she would likely stay that way. She'd seen it before - some soldiers, despite massive training, didn't do well when a close friend was killed. Became almost instantly demoralized. Just like combat, there was no way of knowing how you'd react until it happened to you. Well fuck that! She stood and slapped Dez across the face. With pure reflex built on real combat and intensive relentless training, Hernandez kicked Kelly's legs out from under her, and then they were at each other's throats. Like two ultimate fighters they used every method available to them to get an advantage, screaming, kicking, punching, head butting, eye gouging – Green cheering them on, loving the bitch on bitch violence. Bam! The door to the small room was flung open, MacAfee stepping inside. The soldiers leapt to their feet and stood at attention. The colonel looked at them hard. Hernandez had a trickle of blood roll down her cheek. He looked down at Gomez's rucksack then back at his soldiers. "There's just three of you now. I need you to focus this wasted energy on training the crew. Understood?"

The soldiers offered a Sir, yes, Sir.

"Good. At o-fuck early, you pull your shit together and focus on the mission." He held up a flask. "Compliments of the captain, whose retired Navy Seal ass made you three look like you were standing still today. I won't even mention the young scientist who climbed the rigging for that hook. Oh, I just did." They appeared chastised enough so he changed his tone. "Gomez is dead. Think about it. Not about how it's a critical loss to us, but rather how you'll prevent it the next time." He shoved the flask into Green's hands. "Breaking the rules tonight. Drink that, make like friends and get some sleep." He picked up Gomez's rucksack and threw it over his shoulder. Then he looked hard at Hernandez. "Bury it, soldier. She's gone. No time for being a civilian. Understood?"

Hernandez was caught out. The Colonel clearly knew all about her and Gomez. She was embarrassed, but that didn't stop her from looking longingly at the rucksack for a moment more. Then it was over. A steely gaze signaled a shift in her demeanor. "Sir, yes, Sir."

MacAfee turned and shut the door behind him.

Hernandez gave Kelly a quick punch to the left kidney, dropping the soldier to a knee, grimacing in pain. "You don't hit a superior. Understood, bitch?"

KK gritted her teeth, then smiled to herself. "You're welcome. Bitch."

Dez turned to Green. "And you! Fuck you, Sergeant."

"Fuck you back, Chief."

Sailors Paul Monroe, Patty Smith and Todd Campbell held the first topside watch. The three had been the only members of the Ginger Girl crew who weren't former military. As such, they stuck together to protect themselves from the natural ostracizing that they received from their crewmates. The three would later debate over which one of them had thought of mutiny first. They talked about their options for more than an hour and concluded that there was no way the rest of the crew was going to see it their way. They had been told that they would receive the gene therapy en route, that the process took weeks and involved several injections. Indeed, everyone had been given their first of five injections upon lifting anchor back at Plum Island. After today, Monroe, Smith and Campbell were convinced that the odds where simply ridiculous that they would accomplish this mission and live to enjoy being free of disease. They had volunteered, right? They could change their minds.

Each took a turn quietly fetching enough of their gear to survive on the high seas for the few days "at the most" that Campbell had promised it would take for them to work their way back to Nantucket. He had become a fairly good navigator and despite the lack of ability to take star shots or use the now defunct international GPS system, he was certain he could get them all home. Nobody back there would know anything of the Ginger Girl's voyage. The thing was a secret to their brothers and sisters on Nantucket. They'd make up a story about a storm, them being the only ones to escape. If the Ginger Girl did miraculously make it back, so what? What would the captain do, banish them?

Monroe snuck into the dispensary where the FNDz inhibiter drugs were held and doled out daily to the still infected crew. He grabbed a little extra just in case and put the pills in a small leather bag. Twenty minutes before they were to change watches, they lowered one of the two whaleboats into the sea. As they worked, Campbell pumped a steady stream of lubricant on the block-and-tackle to minimize any squeaking while the ropes moved through the blocks. They assured each other again that this was the right thing to do. Campbell and Smith handed their gear down to Monroe and then climbed down into the boat themselves. With a nod from her compatriots, Smith cast off the lines and Campbell and Monroe pulled against the oars.

Frayed nerves, mixed with a deep sense of shame and betrayal caused them to commit two grave errors. The first (after tearing all of their gear apart three times) was to accept that they had left the dark little leather bag holding the inhibiter drugs on the deck near the railing. The Ginger Girl was already out of sight when they concluded their search. Campbell offered his reassurance that it wouldn't matter - that they would be home long before the drugs already in their systems wore off. The second error was Monroe and Smith's alone: they had accepted Campbell's boast that he was the navigator he claimed to be.

After three days of looking at endless ocean, they ran out of food. On the fourth day they each sipped their last drop of water. On the sixth day they began to become delirious with thirst. On the seventh day Monroe got the fever; the first sign of Cain's. In twenty-four hours or less and he would completely succumb to the disease. Campbell and Smith, knowing that they wouldn't make it another day without water, waited until Monroe was nearly comatose with fever before bashing his head with an oar, just enough to insure that he was unconscious, but not enough to kill the man. They then took turns slacking their thirst, licking at the heavy bleeding that poured from the pumping gash in Monroe's scalp and keeping the wound open until the man bled out. The next day Campbell got the fever and it wasn't but a few hours later when Smith did too.

In the end the fiendish bacteria in Smith won the race with Campbell's, turning the sailor into a raving, homicidal, lunatic who mindlessly, gleefully gutted open her friend with a large filleting knife that she kept strapped to her leg. For many more days, Smith both satisfied her primal sexual urges, grinding against her shipmate's carcasses, while at the same time gorging on them. Mercy finally arrived in the form of a squall, which capsized her asylum and drowned her proper.

On the night that the fugitives had taken off with the whaleboat, the twins lay awake in their bunks taking in the random thoughts of the crew. Many were asleep and they rode the dreams of these people together like shadows lurking off stage in the dreamer's minds. They were aware of the three who were taking the hunting boat, but didn't see how it had anything to do with them and so ignored it.

I could taste the fear of the ones on the Eagle.

It was delicious.

They wept with fear.

They did. Wept. Fouled themselves. I could smell their piss and shit.

We aren't supposed to use those words.

No. But we like those words.

Could smell their piss and shit and vomit.

Yes.

I would like to do it again. Make them piss and shit and vomit.

They both giggled at the bad words.

In the morning, Dean stood by the empty whaleboat bay with his hands behind his back, one hand holding the other's wrist so that he could keep himself from punching the railing. Twenty-four hours out on this Godforsaken mission and five of his eighteen crew were dead or missing. He chose to show Palmer and Sanders nothing but a calm game face. No point in beating a dead horse on this one. There could be nothing learned except – "Mr. Sanders. Please poll the crew one last time and determine if we are going to have anyone else jump ship."

"Aye, Cap." Sanders began to turn.

"Oh, and Sanders?"

"Aye."

"If anyone says that they are indeed interested in leaving," he waived a hand toward the frigid ocean, "inform him or her that they may swim. We'll most definitely be needing the services of our other boat."

"Aye, Cap."

"I'll let Palmer turn The Girl out, Mr. Sanders, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sir. Mr. Palmer's next in line. Crew could hear more from him. I'll just make my way around and quietly poll as you asked, Cap."

"Thank you, Mr. Sanders." Dean turned to his bosun. "You may prepare to make way, Mr. Palmer."

"Aye, Cap'n. And sir?" Dean turned his gaze from the iceberg that they were still anchored to and gave his full attention to Palmer. "Not so bad, sir. Monroe, Campbell and Smith, sir. They never quite fit in – if you know what I mean, Cap'n, sir."

Dean felt a bloom of heat move up his neck as he tried to retain his steam. "That will be all, Ensign. Make way."

"Aye aye, sir." Palmer stepped to the front of the poop. "That's it then," he called out to the crew. "Wall and Cinders on the windless. Everyone else, man you're stations. We're making way."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I hope you've enjoyed the ride. Please don't hesitate to add a review at your favorite retailer. I've provided the soil and the seed, reviews are the sun and water to make it grow.

You can also jump over to my website to buy the rest, learn more about me and join my email list: www.cchaseharwood.com

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Part 2 of Children Of Fiends really takes off. An excerpt from the book follows this page.

Cheers,

C. Chase Harwood

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C. Chase Harwood made a career in Hollywood, decorating sets for film and television before turning his passion for story telling into clicks on a keyboard. While scaling the walls of the screenwriting world, he chose to experiment with prose and found a fondness for Scifi-action-adventure. Within that framework he gets to explore the countless ways that humans interact while under duress. "Life is all the more lived when the consequences are high. When told as a tale it can be quite a page turner," says Harwood. He lives in Los Angeles with his costume designer wife and young boy girl twins.

The following are some other storytellers with whom the author finds a kindred spirit: HUGH HOWIE, STEPHEN KING, SCOTT SIGLER, DJ MOLLES, RHIANNON FRATER, SEAN PLATT, JUSTIN CRONIN, JAMES S.A. COREY, PETER CLINES, SUZANNE COLLINS, ERNEST CLINE, MAX BROOKS, VERONICA ROTH, LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD, ORSON SCOTT CARD

"Pretty big shoes..."

### **_EXCERPT FROM PART 2 A NATION BY ANOTHER NAME_**

###

**_DELMARVA_**

Any route north was a mass of chaos and despair. The Jarvis family was running for their lives. They had heard the rumors that Delmarva was safe, that the C&D Bridge still stood. For Tillie's parents, the only logical step was to go south, toward the coming onslaught, and pray for deliverance.

They had found a refugee camp in the southern suburbs of Wilmington and, choosing safety in numbers, they spent a night out in the open, waiting with everyone else for some kind of government direction, some instruction for evacuation. In the early dawn hours, someone spotted the Fiends pouring down Route 95 and thousands of people broke and ran. The tent city was trampled to dust, dozens of people crushed under foot. Tillie remembered her little sister Emily holding her hand as tightly as she could, Tillie hardly aware of it; like holding hands with a butterfly. Her sole focus, follow Dad, get to that bridge.

They could see the white towers in the distance; the huge white cables leading down to the bridge deck like strings from a web. The height of the towers gave the illusion of closeness and many people started sprinting, using up their reserves of energy too soon. Tillie's father had been a long distance runner in high school. He knew how to husband his and his family's strength. They would ultimately pass hundreds of people who had collapsed from running in the high heat, begging for help.

When the entrance to the bridge finally did come into view, Tillie could see the Sentinels. Like giant black spiders, they were suspended in the fanned out bridge cables. Then the frightening looking machines began to pull back, and her dad screamed at his family to run with everything they had. A sound wave of terror caught up to them through the ranks of the running refugees. Tillie had a position of height now, and a quick glance over her shoulders told her why. The Fiends were pulling down the rear of the mob, their hoots and howls, screeches and laughter, mixing in with the horror filled shrieks of the refugees. Then another huge pack of Fiends appeared out of the woods to their right. This group cut the retreat of the refugees in half, and suddenly the Jarvis' had the infected right on their heels. The horror of the crowd was replaced by the even louder scream of a jet engine, and the north anchor of the bridge behind them exploded in a shower of concrete, steel and fire. The blast wave knocked everyone on the bridge to the deck and the North Tower itself began to crumble. Huge cables swayed. As the wounded bridge whipsawed beneath their feet, the deafening sound of separating steel and concrete got them all up again.

There were maybe fifty healthy people who had gotten to the center of the bridge, with twice as many infected right behind. When they reached the South Tower the Jarvis' saw something almost as frightening as the Fiends behind them. A phalanx of black Sentinels stood at the end of the bridge, their spider-like legs overlapping to form a fence of sorts. The refugees hesitated only for a moment and continued to surge forward as those in the rear were pulled down, hacked and bitten, shredded limb from limb. There was another jet scream and then the center of the bridge erupted. The leaping concrete forced the family to the deck just as the Sentinels opened fire.

The Atchison assault shotgun is a deadly piece of armament. Add a belt with hundreds of rounds of ammunition and multiply that by the thirty robots firing away, and a hail of death came upon the stragglers and their tormenters like a great disintegration ray. The Jarvis' tumbled forward as refugee and Fiend alike were shot to pieces with high explosive rounds. In short order, hundreds of people were reduced to bloody flying chunks. The Jarvis family was the only group to survive. A lone Sentinel led them off the bridge just as a third JDAM-equipped 500lb bomb found the South Tower. They watched as the bridge groaned out a final thundering death rattle and collapsed haphazardly into the canal below. When the dust cleared, the horror of the feast on the opposite side came into detailed focus. The Fiends far outweighed the stranded refugees. Assorted random and pointless pops of small arms fire could be heard above the screams. In a manner of minutes the healthy were either being infected or devoured. For a moment, the Jarvis' paused in deer-like astonishment, observing the slaughter only 600 feet away. Then the Sentinel prodded them toward the containment camp.

That was ten years before. Tillie still thought about it nearly every day, and certainly every time she set eyes on a Sentinel.

Niles Plimpton stood in front of the bank of curved windows that made up the circular private penthouse level of what had been Delaware's Delmarva Capital Trust Building. He surveyed the city below him and decided it was good. A black Armani silk suit with a white Egyptian cotton hand made shirt, and a tightly knotted, sky blue silk tie carved his figure into one of refinement and strength. As he brushed a piece of lint off his sleeve and watched it float to the floor, he noted that he was in control of the world outside this window, and after considerable work, he could finally enjoy taking it all in. He was forty-two, with a young face that could pass for thirty. A few grays were weaving their way into his thick black hair, and a considerable amount of time navigating his yacht around the nooks and crannies of the Chesapeake over the years had sun-kissed his eyes with a few crowfeet. Otherwise his skin was smooth and thick with youth. The room behind him was elegantly decorated in a clean modern seaside motif that suggested that the penthouse, rather than being at the top of a six story office building, was instead set along the dunes of the outer banks of Delaware. His view included the short brick buildings that made up the government center and the more majestic legislative building that once contained the rulers of Dover, the capital of Delaware. The capital building had a new purpose: the chamber for the patrician citizens who oversaw the new nation of The Shore.

During the formation of the United States, the naturally isolated Delmarva Peninsula had been absurdly carved up between the states of Delaware, Maryland and Virginia. This isolation offered a geographical haven during Omega; with the Chesapeake to the West and South and the Delaware River and the Atlantic Ocean to the East, the Delmarva Peninsula was really an island primarily reached via bridges from Wilmington across the Chesapeake, and the Delaware Canal to the North. It was an island defended by a people who saw their isolation as making them somewhat separate from the rest of their countrymen. Once severed from the rest of the ruined nation, its inhabitants embraced their new status fully.

In the distance, Plimpton could almost make out the head of the Delaware River and beyond that, the southern tip of New Jersey and a still operational and incredibly critical nuclear power plant that provided so very much. To his right was the Air Force base that he could legitimately call his own – or at least his and the consortium of others who made up the governing body that oversaw The Shore. He briefly glanced back toward the river and saw the big sails of The Eagle coming back from another raiding mission and a smile of pride crossed his face. He surveyed the germs of new commerce coming to life in the streets below and was again made aware of the weight of the challenge that he had overcome. The Shore, infection free almost from the time the last bridge was blown those many hard years before, was also free of the encumbrances associated with being part of the United States. For many Shoremen like himself, it was a dream come true - if only the world hadn't gone to hell in a hand-basket to achieve it.

When he finally heard her repeat his name for a third time, Niles was aroused from his reverie by the grating voice of Martha Kincaid. "Niles? Can we bring this meeting to a start?" He turned away from the window and faced the seven people seated around a large conference table supporting a model of the entire peninsula. He noted, not for the first time, how flat the Shore was in full relief. The only features that broke it up were the several rivers and tributaries that wandered out from its fertile center. Otherwise it was mostly farmland – rich farmland that had fed millions before the Omega; the damn Russian's never-ending winter forcing all cultivation indoors.

Two of the seven wore military uniforms: an Air Force colonel, and an Army major. Niles felt a pang of pride as he looked at the two men, Quale and Thompson: visionaries who had seen the light and had followed him from the research facilities at Carnegie Mellon to this place of obvious strategic importance. The other five were Martha Kincaid, a former bank regulator turned Delaware State Senator, Vicar Wentworth, The Shore's spiritual guide, Lawrence Ashton, bank exec, Dietrich Pelham, hedge fund manager, and Paula Brown, United States Senator in abstentia. All had known each other for at least a decade or more, all were of The Shore, and all had the same goal, now realized, of a separate nation on an island off the coast of America. Except for Pelham who had a slight Swiss accent from a childhood of European schooling, they all spoke with the dialect of the particular isolation that was their ancestral home. It was classically Mid-Atlantic, heavily rooted in English cadences, and unlike any dialect spoken in the United States.

Plimpton took a sip of his freshly made tonic and gin and sat at the head of the table. "Forgive me. I was just once more admiring that which we have wrought. Finer weather brings a whole new shine to it, wouldn't you agree?"

Martha acknowledged the feat with an appreciative nod and continued, "The Eagle has made contact with a hostile ship."

"Yes, I see her out there."

"A Sentinel was lost, another badly damaged. An attempt on a schooner that claimed to be of the Northern Government. They had devil children aboard." The final comment brought the sounds of casual movement in the room to silence.

Plimpton let the news settle in his mind without revealing a shift in his features. He looked around the table and focused on Colonel Quale. "Colonel?"

Quale said, "Not much more than that, yet." He glanced at Major Thompson. "Pretty shaken, I gather?"

Before he could respond, Thompson was interrupted by Vicar Wentworth, who with scorn filtering through his gritted teeth said, "Traveling with the devils. Our fears about our Northern neighbors are confirmed."

Plimpton offered the reverend a weak acknowledging smile while hoping dearly that the old man wouldn't go off on some kind of religious rant.

Thompson said, "Captain Miller didn't radio. Just word from the radio tech himself. Sketchy on the details."

Ashton, who in a former life was the biggest agricultural banker on the peninsula, and now the Governor of Salisbury, said, "Fiend babies aside. You say it was a government ship?" He cleared his throat and raised his considerable bulk from his chair. "Folks, I've said it before and I'll say it again. Just a matter of time 'til they notice us." He focused on Quale. "Especially with these raids." He pointed at the sea on the relief map. "Long Winter's passing. Got their feelers out, they do – maybe using them devils. Time will come, sooner than later, when we will want to trade with those people. It is critical that they not feel threatened by us." He focused on Quale again. "Despite our significant might, we are not in the position to take on what is left of the much reduced but still powerful U.S. military."

"Agreed," said Senator Brown. "When we finally reach out, or visa-versa, it is in our best interests to remind our Northern neighbors that we are not worth the pain it will cause them to try to bring us back into the fold. We can't be so threatening that we give them no room to back down."

"Trade!?" roared Wentworth. "You bankers and professional politicians – trade with those who would consort with the devil himself?"

Plimpton waved his hand in dismissal while taking another sip of his drink. "Please, ladies and gentleman, these arguments are more than settled, let's not rehash. Let your nervous systems return to their pre-Omega states and be done with fear. Like us, our northern neighbors have their hands very full patrolling their own borders and rebuilding their own society. Successfully declared independence and fought off the demon hordes have we. We are a long time off from any kind of trade. The Shore is doing just fine, thank you very much" He turned back to Martha. "Get a full report. Losing the Sentinel.... Very unfortunate. We'll meet again in the morning." Everyone's dismissal was fully implied.

Fifteen minutes later, Plimpton stepped out of the Delmarva Capital Trust Building and waved off Hanson, his driver, footman and personal servant. Niles needed to think without being jostled in the coach on rough frost heaved roads. The milder weather practically begged for exercise. He would walk for a bit, be amongst the people. Hanson knew better than to allow the master to walk unaccompanied and so let the whip touch the filly's flanks to get the carriage moving. As Plimpton turned the corner of Legislative Avenue to stroll along William Penn Street, he observed a black man shoveling horse manure onto a wagon. Plimpton nodded at the man appreciatively and the man bowed slightly, tipping his hat without making eye contact. It was a relatively dry, forty-five degree June dusk with a hint of sun settling down somewhere beyond the red brick buildings that made up the bulk of the small colonial style city. The City Beautification Committee had recently planted mature cherry trees that had been grown in vast hot houses, and the buds were on the verge of bursting. Birds sang and Plimpton felt just a little extra spring in his step as his fellow Shoremen recognized him and respectfully made way for him. There was some motor traffic, but not much, and only that which was authorized. The bulk of transport was via beast: be it horse, ox or ass, commerce on the island was, for the time being, reduced to the start of the previous century. This didn't bother Plimpton in the slightest: As long as the people were working, productive, and out from under the threat of constant mortal danger, the island was a relative paradise. Before Omega, it had been the breadbasket for much of the Eastern U.S. In Plimpton's mind, the absence of technology (outside of military) and the resultant agrarian economy was a natural fit for the people of this new, primarily agricultural country.

During the first panic filled days of the Exodus, the unimaginative ones who had objected to this new construct, who had not wanted to secede, who couldn't grasp that the world had changed forever, had mostly come from the Other, the mainland. They had been dealt with one way or another. Nothing was wasted – most could be made productive. The true malcontents were of course banished. The new nation simply couldn't tolerate dissent and survive.

Charlie Booker lifted a shovel full of horseshit while watching the Councilor stroll the sidewalk erect with pride. He straightened his own posture a bit, only to have his raised head make him suddenly feel watched by them at the edge of his peripheral vision: two heavily armored Sentinels standing at attention outside the Council Tower. Them robots were right outta one of them video games that had swept away his time with his teenage son... before the gates of hell opened and took Charlie's son away. The Sentinels, with their eight legs drawn together as one, left the impression that the machines might be cumbersome and slow, but Charlie Booker knew better. When them legs broke out into they's spider-like configuration, they could suddenly run down anything on two legs or four. The Sentinels, was a blessing and a curse. They'd taken care of the devils runnin' cross the countryside, but they'd also been the muscle behind all of them new laws. Charlie Booker shoveled up another fresh pile, made a face at the horse and oxen filth caked on the spade. Over the years, lots'a folks had talked about going back to simpler times. Had talked about it for as long as Charlie could remember. In the shanty towns down 'ol Virginia way, seemed like that's all that folks talked about. As if simpler times were somehow easier times. Charlie Booker's back ached. Charlie Booker missed his son. Missed his son playing video games.

Tillie Jarvis also watched Councilman Plimpton take his stroll. The seventeen-year-old white girl, far poorer looking than Charlie Booker, stood on the street opposite Delmarva Capital Trust trying to sell her last bag of roasted peanuts so she could go home to help out her mother with her sick little sister, Emily. It was the beginning of the social season. She wondered what the handsome powerful man might be like at a grand ball. Did he dance? As a girl she had read books about bygone days when ladies and lords dressed in finery arrived by carriage at great lit up houses. It was amazing to see it now, the new nation enveloping itself in long dead traditions. She imagined herself with her long dark locks done up on her head, a flowing dress and her pale skin... One of the matt-black Sentinels that stood across the street shifted positions slightly and she found herself caught in its soulless gaze. But it wasn't soulless. She knew that. Behind the robot's eyes were the eyes of its driver, probably sitting in some climate-controlled trailer in an undisclosed place. Through a wireless signal, a soldier was looking at her through a machine's eyes. Tillie's shifted her focus away from the oddly human looking head and scanned down the torso (sculpted to look like an armored Roman soldier) and rested her gaze on the gun that it carried. She'd never forget the sight and sound of those guns. When she and her family had made the final dash across the bridge, they had nearly been shot to bits by those weapons. Across the street, the machine lifted its remarkably human looking hand and gave her a slight wave. She looked away and glanced down at her own hand, realizing that she had unconsciously crushed the bag of peanuts to a near un-sellable shape. It was getting late. Though a crushed bag of peanuts was as good as a whole one to most hungry folks, she knew she wouldn't have another sale today. She shook off the memory of the most harrowing day of her short life and turned to walk the two miles to the old brick apartment building where her family shared a two bedroom with two other families.

Plimpton smiled as he watched the girl peanut vendor turn to walk up the street. He was proud of that sight. His army, his robotic army, had made it so that girl could live and safely partake in the new country's commerce. He noticed that she clutched one last bag of peanuts and he called out. "You there. Peanut Girl. Can I buy your last bag?"

Tillie turned at the voice and was astonished to see the councilman quickening his step to catch up with her. She was at a loss for words, but stopped all the same.

"I haven't had a roasted peanut in at least... a decade."

Tillie found her voice, but noticed her legs trembling. "I... I'm afraid I may have crushed some. You, you may just have it, sir."

"Nonsense. How much is a bag of peanuts?"

"Two dollars, sir."

Plimpton waved to Hanson who had pulled the carriage to the curb. "Hanson, I need two dollars. Buying this beautiful young lady's last bag of peanuts for the day."

The street was mostly empty. The growing dusk meant near total darkness as streetlight bulbs were scarce and the energy better used elsewhere. The driver set the brake, hopped down, and fished out some bills from his pocket. "Seems I have but a fiver for small bills, sir."

"I can make change," whispered Tillie.

Plimpton took the newly minted Shore bill and exchanged it for the peanuts. "No, you keep the change. How old are you, my dear?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"Lovely. You are a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. Envy I have for the lad you finally choose."

Tillie blushed and stared at the ground, completely taken with the handsome leader. "Thank you, my lord."

"Oh no, no, no. Lord I am not. Servant I am. We are a nation of equals, my dear."

"Yes, sir."

Plimpton turned to his driver, "Shall we, Hanson?" Hanson simply nodded and opened the carriage door for the master. Plimpton turned back to the girl and removed his hat. "A good evening to you, Miss...?"

"Jarvis. Tillie Jarvis."

"A good evening to you, Miss Jarvis." Plimpton turned to his carriage. Tillie stood in awe, and for a moment she forgot all about the new and terrible world. A handsome prince had deemed to speak with her. It was just like every book about such things that she had ever read. Her heart was light as a feather. Then Plimpton turned back. "Why Hanson, being rude we are. We need to offer this young lady a ride home."

A shadow fell across the footman's eyes and he grew stiff as he held the door to the closed cab. "Sir, I'm sure Ms. Jarvis must be going a different way."

Tillie dared not speak. She looked inside the sumptuously appointed cab and felt her feet grow lighter as her heartbeat swelled with sudden anxiety. To ride in the councilman's carriage? Her family wouldn't believe it.

"Nonsense," replied Plimpton. "It's growing dark. Despite the total safety of our streets, a gentleman wouldn't leave her to walk alone."

The next day a ten-year-old boy found her in a drainage ditch about three miles outside the city center. The coroner would determine that she had been raped and then strangled with her own panties. The city's chief constable would reiterate to the press that the murder rate remained very low: just twenty-three in the decade that The Shore had come to be, and that everything would be done to find the perpetrator. "Such viciousness should not exist in a society that has faced and overcome the scourge that was Cain's." What he didn't mention was that seven of those murders had been similar to this last one. Nearly every year there had been a rape killing like this. In his heart he knew it was the same perpetrator. What he had now was the means to do something about it. Various Sentinel patrols had gone out from The Shore over the past year. They had gained valuable knowledge about the surrounding countryside and had also brought back valuable goods and technology. The constable finally had a lab worthy of the term. At the very moment that he was speaking to the press, the newly created forensics lab was looking at the DNA of a killer who had no compunction against leaving his semen within the victim.

www.cchaseharwood.com
