I've got a question. Is everyone on the member list along? Darkstar? The Elite Fitness clowns? Arminius?

---

It's Rogue, not Rouge!

HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician

The assumption I'm running for this is that if a member was banned then they are not brought back in this scenario. However, even if inactive, so long as the member was not outright banned, they will be brought back. This allows for extra bulk for 'NPCs' and the like.

We probably brought back more than a couple of spammers and trolls along with some people who have moved on with the site, but the number of neo-Nazis should be minimal, although by statistics we probably got a couple of sociopathic nutbars.

---

I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists

Day 175, Dawn, Cape Cod

Alferd Packer's first word that morning was quite simple. "FUCK!"

As he drifted towards wakefulness on that fine spring morning, his delusion had snapped, his good humor evaporated. Now, he was simply mad. That which could be called human about him was gone. He thrashed uselessly around in his tent for a moment, nearly destroying it in the process. When he finally disentangled himself and was on his feet, he attempted to ball up his sleeping bag and hurl it into the woods. It traveled exactly three feet before re-expanding and fluttering gracefully to the dewed grass of the forest clearing.

He choked on a frustrated string of expletives and stomped with excessive force towards the bay. When he got to the beach, uncaring about anything else, he screamed at the water. He yelled incoherent things at the sand. He even flipped off the sun as it peeked through the trees in the eastern skies.

But a single thought made him stop.

You're going through the five stages of grief.

He sat on the sand roughly, as though shoved down by the thought. Denial, then anger. Bargaining, then depression. Finally, acceptance. He'd heard it all before; his mother had died when he was twenty-one, so he was well-acquainted with the process. He'd been grieving for his wife (though she wasn't technically dead, for all he knew) for the last six months.

Most people jumped around the stages of grief; repeating some, ignoring others entirely. When his mom died, he distinctly remembered skipping straight to the depression, then leaping back to formless anger for the better part of the summer. With his wife, it'd been mainly depression. Since he did not believe in any sort of God, there was no one to bargain with. He had finally reached acceptance with his mother, but his wife...that was going to take a while.

But this? What was this insanity?

"I'm coming to terms with my own death," he whispered hoarsely.

Packer was amazed at the notion. He had successfully deluded himself for this long? How had he managed that? Dimly, he tried to think back to the boat ride out here. He'd been uneasy, but confident. He'd danced around the issue, or flat-out ignored it. He'd believed what they told him to believe; he'd created the delusion for their benefit! Even when the boat captain had confronted him with the truth (at least, her estimation of the truth), he still ignored it, or at least tiptoed around it. Then, with revulsion, he realized:

I was so convinced, I even lied to my wife about it.

He reached into his pocket and found his phone. Turning it over on in his hand, he stood, facing the water. "I've been talking to someone who will never exist every night because I can't face the fact that she will never exist. I convinced myself that this trip was anything other than a death sentence. I went ballistic for like ten minutes there. Fucking losing it, man. Fuck, now I'm talking to myself?"

No. You had a little hiccup, he told himself soothingly. Maybe a bit of a psychotic break. It was all a defense mechanism. You tried to cope with an impossible situation the best you could. Put on a good show for everyone around you, so they think you're a good guy, all well-adjusted. But when they sent you out here, it was too much. You couldn't keep it all balanced. It was going to come crashing down, no matter what you did. And now, it's all laid bare.

Your wife is gone. She'll never exist. Because you could not get over her, you squandered your opportunity for companionship and happiness back on Nantucket. You obviously fucked with the wrong people. And now, you've been sent out here to die in a way that will only benefit them. You're angry. It's not fair. But that's life. No one said it would be easy.

"No, it's not easy," he muttered. "To face death cannot be easy."

"Dying is not an easy thing," he called out to no one.

But even though he addressed no one, he was not unheard.

Day 42, Evening, Nantucket

Packer weaved his way through the crowded cafeteria, a bowl in each hand, a look of happy concentration on his face. All around him, men joked, laughed, and shouted over each other as they wolfed down dinner. Packer was stopped at least half a dozen times, exchanging pleasantries with sailors, fishermen, lumberjacks, and wreckers.

When he finally got back to the tiny table in the corner, he found Jason Terrance waiting for him, two mugs of beer in front of him. "Christ, boss, I never knew you were such a Chatty Cathy."

Packer set the bowls down. "I would like to extend to you a formal invitation to jump up my ass. There's a step stool back in the kitchen if you need it."

Terrance grinned, then eyed the stew in the bowl. "What do we have tonight?"

"Cod and mussel, along with some vegetables? Beats the fuck out of me, man. Smells good, though. What's the beer situation like?"

"Bad. They're apparently down to Coors here. We should've eaten at the one of the other places; they've still got decent beer!"

Because beer does not keep for more than a few months, it, unlike wine or hard liquor, had to be consumed as though it were a perishable item(which it in fact was). Since the numerous restaurants on the island all had bars with multiple beers on tap, there was quite a bit of beer to drink; enough that part of the standard dinner ration was a twelve-ounce mug of whatever was being served. It was the perfect way to get nearly everyone an extra hundred to two-hundred calories per day.

At first, it had been the good stuff. Sam Adams, Guinness, Stella, even the island's local brew. But that hadn't lasted long, and now they were down to Coors. Soon, it would be the abhorred Lite Beers. Then, nothing until next winter at the earliest.

"At least this shit'll be gone from the earth soon," Packer said. He lifted his mug. "Bottoms up!"

Each man quickly and decisively chugged their beer. There were two prevailing schools of thought on how to drink the Nightly Beer: sip it with the meal, or chug it straight away, while the soup/stew cooled off. Even on an empty stomach, it didn't provide much of a buzz, but that was fine by Packer. What little there was was enough to relax him for a few minutes.

Packer set his mug down and belched. Terrance set his mug down and belched louder. They regarded each other for a moment. "You nervous, boss?"

Packer shrugged. "Honestly, not as much as I thought I'd be. I'm glad you're here, along with the other guys from the shop. At least I know I'll have some support out there."

Terrance sat up in his chair. "First of all? There wouldn't be any lights on in this goddamn high school if we didn't do what we did. No one would have heat, except for the wood they could burn. The gasoline and diesel would be almost gone. Everyone knows that. You'll have a friendly crowd to greet you, and they'll eagerly listen to whatever you have to say. Second of all..."

"Goddammit, Jason, don't say it."

But he said it. "...You're Alferd Packer. You can do anything if you just put your mind to it!"

"It's a good thing no one else at the shop has picked up your little catch-phrase." Packer eyed his stew. "And why are we even talking? Let's friggin' eat!"

And so they ate. The stew was good, though they each could've done with a bit more. According to the committee who devised the menu, eating at the community cafeterias would provide a balanced diet, as well as enough calories for most people. Still, Packer surmised that he'd lost quite a bit of fat since arriving on Nantucket, though he still weighed the same. Now, when he bulged up against his clothes, it was more likely to be muscle than blubber.

When they bussed their table and left, they immediately wove through the halls of the high school towards the auditorium, where tonight's town hall meeting was taking place. Packer had not been to any of the town hall meetings so far. He thought that there had been two before tonight's one, but he just couldn't muster up the interest. Besides, his work at the shop meant that he dealt with the council on a regular enough basis. Now, though, he'd been asked by the council to give a short speech about he machine shop, and its current gasifier project. He thought it a fine idea.

The entire crew was amongst the crowd waiting in the hall outside the auditorium. After getting slapped on the back more times than he could count, Packer said, "Alright, I need to go in. If you chucklefucks sit up front and try to make me laugh or something, I swear..."

"Good luck, boss!" Terrance said with gleeful menace.

Packer winced and separated from his guys. Heading over to the door, he withdrew from an inner pocket his writ. A runner from the council had dropped it off at the shop earlier that day, and it was the only way he'd get in. He showed it to the guard, who was packing twin pistols on his belt. "Mister...Packer, is it?" he said, consulting a clipboard.

"Indeed it is," Packer said, just because he thought he should respond.

"And there you are on the list. Go on in, sir. I'm looking forward to your speech."

"Thanks?" Packer couldn't help the incredulous tone from creeping into his voice, and he went in.

The auditorium was large, but not large enough. No building on Nantucket had a room large enough to house three thousand people at a stretch. Fortunately, groups of people tended to send one or two representatives to these meetings, which kept attendance under a five hundred or so. Still, they were expecting the place to be packed tonight, or at least this what Packer had been told three days ago, when he'd been invited.

Yeah, it might only be half the island showing up. No pressure 'r nothin, Mistah P.

"Mister Packer!" a voice boomed across the auditorium. He was met halfway to the stage by an average looking man in his thirties. "Thank you so much for showing up. I'm Bill Weems, the coordinator for these little events."

"Meetcha, Mister Weems," Packer said, offering his hand and getting loose shake in return.

"So, the council tells me you'll be speaking tonight. Right now, I have you going last, after the Chairman speaks. Is that alright with you?"

"Uh, fine, I guess. Do I close out the meeting, or...?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't realize you hadn't attended previously. No, the Chairman will adjourn the meeting after the last speaker. Now, as you can see, there are two podiums on stage. You and the two other guest speakers will be speaking from the one stage left, while any council members will be speaking stage right. We have you seated on stage, of course, and you'll have water as you need it. Have you eaten supper yet?"

"Yes, I have," Packer stated blandly, eyeing Weems with admiration. An event planner who managed to make himself useful in this weird world of theirs. Good for him!

"Excellent. Well, we're almost ready to let the general public in, so why don't you take your seat on stage? It's labelled with your name."

"Thank you, Mister Weems," Packer began, but Mister Weems was already moving off.

Packer was almost off stage, there were so many chairs crammed on there. If everyone on stage is speaking tonight, I might as well just go straight to work after this, Packer thought miserably.

No sooner had he sat down, though, than people started filing in. What made him sit up a little straighter was the fact that the first people in were women. All of them--at least, all the ladies who hadn't chosen a mate.

He tried to remember the last time he saw a woman. It had to be when they installed the gasifier at the Point Breeze Hotel, which the women claimed as their own haven early on. Or had he seen some out in the marina that one day? Could've been; there were some women who were sailors, and one certainly couldn't teach someone how to sail from your hotel room.

Most of the women were sensibly dressed for the cool night, bundled up in pants and parkas, but some were made up to the nines, opting for low-rider jeans, trendy wool coats, and fancy scarves. One girl(and a pretty one at that) was even wearing high heels and a skirt. And she sat in the front row, almost directly in front of the podium!

Suddenly, Packer longed for Terrance and Andrew and Rustbucket making faces at him and surreptiously flipping him off as he tried to speak.

The women weren't unescorted. Aside from a cadre of armed men, there were, of course, the several den mothers: older women who'd protected the younger, vulnerable girls during those crazy first few days and since vigorously defended their charges in all matters. If a woman on the island had chosen a man out of fear for her own safety and subsequently changed her mind, a den mother would see them safely separated. And as the den mothers demanded, the council acceded. The spurned man had no recourse: he either got over it quickly, or he went up the rope.

At any rate, the entirety of the island's women seemed to be there tonight, and they and their escorts took up nearly a quarter of the seats. Packer felt strange; not aroused by these women (though, if he stared at High Heels Girl's legs long enough, he'd be thankful the podium blocked the lower half of his body from view), but rather interested. What were their days like? How were they coping with the difficulties imposed on them? Would he ever get a chance to ask?

As Packer pondered this, the men started to pour in. Packer's crew was, perhaps mercifully, seated somewhere towards the back, where the lighting was a little murkier. When all the seats were filled, people started sitting on the floor, in the orchestral pit, then up the aisles. When those were full, they were standing three rows deep in the back of the auditorium and the doors could barely close.

The meeting began, and Packer immediately tuned out. It seemed to consist largely of facts, figures, and the recitation of those facts and figures. The one thing Packer did distinctly hear was that they should have enough food to make it through the winter, as this was punctuated with wild applause. Then there was some debate between some Council members and some of the audience over common usage of certain berths in the marina, followed by some other debate about what to do with the wind turbine over on the Bartlett farm. Otherwise, he ignored everything that was said, and instead he split his time between casually ogling High Heel Girl's legs and chastising himself for being such a demented pervert. She's got to be at least eight years younger than you...if not younger! whipped through his head more than once.

He was so absorbed, that he nearly missed his cue. "And finally," the Chairman said, "we'll hear from Mister Alferd Packer, who's been doing a hell of a job at the machine shop, getting our generators running again. Mister Packer?"

The applause thundered in his ears as he stood up. If he hadn't been nervous before, he was now! He stood stock still for half a heartbeat before he could force himself to the podium, while the applause seemed to roll on politely. It died precisely when he reached the podium, and he cleared his throat, heart thumping palpably.

"Thank you, Mister Chairm--" the rest was cut off in a hideous whine of feedback, loud enough to cause Packer to recoil. It cut out just in time to clearly pick him up muttering, "...piece of crap microphone," and the crowd burst into good-natured laughter.

Face the color of steamed lobster and greasy sweat beading on his forehead, he said, "Guess I should've practiced on Rock Band or something, huh?" The crowd applauded more than the lame joke deserved.

"Anyway!" he said when the noise had died down, "I'd like to begin by thanking the Chairman and the Council for inviting me to speak tonight. Also, I'd like to take a moment and thank them for giving us not one, but three soup kitchens! Now that's delivering on a promise! How about it!" And he started clapping.

The applause caught on and was respectable. "But we're not here for a damn circle-jerk, are we? Let's talk gas.

"I know you've probably got some idea of what we do down at the metal shop. Most of you have seen the gasifiers we install. But what is a gasifier? Why does it work? This is what the Council asked me to discuss tonight, and since I'm sure all of you have to take a leak, I'm going to be quick."

A smattering of laughter. Packer noted that High Heels Girl had laughed, so as far as he was concerned, he was the funniest man on the goddamn planet at that moment. "A gasifier is exactly what its name suggests. It takes something that's not a gas and makes it a gas. In our context, we're taking wood and making gas from it. How? by burning it.

"You probably remember reading stories of people who suffocated in their homes due to carbon monoxide leaks, right? Well, carbon monoxide is produced when any number of things, wood included, is combusted. What is interesting is that when wood is incompletely combusted, other gases are produced, including hydrogen. This collection of gases, if it can be directed and concentrated, can then be burned in its own right.

"It turns out that an engine which normally utilizes gasoline as fuel is just as well-equipped to burn this gas we have created in its stead, completely obviating the need for liquid fuel. With a few trivial modifications, any gasoline engine can be made to run on this gas we've created through burning wood. When this gasoline engine is hooked up to a dynamo or an alternator, we have electrical power. Power for light. Power for heat. Power for tools for carpentry and metalwork. Power for medical devices. Power for refrigeration. Power for construction. Power for destruction. You name it, we can do it...so long as we have power!"

Everyone applauded. Even the Council members were clapping. Packer held up his hands, but that seemed to spur people on. Eventually, though, he got things quiet enough. His fear was gone. "I need to stop things right there, though. None of what we've done in the last forty days would've been possible if I didn't have my crew. They're the ones who deserve your applause. Guys, get your asses out your seats." And there was another round of applause, even louder this time and punctuated by shrill whistles and hoots. Packer grinned as the eighteen men on his crew wriggled under the glare of public adoration. When things were quiet again, Packer continued:

"Now, I was told to keep this brief, as all the Chairman's favorite TV shows start at nine," the Council members laughed more loudly at this than the audience did, "so I'll just say this. We're working as fast as we can to get as much power to the island as we possibly can, but we are understaffed. If you've ever worked with metal before, we can use you. If you've worked with wood before, we can use you. If you just want us to teach you something, we can use you. Come on down to the shop and give it a try. We work every day, but the hours are fair.

"Also, if you just want to learn more about gasifiers or our operation, please stop on by. Most of us are well-behaved, and if you bring snacks, you can usually coax us into doing tricks. Thank you."

The applause was raucous and warm, and Packer basked happily in it. When it died, Packer moved to return to his seat. The Chairman was already talking, but suddenly, something struck him. He hadn't planned on it, but the idea ballooned in his mind so rapidly, the impulse was so strong, that before he knew it, he was at the podium again.

"Mister Chairman? Mister Chairman!" Packer looked across the stage.

The Chairman was so stunned, he simply said, "Yes, Mister Packer?"

Packer looked out at the audience for a moment; all eyes were trained on him. What was he doing? "I'm terribly sorry to do this, sir, but I just realized something. When I was speaking, I said that we at the shop work every day. And that's true of everyone in this room...no, everyone on this island, just about." Packer licked his lips quickly. "For the last forty days we've all gone nonstop, trying to survive in impossible circumstances. We've been running on adrenaline and fear, and only now do we have a concrete hope that we'll make it through the winter. We can look further into the future than to our next meal, or our next day on the job.

"We should have--we deserve--a break." The crowd began murmuring in an excited way.

The Chairman said placidly, "A break, Mister Packer?"

"Yes, Mister Chairman," Packer said eagerly. "In a few weeks, the winter solstice will occur. That'd be a perfect time to have ourselves a day off and a party: a party for everyone on the island, if they want to come! We celebrate everything we've accomplished so far, and we also celebrate the fact that there will finally be more goddamn daylight."

"A fine idea, Mister Packer, to be sure," The Chairman began, "but we don't have the facilities--"

"Sure we do!" someone in the audience with balls of wrought iron shouted. "The Nantucket Inn, out by the airport! It's got a big reception hall and a bunch of other rooms. And we can set up bonfires out in the fields nearby!" A chorus of affirmation rippled across the crowd.

"Order!" the Chairman barked, and he rapped his gavel a few times. The crowd quieted down. "The Nantucket Inn may be large enough, but there's absolutely no power on that side of the island. We would need to divert gasifiers which run essential services, causing critical lapses elsewhere."

"Mr Chairman?" Packer spoke up. "Since I brought up this idea, I'll volunteer my time, and the time of my crew. We'll pull double shifts between now and the solstice to get the extra gasifiers built in time for the party. We'll live in the shop if we have to, but we'll fill all of our scheduled orders, as well the extra ones to bring power to the party. Am I right, gentlemen?"

"You can count on us, boss!" Terrance hollered somewhere from the middle distance. Someone else called out, "And we woodcutters will make sure you've got plenty of fuel for the celebration!" If anyone else offered their services, it was drowned out by a happy babble. Packer grinned, and turned to look at the Chairman, who once again had to call for order.

"Very well, the motion has been put forward by our esteemed Mister Packer here to have a party, and apparently has been seconded about nine hundred times. Since it appears that the extra labor needed for such an event will be provided by the appropriate parties, I have no material objections to the event. However, our procedure calls for this motion to be discussed by us in committee before we put the vote to the general public, which will have to take place at the next meeting. Since the next meeting isn't for two weeks, it appear we'll miss the solstice."

"Hey, fuck the procedure!" some daring soul yelled out from the back. "Let's get the vote done now, so we can have the party on the solstice! Figure out all the bureaucratic shit later!" A ripple of rough agreement worked its way across the crowd. "Yeah, we need some time off!" another person called out. "We're gonna go fuckin' bugshit if we don't get a break!"

The Chairman's mouth worked helplessly for a moment, then he shot a glance at Packer, who grinned amiably and shrugged. Finally, he said, "It appears I am outmatched. Very well. Secretary, please amend the current motion to today's list of votes." He tapped the gavel twice, then called out, "It has been motioned and seconded that on the winter solstice, some ten days hence, that we furnish the Nantucket Inn for an island-wide party. All in favor?"

"AYE!" so loud it shook the walls.

"All opposed?" Not a peep. "As I thought," the Chairman said with a wry smile. "The motion carries, and with that, I think it's time we adjourn. We'll be posting information about the party at the ferry slip, so make sure to check it out. Goodnight, everyone." The gavel came down, and the audience burst into wild cheers and applause. Some of that is for me, Packer thought. Some is for the Council and the Chairman. But most of it is for themselves.

He stepped back from the podium and quietly snuck out a side exit, a dreamy smile on his face. Good for them. Good for us. We deserve it.

Day 175, Early Morning, Cape Cod

Packer was resolved: they sent him out here to die? The least he would do is die with dignity. No suicide. No "accidents." He would face whatever awited him, and thus he would die in his right mind. Or whatever he had left.

He turned to go back to camp, to clean it up, but he stopped. His phone was still in his hand.

"Sorry, babe," he said sadly, "you can't come with me on this one. I'll always love you, though, and I'll remember. Goodbye." He hesitated for a moment, but then with sudden conviction he whipped the phone into the bay. It burbled once as it sank. He watched it go, then went back to his camp.

He struck the tent, repackaging it as best as he could. He rolled up his sleeping bag. He stripped naked and strapped to his thigh a Velcro band which had on it a small pocket. The pocket contained a few wedding bands he'd managed to hold on to, as well as someone's diamond engagement ring. They'd probably be safer up his ass, but he was gonna be goddamned if he pulled a Christopher Walken now. To his left ankle he strapped the sheath for his short, narrow-profile knife(and the knife itself). He didn't plan on fighting anyone, but what would happen in the short remainder of his life was anyone's guess.

After this, he donned all of his clothes: two pairs of socks, his winter boots (with a zippered leather flap covering the laces, so that snow wouldn't get caught in there), thick woollen long underwear under his heavy-duty waterproof work jeans, a leather belt, a t-shirt, two sweaters, and his bomber jacket. He thought about carrying the crossbow with him, but decided against it, instead attaching it to his pack.

Now, he was ready. But where to go? Wander inland until he got ambushed by natives? Or perhaps a bear would choose him for lunch? Say, weren't there wolves to worry about, too?

Nah. Just because he was going to die, he didn't have to seek death out. That'd be crazy. He might as well go back to the bay and have breakfast.

He saw them through the trees at a distance of twenty feet. There were four of them, and they were rifling through the bag of cod fillets. He made no effort to mask his approach, and when he stepped out onto the beach, they all had their spears pointed at him.

Hollywood had spoiled him. His intellectual mind told him that the tall, iron-faced, stoic Indian of the Wild West was a stereotype. It still didn't allay the shock he felt at observing the men in front of him.

They were downright tiny! Packer, at two inches shy of six foot, was by no means a tall man on Nantucket. Here on Cape Cod, though, he was a giant. The tallest native amongst the group might've been five-one on a good day.

But still, they sort of looked like Native Americans as one would expect...if they'd gone through the dryer one time too many. The skin color was right, a kind of ruddy copper. The eyes and hair were dark. They went shirtless, and wore some kind of hide breeches and moccasins...at least, that's what Packer thought they were.

At any rate, they did not regard this strange white giant with friendship and warmth. Their spearpoints were dangerously close to his body, and though they were stone, they looked nastily sharp.

So, this it how it ends? Stabbed to death by hostile natives? Well, we all gotta go sometime. But Packer would not provoke them. Let them be the aggressors.

Slowly, he raised his right hand to shoulder height, palm forwards, and simply said, "Hello!"

He then had the faintest notion of something behind him. Then a brief, crushing pressure on the right side of his head, then....

Nothing.

---

"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation." -Herbert Spencer

"Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain." - Schiller, Die Jungfrau von Orleans, III vi.

WOO! PARTY!

I hadn't thought of that, how our modern diets would make us giants in those times. Might be a big advantage if we get into armed conflict with them.

So, was he knocked out or killed?

---

My Xbox Live Gamertag is Sergeant Matt

"Faith is the great cop-out, the great excuse to evade the need to think and evaluate evidence. Faith is belief in spite of, even perhaps because of, the lack of evidence." -Richard Dawkins

I've been sitting on this for a while in the Writer's Guild. To keep the thread from getting bogged down in too much discussion and not enough fic. (Seriously, there's the thread in OT for that sort of discussion;) I present the following short:

Ghost Riders

Y'know, it's funny how, sometimes, you start out in a bad situation, and nothing you do makes it better. Oh, sure, you tell yourself that . . . "Hey, I'm a calm, rational guy. Nothing can faze me. No matter what happens, things will turn out okay in the end." And then it all goes straight to shit, and you've got nobody to blame but yourself.

"Quick, to the police station!"

I'd followed that call. Someone had taken charge, and it took me all of five seconds to discard my first plan, and answer that call. Maybe things would've turned out differently if I hadn't. Who knows? All I remember was that there were five guys who looked like they had a plan. Me and some others followed them down the streets. There were a bunch of us, at first. But our numbers were whittled down as some gave up, couldn't keep up, or got sidetracked. I don't like to think about what sidetracked 'em. There were a few of us who got there just after the first five went in, and had the sense to keep our mouths shut and hung back till they came back out and invited us in.

Right away, they put us to work. All the equipment had to be quickly accounted for, every entrance we weren't using had to be barricaded. There was less and less doubt that we were going to be in a world of hurt if we didn't hurry, but it felt good to be doing something productive.

That's when I first saw it . . . an old Colt Peacemaker, in the evidence locker, complete with old cowboy-style leather, and a couple boxes of bullets to boot. That gun called to me, you know; it was the first truly familiar thing I'd seen since I woke up on that godforsaken cobblestone plaza. I had the leather halfway on before someone spotted me. I looked him square in the eye and told him "This is what I know best." I usually don't do that, and that must've struck him, 'cuz he returned my look and told me "All right, son. You've just volunteered. Go tell Kam I sent you, and get outside. Some boys with sense in their heads have taken charge at the marina, but they've got a growing crowd, and little to hold 'em at bay."

And, by God, I went. And I learned. And the more I learned, the worse I felt. Cellphones didn't work. Power didn't work. There was jack shit on the radio, except for us, and those who thought like us . . . no Coast Guard, no sheriff, no nothing. More, and more, it sounded like our worst nightmares had come true. One of those screwy Act-of-Q scenarios discussed on the board had finally come to pass. Finding out which would come later, right now, we had a town full of confused, frightened people. Just like Yoda told Luke on Dagobah, fear leads to anger, and we had to defuse it right-the-fuck-now. My hand kept going to that gun, and maybe I should've seen that as a warning. But a man doesn't always think clearly in situations like that, you know?

It was cold, when we got there. People were gathered, huddling for warmth. I couldn't help but notice how poorly some of their clothes fit, or how the tags were still on 'em. We were warm, though. We had police jackets . . . didn't quite feel right putting on the whole uniform, but we needed a recognizable symbol of authority. There were people off to the side with cuts and bruises; for some, it seemed their inner Beast was starting to come out. We got them settled down for a bit, with our perimeter and our Day-Glo vests and our guns. There were women there, and half of the folks that came with me evacuated 'em back to the police station. A man should feel accomplished, restoring order, protecting those who need protecting, but I didn't feel anything but nervous and sick. My gaze kept darting from person to person. The weight of that old Colt felt mighty comforting on my hip, but I just knew that the shit was gonna hit the fan sooner or later.

If only I knew . . . It was getting uglier, and uglier. Our little grace period had worn off as the people got used to our guns. There weren't many of us, but there, sure as hell, were a lot of them. They started crowding us, demanding answers we didn't really have. The more the sunlight bled away, the angrier they got. Goddamnit, what's a man supposed to do in situations like that? Guess the pressure got to someone, because they admitted that we couldn't raise the mainland, and they said it loud enough for someone in the crowd to hear. That really set the crowd off, and that's when it happened.

Someone had screamed something, suddenly things were flying at us, people were pushing forward, and I just . . . it just happened, I did it. There isn't any gun that goes from leather to first shot faster than a single-action revolver, and I'll never, ever forget that, not now. The blast took me by surprise, and the kid . . . he just . . . dropped like a sack of dirt, dead-right-there. I saw his lights go out in slow-motion, just like in the movies. He couldn't have been any older than twenty, and I. Killed. Him. All he had was that stupid fucking brick, and he missed! He didn't have to die . . . and neither did the five other people who got shot in the mess that followed.

Things got real quiet for a while after that. Terror has a funny effect on people. Some people even called me a 'hero.' Can you believe that? Who the fuck wants to go down in history as the shooter who sparked the "Nantucket Massacre?" Who would be proud of that? Not me. If there were a firing squad, I'd have gladly faced it. But we couldn't afford to waste anyone with useable skills. Not like the last kid who got shot that day . . . all he took was a .22 through the leg, but when the infection took hold . . . there was nothing anyone could do about it, 'cause we had to ration our antibiotics. It's a bum deal . . . there'd have been a course of antibiotics for someone like me, but that poor kid . . . he had to suffer for nearly a month before he died. I apologized to him many times before he finally gave up the ghost. Apologized to him for everyone who died at that marina. Didn't do a damned bit of good. Nor did facing the suspicious, resentful stares of people in the streets, at the assemblies. The man who let me take that gun never had much to say to me after that day, and nothing he did say was at all kind.

So when the seasons turned, and the town council sought volunteers to head to the mainland and start making maps that weren't 3000 years out of date; could you blame me for being the first to volunteer? I know the risks, I know what happened to the first few folks who were sent out, but I don't care. I'm not welcome here anymore, and I know that. Anything would be better than staying here, but on the other hand, the community saw us through the winter, and I feel like I . . . I dunno, I still owe 'em. So maybe this will be my penance, my way of giving something positive to the community . . . . .

I'm sorry, Pastor. I see I've just about talked your ear off. But sometimes, a man just has to tell his story to someone, anyone. I know I don't have any right to ask you this, but, could you possibly see to it that my story doesn't go untold? You know . . . just in case . . .

And someone finally makes the connection SDN + impossibly weird situation = RAR.

The guy I really feel sorry for is the one who got a .22 in his leg. Slow and painful, no one deserves that kind of death.

Good so far! Hope there's more like that where that came from.

November 17 – Year Unknown – Day 17

As the sun set turning afternoon into evening many sounds and smells filled the air; the crackle and pop of the fire accompanied by the distinctive scent of wood smoke, cut with the merry bubble and savoury aroma of the stew cooking above the flames; the intermittent but repetitive ‘twang-thud!’ of the bow being practiced with outside, the smell associated with it most keenly being the now constant odour of sweat perspired by a long day’s work; and finally the dry scratching of the pencil in hand accompanied by the equally dry smell of graphite come free from the paper.

I sit in a chair next to a western window, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the fire on one side and the orange light of the setting sun on my face, just taking a moment to take what enjoyment out of this existence of ours I can. Eventually though the moment passes, and I return to my work, a task with its own form of enjoyment. Pencil lightly caressing the paper, I replicate smooth curves and subtle shadows the best I can with my meagre talents and fading light.

Where there is thrill and excitement in opening up a house like a wrapped present just as there is tedium in it, so too is there something sublime about quietly replicating pictures of naked women even if it can become frustrating to do right at times. While rather crude, my technique has improved and the utter dearth of women has made any pornography rather valuable.

The full census was not yet in, but everyone knew that there were somewhere between one hundred fifty and two hundred fifty women on the island, with something like twenty times as many men. If anyone had any problems with homosexuality then they were going to have to get used to the fact that they were playing by prison rules now. Well, male homosexual relations anyway. It was pretty clear that the box marked ‘Lesbian’ had been scratched out and ‘Bisexual’ put in its place, even if no one had been so crass to say it explicitly in public. Yet.

So the market for pictures of naked ladies was probably currently experiencing something of a bubble, hence the attempt to extend out the supply before things got too ridiculous. There were a number of punks who had looted the numerous jewellery stores the first few days, but now that they had nothing to eat they were crawling back to civilization with their seized goods. We did not make them pay for food with luxury goods, mostly because food was a group commodity and trading it was against the rules, but actually useful luxuries like spice, deodorant, cologne, pornography and the like all went at exorbitant prices on the current seller’s market.

Jeremy, one of the kids we had added to our little tribe in the past two weeks and change, came up to me while I was concentrating on getting the curve of the hips just right on the current centrefold. He says, “Hey Brendan, you’ve got a visitor.”

“Who is it?” I ask while reluctantly setting aside my project.

“Night watch,” Jeremy says, and I roll my eyes. There was only one member of the night watch that made regular stops at this house. The poor bastard was in too deep, getting lead around by his balls by the fact that one of the younger women on the island had actually taken an interest in him. While I could not blame him, he spent an awful lot on the various consumable luxury goods we salvaged from the homes of Nantucket.

Getting up out of my chair, I walk over to the front door where my best customer waits. While a bit of an unwritten rule not to talk about your past life with strangers, I am still fairly certain that the guy is a former Russian Army conscript, some guy who is probably younger than I am, but because he knows how to march and carry a rifle, he fell in with the guys in charge. Still, he spoke excellent English so I am not be certain.

“Uh… Victor, right?” I ask, trying to dredge up the name. I am terrible with names and faces.

He nods eagerly, and I cannot help but note that he looks terrible in a beard. His facial hair is still too sparse. Of course, my rapidly developing mountain man look was little better. He then says, “Yes, Mister Sparkle.” That last bit was said with a faux Japanese accent, causing me to groan at the really bad nickname some had decided to give me.

Shaking my head, I say, “Just call me Brendan. Are you looking for more of that cologne from last time?” Our last transaction had involved a little bit of high class cologne in exchange for a white gold and onyx ring rather similar to one I used to own. I gave it to him cheap because it actually fit me so I was willing to part easier so I could wear the ring myself.

Victor nods enthusiastically and says, “Yes! She said she loved how I smelled when I wore it. I want it all!”

I scratch at my chin and the hairs growing there, thinking for a moment before I say, “That’s not going to be cheap. Even… before… it was really expensive stuff; and now that we’re still working on getting water for drinking, to say nothing of bathing…”

“Look, I need that cologne! My CO is starting to move in on her, and he’s got more pull. I need to secure her before he does,” Victor all but shouts, drawing the attention of the other members of the household. I can see Joe starting to lean into view, a crossbow unloaded but clearly at the ready in his hands. I shake my head at him before Victor sees.

“I’ve got that, I’ve got that. Look, all I’m saying is that we established that the rules are that luxury goods go to whoever finds them and they can trade for prices they see fit, that was all officially ratified at the first council meeting a few days ago, right? Now that cologne is very good stuff and thus worth a lot, so I don’t want to part with it if you don’t have something of equal or greater value,” I explain.

Victor frowns and says, “Yes, yes. How much do you want?”

“Well, I think I traded you something like ten mils last time, and I think there’s like twenty times that…” I stopped talking when Victor pulls a pouch out of his pocket and shoves it into my hand. Surprisingly heavy for its size, I opened it up to find something like thirty engagement rings inside along with several gold necklaces set with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and other precious stones. By old standards there must have been over a hundred thousand dollars worth of jewellery within. I blink at the bounty and say, “Do you want to negotiate or should I just go get the bottle now?”

“I need that bottle,” Victor hisses at me.

Taking a step back, I nod and say, “I will be right back. I’ll even give you the original bottle.”

Running up the stairs two at a time, I then climb the ladder to the attic where we keep the stuff we want to keep from getting stolen. Unlocking and opening up the trunk that contains my collection of luxury goods, I pull out the crystal bottle of designer cologne. Dumping this fresh batch of jewellery in along with my share of everything else we’ve recovered, I return downstairs. Victor has an impatient look on his face, but once he uncorks the bottle and takes a whiff of what is within, he turns to all smiles and says, “This is perfect!”

“Uh… just out of curiosity, where did you get all of that?” I ask.

“The jewellery stores were all emptied within the first week. Some people made caches, others kept them and when they started to trickle in to those of us providing protection and food we confiscate these sorts of things if they get into fights or anything like that,” Victor replies.

“Ah. I see. Looks like my collection isn’t as good as I thought,” I state.

“No, you’re about the only one who actually keeps stuff like cologne around,” Victor replies absentmindedly before he smiles and says, “Anyway, good evening to you. Curfew starts soon and I’ll have to get back to my partner for the night. It was a pleasure doing business.”

I wave as Victor heads off, only after he is out of view considering why he would have his own personal batch of confiscated jewellery. This could be trouble.

“Did anything feel off about all of that?” I ask Joe.

“Would you like an itemized list or a full report?” Joe replies, and I nod my head.

Jon is coming inside with his crew, and I say, “You catch that Jon?”

“Some of it,” he nods.

“I say we call it an early night and get hunkered down. I can feel trouble coming,” I say, and I get a round of nods from everyone else around me.

Jon, Joe and I formed the nucleus of our little band, Matt being our first new addition. Soon others had arrived, looking for those who looked like they had a plan, and now we had three work teams of four each, one adult supervising three teenagers. Not that those of us older than twenty really felt like adults. I had Jeremy, Adam, and Kevin on my team; Joe had Matt, Chris, and Joachim; and Jon had Charles, Vlad, and Nicholas. It was crowded in just one house, but we always had one team on watch so we could hot-bunk at night to get the most out of the space around the fireplace. We had enough blankets, cots, and sleeping bags that we fortunately did not have to share our beds.

Sometime in the dead of night I saw them walk past the street in the dark, their flashlights scanning from side to side, checking for any problems. Victor strolled along with the other two men, and for a moment he shone his flashlight up upon our house, catching me in the face through the upper window where I was on look out. Briefly illuminated, I could see nothing, but I knew he could see me. The beam passed away again, and my night vision slowly began to recover.

I spent the rest of my watch tightly gripping the stock of the crossbow in my hands.

November 21 – Year Unknown – Day 21

The issue with Victor had nearly slipped from my mind when the semi-weekly pick up arrived at our house to pick up the spoils we handed over to the community. However, instead of the normal crew, a third man hopped out, strolling over to us in the practiced manner of someone used to walking long distances while in charge. He definitely looked like he had been career military before arrival.

My team and I cease our drilling while we watched him come up. With all of the local houses already either cracked open by us or others, we had to go further and further out to find property that had yet to feel the looter’s crowbar, we needed people to stay behind and guard everything we found. So we rotated the schedule two teams out scavenging, the third back home on guard and drilling with bow and crossbow. It takes some effort to set down my weapon and wave to this newcomer though. There is something oily and slippery about him.

Although that could just be the fact that everyone was getting a bit oily. We still had barely enough water to drink, let along get a proper bath in, and despite best efforts, hygiene still came second to dehydration. It had been major a contributing factor in the rise of the popularity of cologne and perfume.

The man is perhaps a touch taller than I am, but he still has this way of looking down at me, an angling of the head and eyes that somehow magnified the difference, making me feel much smaller than I was. He glanced about us with an air of absolute disdain, quirking an eyebrow at our little target range before he said, “Quite the set up you have here.” His voice had something of an accent that pegged him as perhaps Australian, and while it lacked the tone, I could practically feel the sarcasm radiating off of him.

I nod nervously and say, “Yeah, we’re just doing our best really.”

“Best, really?” He asks without warmth. He then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper. Looking it over, he then looks us over again, the disdain clear in his eyes, and he says, “I am looking for Brendan.”

I nod and say, “I would be him.”

“Ah. That simplifies my task somewhat. I am to understand that you were in contact with a subordinate of mine named Victor Yakovlev a few days ago, correct?” He asks.

I nod before feeling my blood run like ice. I knew something had felt off about that transaction. “Yes. Is there something wrong?” I ask.

“That has yet to be determined. I am to understand that he purchased something from your little jackdaw collection, correct?” He asks.

I nod while gulping. This guy looked like he was pissed but hid it well.

“And what, precisely, was it that he purchased?” He asks.

“He purchased a bottle of cologne that I found and had previously traded a sample with him,” I reply.

A sort of half frown, half thoughtful look crosses over the man’s face and he muttered, “So this is where he got it from.” I do not think he intended for me to hear, but he was clearly somewhat distracted. Finally an annoyed look settled on his face and he resumed his air of disdain, asking, “Do you have any further samples of this cologne?”

It clicked in my mind. I knew what was happening and I did not like it. I was in the middle of a dick fight, and not only did I get the feeling that I was about to get double penetrated, but that the guy going for my ass did not want to use lube. I stammered for a moment before I replied, “He bought the whole bottle, and I haven’t found anything like that since.”

The man growled and shook his head before he said, “We will keep in touch…” his eyes flickered back down to his paper and he finished “…Brendan and… oh… this is interesting. It says here on your census that you were in engineering before.”

I shivered despite the fact that this weather was warm if a touch damp for where I came from and replied, “Engineering student and my training is rather useless without a working semiconductor industry.”

A smug grin spread over his face and I can feel my stomach flip-flop. Definitely no lube for this one. He says, “Well now, that’s no reason to be so self-depreciating. You have skills that are so underutilized here, and you have been so cooperative. I will have to put in a recommendation to the council to find you a place where you can more appropriately use your skills.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I stutter out. “We’re quite happy doing what we’re doing here.”

“The council is growing tired of unregulated looting; too many groups do it wrong. They also want to make sure the people with the right skills get into the right positions. A man of your talents would be wasted doing labour such as this. I’m sure with my recommendation we can get you into somewhere much more appropriate,” the man replied, smooth and disdainful.

“Uh… um… yeah…” I reply, now knowing that I am truly and utterly fucked.

Looking back to see that most of our tribute has been loaded up on the pick up by the two men who came along with the rest of my team, the man nods and says, “Thank you for your time.”

After the encounter I told the others to just go on watch while I went into the house. Finding a nice spot, I slump over and curl up. I have not been so terrified of existence and the future since our first arrival on this damn island, and now I did not even have something to move towards in this uncertain future.

I just cried for a time.

November 28 – Circa 13th century BC – Day 28

The second council meeting was a much more sombre one than the raucous first, for the astronomy buffs had finally managed to get enough equipment, clear nights, and data to work out an approximate year for our temporal location. The results had been sobering. The thirteenth century BC. We were isolated from our comfortable world by over three thousand years. It was hard to wrap the head around.

Still, it was good to release the news at the meeting, rather than let it fester in the rumour mill. Here they could tell everyone and then give the good news that through a combination of salvage work and the new gasifiers being built the council would be able to get at least some water flowing through the pipes again. Not enough to shower with, but enough to drink and wash a bit and the grey water could be used to flush out toilets, adding another level of hygiene.

I took a particular interest in the news about the water system and other infrastructure details because of the piece of paper that was badly folded and crumpled up inside my jacket. I had been in a bit of a daze since receiving it, and I had a sick, hollow feeling throughout my body.

‘Due to a review of critical skills, you are being reassigned to the Council Corp of Engineers. Please attend the Second General Council Meeting for further instructions. New accommodations will be provided for you. Non-compliance will be considered grounds for censure.’

Grounds for censure. It turned my stomach. It meant that they would cut me off from food until I came crawling back, and if they caught me scavenging they would take whatever I had by force. Including anything from before the censure. They had me by the balls. I could either submit now and get stripped from my friends and companions, or submit later and get stripped of all dignity and property. I had truly just wanted to hide, to avoid the decision, but the others had propped me up.

So now I stood while everyone else filed out of the auditorium, gathering about the large group of specialists who had received similar letters. Jon and Joe were with me, in Jon’s case as he was also being reassigned to the Hunting Corp for his survival and hunting skills. We would start adding game to our diet on a steadier basis quite soon. Fishing was already starting up.

Quietly we waited with perhaps three dozen other people, all young men. Some people were excited. Others were more sombre, either because they were still in shock from the astronomical revelation at the start of the meeting, or because their groups were being broken up like ours. Eventually a few small tables were set up, young women with papers in hand settling down while men armed with pistols and no nonsense looks on their faces took up watch behind them.

Slowly we formed lines as the tables were labelled with their specific department of duty. Joe pats me on the back and says, “Don’t worry man, it will be okay,” before he retreats, not having an invitation to this little morose party.

Numbly I wait, a duffel bag containing a few essentials at my feet, slowly shuffling forward, the coat on my shoulders feeling like it is filled with lead. Finally I am at the front of the line for the Engineering Corps. A cute girl of Asian decent sits behind the desk, shuffling through some papers, and after a moment of clearing things up from the last guy, she looks up at me and says, “I can help you now sir.”

I know the sound of that voice. Not the girl’s voice, just the particular cadence of it. She has worked behind a cash register before. Somehow the utter banality of it cracks my depressed shell slightly and I haul my things forward and say, “Brendan, reporting for assignment.”

“Brendan… Brendan… ah! Here we are,” she says after running her finger down a clipboard for a few seconds. “You are being assigned to forestry logistics…”

My heart sinks. Already the council was starting to form large camps of the younger members and attempting to put them to work chopping down trees to provide fuel for all the hundred different things we could burn wood for. Forestry logistics meant the shit work for feeding and cleaning up after several thousand punk kids with nothing better to do than swing an axe from sunrise until sunset. That meant mostly digging latrine ditches with the aid of guys who had come crawling back to the council for food. Fuck.

A light seemed to dawn in her eyes and then she says, “Oh, wait! I remember this. There was a mix up and we had to change things around a little after we wrote these assignments up. Let’s see… yes. Yes, you were transferred from forestry logistics to infrastructure projects.”

I blink. Infrastructure projects was not a whole lot better than forestry logistics as it would involve the dirty, unpleasant work of trying to get the waterworks running again, but it might involve actual engineering work and some respect.

The girl handed me my assignment paper and even though I almost missed it, I could swear that she winked at me. Hefting up my bag, I walked off and looked down at the paper, noticing a business card had also been handed to me. The actual card was irrelevant, but the message on the back was significantly more heartening.

‘Best I could do ~ V’

---

I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists

We've got at least one female engineer (civil) on the board who doesn't post, and we're dating. If anyone wants to integrate her into a story, she's told me that she can be called "M".

I'll definitely think for a while on that, although I do reserve the right to corrupt 'M' into Emma since it is more natural to say. Any naming discrepancies can be pinned upon people abandoning their old names in order to psychologically make it easier to cope with their new reality, a la Alfred Packer.

---

I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists

Day 175, Afternoon, Cape Cod

Packer groaned. That Alferd Packer could groan was surprising to him. That he could be surprised was, in itself, surprising. Slowly, he swam away from the black oblivion where he'd been residing, easing back into his own body. His head pulsed with pain--enough to make him nauseous. Eyes still shut, he felt the right side of his head, and it was tacky with what had to be blood and there was a swollen lump under his hairline.

He'd never been knocked out before; that must've been what happened. Walloped upside the head with a rock or a wooden club. Either way, it had put him down hard. Was he concussed? Could be.

As his senses expanded in fits and starts, he was next aware that he had been partially stripped; he was shirtless. He still had his pants and boots, though. The ground beneath him was cold and felt like packed dirt, rather than sand. And someone was talking.

It was jibberish, of course. It must be a native speaking; he couldn't hope to understand any of it. He did detect that the voice was male, and the tone was strident. Almost panicked.

He opened his eyes. As he was lying on his back, he first saw a ceiling, of sorts. Not a good one, to be sure, as blue of the sky showed through in several places. The room or building he was in was small, though, and the walls were made up of logs planted vertically in the ground, like a palisade. Strange.

Gingerly, he propped himself up on his elbows. That made the speaking sound even more panicked, and for some reason, the scene from Young Frankenstein where Gene Wilder begs to be let out of the dungeon leapt to mind. Packer's eyes focused.

He was in a jail. At least, that was his first impression. Sturdy logs formed the walls of the building, which was maybe eight feet long and only five wide. And he wasn't alone; there was a native man in the 'jail' with him, as well as a woman. They were both naked from the waist up, small, filthy, and terrified. The man was facing away from Packer, attempting to push his face through the logs and nearly screaming now. The woman was holding onto his arm, but was facing Packer, watching him with wide-eyed fear.

Packer frowned, trying to think. Nothing came quickly, like he was stuck in first gear and flooring it. OK. You were on the beach. You said hello to the natives. One of them snuck up from behind you and clobbered you on the head. They hauled you and all your gear, probably, inland, to their village. Along the way they pick up these two, and they shove the three of you in the hoosegow. Or they already had them.

But that just flooded his addled brain with a hundred questions. Where is the door to this thing? Who are the other two? How far away from Lewis Bay are we? How long was I out?

It was more than he felt like taking on, but he refused to despair. So, he lied back down, did his best to ignore the yelling man and terrified women that were his company, and began to think again. It was slow work at best, like trying basic math while drunk, but he was determined.

First he had to classify his injury. Was it really a concussion? He was a little sick to his stomach, but that was going away. His headache was up there with the worst hangover he'd ever had, which couldn't be good. If he'd been out all this time, though, he was in trouble. But no...it was starting to come back.

It came in flashes: lying on the beach, sand in his mouth and nose, his coat and shirts pulled off of him. Then, the view of the sky, and the weird, floating sensation of being carried. The memory of the pain of being dumped roughly in here. Of lying on his back and drifting in and out of awareness. He wasn't entirely unconscious--it was amnesia, and that was going. In all, Packer guessed that his concussion was, if extant at all, relatively mild. He hadn't been out long, maybe a few minutes.

Small consolation, considering the pulsing headache. But that would go away with time. And rest. He was too bad off to want to try anything else. Besides, he apparently wasn't going anywhere. So, with nothing much better to do, Alferd Packer curled up into the fetal position on his side and actually went to sleep, while the frantic native man screamed at their captors ceaselessly.

Day 52, Evening, Nantucket

Whump whump whump! "Hey boss! You alive in there? It's five thirty! We gotta get rolling!"

Packer grumbled loudly. "Door's unlocked. Come on in. Bastard." His body screamed a silent protest as he struggled into a sitting position on his couch in his darkened living room. A beam of light pierced the gloom, its source being a flashlight held by Jason Terrance.

"Hey boss," Terrance said, swinging the flashlight rapidly around the living room. "Man, you look like ass soup."

"Just getting some beauty sleep, is all," Packer rubbed his beard with his hands. That he had a beard at all was highly unusual; since he was fifteen, he'd shaved almost every day, and being on Nantucket was no exception. The last ten days, however, had been hell, and hell precluded shaving.

Packer now knew he never should've promised to get power to the Nantucket Inn without doing a site survey, first. It turned out they'd needed to build six extra gasifiers on top of the eight they already had planned. Fourteen in ten days. It also turned out that living in the shop wasn't just an hollow proclamation.

But it could've been worse. It seemed like just about everyone rallied around them. The staff at the soup kitchens brought them meals. Some of the kids working salvage brought cots, blankets, and changes of clothes. All over the island, anyone directly involved with making the party happen received the same support...or so Packer had been told.

Packer reached over to the coffee table and flicked the Coleman lantern on. The room immediately brightened. "You wouldn't have happened to start up my gasifier?" Packer asked, looking up at Terrance.

"What am I, some kind of putz? Of course I did! Gennie's running, too. Gotta say, you got a nice setup out here. I can see why you don't want to move in with anyone else."

"I just like walking around the place naked, actually." Packer grinned. "I knew you were coming today, so I kept my clothes on."

"Well shucks, boss, if I'da known I was putting you out..."

"Listen, make yourself comfortable. There's no food here, of course, but there's a bottle of Jameson in the kitchen. I keep finding liquor all over the house--the previous owner of this house either threw a lot of parties, or he was a serious drunk. Fix yourself a drink. Get the fire going, too, while you're at it. Oh, and fill up any pitchers of water you might see in the fridge, while I got the well pump turned on. I gotta go take a shower."

Terrance fairly goggled. "A sh-sh-shh-"

"Yeah, I got hot water. On-demand electric water heater, plus this house has its own well. The gennie makes just enough juice to run the well pump and the heater at the same time. I'm guessing that's no concidence--I'm sure the former owner didn't want to take cold showers when the power went out." Packer stood up.

"Man, you lucked the hell out, boss," Terrance said in soft wonder.

"Luck had fuck-all to do with it, Jason. I humped it for almost two days by myself trying to find this place. Kinda wish someone had shared in my good fortune, of course, but it's tough to convince people to move this far outside of town." He smiled. "Commute's a bitch. Now, if you'll give me twenty minutes, I'll make myself presentable."

Packer then engaged in a cherished male ritual: The Triple S. A shit, a shower, and a shave, in that order. Since the well pump was powered at the moment, he could flush the toilet; this house also had a septic tank. Packer had thought of cracking that beast open to see how full it was, but since the community toilets in town(from which the shit was collected and composted for next spring) saw the most action from him, he didn't think he was in any immediate danger.

As he showered, his thoughts turned back to the last ten days. Ten sixteen-to-eighteen hour days. It had been brutal, but the men in his shop were outstanding. Even now, as he scrubbed, he felt his chest swell up with pride. They'd all been up to the task. And they'd gotten the job done, just in time for the solstice and a day off.

Packer had wondered how he'd spend the day off. Word was the some sailors were going to take people on pleasure cruises around the harbor. Some of the woodcutters were having a lumberjack contest...presumably seeing who could chop through logs the fastest, or something. There was also supposed to be a touch football game over at high school field, to be followed by a rugby union match. There were probably all sorts of fun activities to partake in on this day, the solstice, but as it turned out, Packer went home and slept for nearly twenty hours, waking only twice to piss, get the hearth fire going again, and get some water.

So he missed most of the solstice's festivities. As he shaved, he reflected that sleeping--the ultimate form of goofing off--was a none-too-shabby way to spend his free time. Besides, he hadn't missed the most important event: the party.

Ah, the party. Packer kept grinning when he thought of it, which made shaving a touch more problematic, but he went on anyway. The Council was calling it The Solstice Fest, but most people were calling it The Sausage Fest.

But who cared? Packer was a computer nerd; he'd been to LAN parties. A dearth of women at a social outing was no problem for him. More interestingly, he thought, would be the gay couples who showed up. There were probably as many gay men on the island as there were women, and lot of formerly heterosexual men had gone native, to be perfectly crude. Packer had never subscribed to the idea of sexuality being a thing of absolutes, and in a way, he was jealous of those guys who could be attracted to another man. Every day, they'd have someone to come home to, to share in life's joys, large and small.

Hell, he'd tried. It was not that difficult to obtain gay porn (hetero porn, on the other hand, was roughly as valuable and as scarce as gasoline), and one night, he'd given it its fair shake--literally. It did not titillate in any way. It just grossed him out, and thoroughly. The there may be a sliding scale of human sexuality, but he was so far towards the hetero end that it he gave up. And no gay relationship pretty much meant no relationship.

Packer finished styling his hair, having used some of the last ultra-hold hair gel he'd ever have, and stepped out of the bathroom and walked over to the second of two bedrooms in the house. A college-aged kid had been its former occupant, and to Packer's delight, the kid liked all the right stuff and was about the right size. He pulled on a pair of grungy jeans, and donned a Rage Against the Machine t-shirt.

That was, perhaps, the best thing about the party: it was whatever you wanted it to be. For some, it'd be a formal event, like a prom. For others, a casual evening goofing off with friends. Still others would view it as a coming-out party, a kind of debutante ball. Finally, for some, it'd be a final farewell to the old life--modern consumables would be consumed, presumably, for the last time. But for Packer, whose ideal night out involved neck pain and temporary deafness, the party was a metal show--except there would probably be no metal played anywhere, but that was a minor detail.

Terrance nearly sprayed whiskey all across Packer's living room when he emerged. "I've thought many things of you, boss, but I never thought you were a goth!"

Packer looked down at himself. "Goth? Where the hell did you get that idea?" He threw up the horns. "I am so metal."

"If you say so. It's all the same to me." Terrance held up a second glass. "Haven't had good hooch in a while. Thanks, boss."

Packer took it, swirling the brown liquid around. "Least I could do for all your hard work, Jason. Cheers." They clinked glasses together and drank: Terrance sipped and Packer knocked his share back in a single throw. "Alright," he croaked. I'm gonna go switch off the pump and heater, then we'll go."

After he got back from the breaker box in his basement, Packer slipped on his well-worn leather jacket, completing the image. "The heat wave still holding?"

"Still holding, boss. The ride over isn't gonna be bad at all." Terrance stood, and Packer bent down and picked up a silver object. "Is that a flask?"

"Filled with fine aged tequila," Packer gave it a shake. "As my Irish ancestors said, 'Let's drink until the alcohol in our systems destroys our livers and kills us.' Besides, you never go to a party empty-handed."

"First of all," Terrance said as they stepped out into the cool night, "That's from Family Guy. Second of all, I think we contributed enough to the festivities already. You sure they're not gonna mind? You know how the Council feels about booze."

"They ain't gonna care. Or maybe they will, but they shouldn't care. I'm sure people are gonna bring liquor and weed to this event, and plenty of it. I mean, if they haven't squandered it all already. And you weren't kidding. It's downright balmy out! Gotta be at least fifty degrees. It was probably a beautiful day." Packer went over to his bike and switched the flashlight on. "Shall we?"

It was a about a three mile bike ride out to the Nantucket Inn from Packer's house, but the reasonable temperatures made it almost pleasant. The whiskey warming him made it much nicer. They started out in near pitch blackness, but soon they joined a throng of people heading towards the airport--a line of flashlights, lanterns, and torches wriggling across the pitch-black island. Most biked, but some were walking. Every once in a while a school bus filled the brim with passengers rolled by. The council had released a few hundred gallons of diesel for the event.

As they biked steadily down Old South Road towards the airport, the found themselves herded, along with all the other bikers, into a field. "I guess this is where we park," Packer mused. Bonfires lit the corners of the field, which was probably as big enough to hold a regulation football game, and there were already hundreds of bikes lined up. Packer parked his in line quickly, put the kickstand down, and hopped off.

"Hey boss, how the hell are we gonna find our bikes again? Aren't you worried they'll be stolen?" Terrance still straddled his bike indecisively.

Packer shrugged. "The Night Watch is here. But if they get stolen, so what? Most likely a just a mistake. Come on. Let's follow the masses!"

The mass walked down Macy's Lane towards the airport. The sides of the road had multicolored Christmas lights strung up along its length, casting a dim but wholly lovely glow on the road. Packer noted a lot more couples than he'd originally thought: guys holding hands, guys walking arm in arm, sneaking kisses when they could. Never thought I'd be jealous of two dudes making out, but here I am, he thought.

The Nantucket Inn was just across the street from the airport terminal, but it was just one of several attractions. While the Nantucket Inn was big, it wasn't big enough, so the party had spilled over into the hangars of the airport, and even onto the tarmac. At this intersection people started to split; the lion's share went towards the hangars, where (it was rumored) there would be soft drinks, potato chips, pretzels, and dip--the last of it in the world.

Packer and Terrance opted to head towards the Inn. It, like the hangars, was brightly lit up. Those generators were getting a workout, that was to be sure. Packer turned to Terrance, "I'm gonna go grab some chow. I'm starving. I'll catch up with you later!"

"Alright, boss." Terrance slapped his leather shoulder. "Save a swig of tequila for me!"

Packer moved across the threshold, catching a few glances as he did. About a quarter of the guys were decked out in suits or tuxes. The majority were wearing at least nice slacks and a button-down shirt. Some were wearing their work clothes...at least, laundered versions of them. Packer, so far as he could tell, was the only one who looked like he took a wrong turn trying to get to the Megadeth show.

The Inn itself was a typical classy banquet hall. Floral-print stuffed chairs, lots of mirrors, polished wood, giant chandeliers, winding staircases. They were even playing some classical music over the PA system. But the location was inconsequential; the people mattered! The entire place was buzzing with a good vibe, full of joy and laughter, and Packer couldn't help but grin.

He wandered though the lobby to the buffet area, where he smelled it: meat. Not fish. Not duck. Not even rabbit. Red Fucking Meat. He could barely keep the drool in his mouth, and he fairly flitted over to the start of the buffet.

"Evenin' Mister Packer!" the server said cheerily from beyond the table. He was one of the cooks in the kitchen Packer frequented the most. "You're one of the first takers!"

"I skipped lunch," he said goofily. "Had to sleep off the last ten days."

"I hear ya!" the server piped with a nod. "Well, let me cut you off a nice hunk of Bambi here. There's gravy, some instant mashed potatoes, and some fresh rolls. Enjoy!"

"Thanks!" Once his plate was loaded, he hurried to an empty table and wolfed down the food. By the time he was done, the line was almost fifty long. He bussed his plate and strolled out into the hallway, belly happily full, following the vague thumping of music towards another large reception room. This one's doors were shut, and there was a pair of armed guards in front of them. That could only mean one thing: women were in there.

"Hey, Mister Packer," the first one said. He was the same guy that let Packer into the town hall meeting two weeks back. "Nice getup. We can't let you in unless you got an invite."

"Aw shit," Packer grumbled. "How about instead of an invite, I give you..." he pulled out a piece of paper, "my invite?" He'd received it two days ago, right as the insanity surrounding the gasifier production was at fever pitch. It didn't even say what it was for, only where and when to show up.

The guard chuckled and gave it a once-over. "Alright man, you're good. Have fun."

Packer shrugged. "Okay." And he went in and stepped into the middle of a seventh-grade school dance.

Day 176, Morning, Cape Cod

The day broke cool and cloudy. Packer was up at dawn, and feeling good enough to be hungry. The headache was a dull throb, but he could ignore it.

He'd only woken up once during the night, and that was to piss. The native man and woman were still locked up with him, and they were asleep. Taking care not to wake them, he worked his way around the walls as best he could, until he found a gap in the posts wide enough to piss through. Then, he'd gone back to sleep.

Now, in the morning, Packer was up and standing. He finally could see where he was, but more importantly, what this was.

Packer could see six other structures around him. They were in remarkably poor condition, even considering the level of construction these people were capable of. Three of the structures' roofs had completely caved in, and it looked like it would take a few more solid storms to finish off the rest. One even had a sapling growing out of it. And there were only five other inhabitants, not counting him--presumably, the party he'd encountered on the beach.

Packer tried to remember the things he'd heard about native culture from that one guest lecturer at that one town hall meeting. She had said that the natives were probably semi-sedentary, not yet capable or inclined to practice any but the most primitive of agriculture. Lacking large crop surpluses, it stood to reason that they probably aggregated in large, central settlements during the spring and through the autumn, when there was plenty of food, then scattered to hunt for the winter.

Seven huts in advanced decay? This was a large, central settlement? Packer shook his head. No, this could be a former winter camp. It was presumably close to the water. Maybe most of the people had already moved on to the central meeting place, and this was a custodial force. But then why was everything falling apart? Shouldn't they be repairing the buildings? Clearly(at least, clearly to Packer), no one could have lived in and maintained this place for years.

Perhaps they were raiders, or scavengers. They found this long-abandoned settlement, wintered here, and they would move on when they needed or wanted to do so. Since there were only five of them, they would be supremely mobile and probably highly successful.

Packer turned, leaning against the braced logs that made the door of the structure, and he regarded the sleeping natives in front of him. What was their story? Young couple participating in some marriage rite, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Outcasts from another settlement? Spoils of war?

Well, they didn't sleep like you'd expect a couple to--they were curled up on the ground in their own separate balls, trying to conserve as much heat as possible. Presumably, if they were a pair, they'd be cuddled up. Like Packer, they were shirtless--what did these people have against covering their torso? Surely they wore something in the winter. The woman's breasts were exposed, and they looked perky enough to say she was fairly young. Eighteen? Nineteen? Would she even know how old she was?

Packer was not at all aroused by the half naked women, though her body was certainly in fantastic shape by modern standards. It felt more like he was in a National Geographic documentary.

The native man, like everyone else, was tiny, but seemed to have been carved from rock. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body, which Packer supposed made sense. Historically, the months of famine had been January through April, and they were just now coming out of that. Any fat reserves he'd had were consumed by his body a long time ago.

Packer's stomach rumbled. He turned back to the door of the structure, where the gap in the logs was wide enough to fit an arm through. He saw one of his captors emerge from a nearly-destroyed hut, wearing his sleeping bag as a cape. Packer snapped his fingers and gave a shrill, sharp whistle. "Hey, fucko!" he called out. Behind him, he heard his fellow prisoners stirring.

The caped native walked across the camp leisurely and stopped about four feet from Packer. He stood a shade shy of five feet tall. Packer guessed he was about thirty or so. He only had stubble for hair on his head, and his beard stubble looked patchy and thin. Similarly, his arms and torso were covered not with hair, but with ragged scars--the kind only an animal or a brutal stone weapon could create. Now that Packer was a prisoner, he seemed to regard the white giant with far less hostility. If Packer had to name his expression, it was that of benign amusement.

Packer took a deep breath. OK, time to buy my way out of here.

And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a diamond engagement ring.

---

"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation." -Herbert Spencer

"Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain." - Schiller, Die Jungfrau von Orleans, III vi.

This is getting good...

Yeah this is getting great Packer. I wonder if I will make an appearance in the story. Maybe I'll be living in a small home or apartment in the city with a small collection of Socialist magazines, books (Including a copy of the Communist Manifesto) and maybe Stas would be my roommate or a good friend of mine. I'll probably be like the area's chronicler, trying to collect as many books as possible to save up their information for future generations.

Editor's note: This takes place on the third day, post-arrival . . .

Roundup

Several months earlier . . .
"Someone's been here already."

I gave the man a pained look, but didn't say anything otherwise. Instead, I chose to adjust my hat, making it look like that was the reason for my expression.

"You just now figured that out, man?" Fortunately, our team leader had the luxury of speaking, as he inspected the axe-chopped door. "Well, let's take a look inside, anyway. Might as well find how deep a shit we're going to be in. Paul, Derek, stay outside and keep watch."

Can't get any deeper than me. Hasn't been that long since that first day at the marina. I got a proper chewing-out by the Old Man for firing that first shot. When he'd finished ripping me a new one, he'd shoved a stack of papers in my face. As I'd thumbed through them, I'd realized that they were all gun license applications.

"They're exactly what you think they are. We got them sorted into regular FIDs, Class As and Class Bs while you were out playing cowboy. I'm going to put you on one of the teams responsible for visiting all these residences and rounding up the guns . . . "

"Hey cowboy! Stop daydreaming and get up here!"

"Sorry sir," I replied, gritting my teeth. As I stepped into the gloomy interior, I whistled.

"Oh yeah, we're in deep shit,"

"Tell me about it," our team leader growled. There was hunting paraphernalia scattered everywhere. Whoever used to own this house must've put the local taxidermist's kids through school. Moreover, the place had been ransacked. As we swept through the rooms, we found all the gun cabinets unlocked and opened. As were the cupboards and the pantry. Whoever had hit this house was thorough, and obviously had a plan.

As I stepped back into the workshop, I cast a practiced eye along the bench.

"Sir," I shouted.

"What it is, cowboy?"

"Whoever hit this house left all the reloading and cleaning gear. There was a good setup here," I said, running my fingertips along the Hornady press bolted to the bench, while gazing at the wall and empty cabinets, "used to be a lot of tools here. Don't think they left anything that wasn't tied down."

"What are you, some kind of gunsmith?" Said the first man to speak when we got here. I nodded once.

"Here and there, it was a hobby of mine back in the future," God, that felt weird to say.

"Explains a few things," our team leader said. I scowled, grateful for the dim light. It's not like I wanted to shoot that kid, goddamnit. "Anyway," he said, stepping out of the workshop with the other man. "Paul! We'll have to call this in," I heard him shout. "Someone just made off with enough guns to field a small army, and it wasn't us."

"Hey," I said, " think we can load up the truck with the press? Won't be a complete loss that way."

"I'll pass it up the chain. Later, though," he replied, stepping back inside, alone.

"Might not be here later," I replied. The team leader whirled back to face me.

"You might not be here later either," he said. "Nobody wanted things to get violent this quick. What if this 'RAR' ends tomorrow, and we all go back home? There's five kids who aren't gonna get the chance to go back. What are you gonna do about that?"

I gaped at him, searching for something to say.

"Don't think this is the right time, for this," I finally managed to say. Really, it was more of a murmur. The team leader gave me a look and stepped closer.

"I think it is," he said. I didn't care for the look in his eye, not one bit.

"Hey, I wasn't the only one there," I snapped. "Goddamnit, I wasn't the only one who opened fire!"

It's funny; I heard the crash before I felt myself being shoved against one of the empty gun cabinets.

"You were first! Why I oughta . . . "

"Ought to what?" I shoved him back, my mouth suddenly dry. "Bring the total up to six? Think man! What if we never go home!"

My world exploded into a sea of stars and pain. I vaguely remember there being another crash right afterward; but I don't remember what happened between that, and when I found myself sitting on the floor, feeling like someone had shoved a hot poker into my jaw. My stare was fixed firmly on the man who hit me, my team leader. I'm sure my expression was quite the mix of anger and dumbfounded surprise.

"Unlike you, I'm not a cowboy," the team leader said, looking down at me while rubbing his fist. "You'd better believe it, I'll be keeping my eye on you."

"Yeah," I muttered, rubbing my cheek, tasting the blood in my mouth. "Got your message. Loud and clear."

"Hey guys," Paul said, stepping in. I noted that he was careful not to look at me. "Got the word from HQ. We hang out in the area and wait for backup."

"They're not messing around, are they?"

"Nope," Paul replied. "One of the other groups swept the area a couple nights ago and found guys holed-up in a couple of houses. Said they were cooperative, but you know how the saying goes . . . trust, but verify."

"Right," the team leader said. He looked down at me, and then back at Paul. "Looks like we'll be hanging out here for a few then. Cowboy," he said. "Get up off your ass and get outside. You and Derek keep watch till our backup gets here."

I picked myself, my glasses, and my hat up off the floor. I didn't meet the team leader's eyes as I slunk out of that room, and out of that house.

"What the hell happened to you?" Derek whistled as I stepped out into the cold.

I took a deep breath. "Nothing important," I said. It was soft. Derek looked at me like I was maybe an egg short of an omelet, but didn't say anything else. I chose to draw my Colt, making sure to be faced away from Derek when I did it. The bright blue finish gleamed in the cloudy daylight, and my own distorted face stared back at me from the barrel. I stared long, and hard at myself, the livid red on my cheek, the five-o-clock stubble, eyes puffy from too little sleep and too much worry. When were we? How long was this going to go on? If I was going to have to face too much more of this, then I'd really end up going "cowboy," settling all my grudges from the end of my six-gun.

I shuddered at the thought, exhaling sharply while holstering my revolver. Barely a couple days in, and I was already headed for a dark, dark place. I shook my head and leaned up against the wall. Wasn't much better . . . in those days, it was eerily quiet. No animals, no birds, and hell, not even the bugs troubled us much. It was like the world we'd found ourselves in didn't quite know what to make of us, and was holding its breath, waiting for us to make a move.

So I heard the police car coming from a ways off. No lights and sirens, of course, but I figured that might come later.

"Backup's here," I muttered. Derek swung his shotgun up skyward as we watched the police car pull up just behind our truck. Four men got out, all of them dressed in police jackets, all of them armed. I recognized two of them as being among the five men I followed on that fateful afternoon. One of them, ex-military by the looks of him, looked at me, held my gaze for a moment, and then frowned as he stopped in front of me.

"It looks obvious, but I'll ask anyway. What happened to you?"

I thought about it for a very short moment. "A difference in opinion, sir."

"Hmm, I see," he replied, his expression stony. The rest of the team emerged from the house, and the man took a long look at each of them. "Well, I see that all of you are still standing. For the moment, I will assume that whatever your disagreement, it's been resolved to everyone's satisfaction. You men get to your truck and follow us. I hope we'll resolve this without any trouble, but stay sharp."

I didn't much enjoy that trip. I felt like my stomach was going to try to crawl up my throat and empty my breakfast onto my lap. Thoughts raced through my mind, and I tried to sit on them, as best I could. I tried to focus on other things, like how much gas we must've been using, and if we'd ever get more once the last gas tank in Nantucket had been sucked dry. Yet, my thoughts kept coming back that night, and those kids. Not the dead ones, but the ones who ran like hell when the shooting started. The good and the bad had scattered, I knew we were going to have a hell of a time trying to get them all gathered up again before the desperation really got going.

Being thrown against my seatbelt got my attention. We'd gotten to where we were going . . . I didn't know just how fast we were going. Guess we really weren't fucking around. We piled out of the truck as the others threw the trunk of the police car open. I saw two shotguns and a hunting rifle in there. The man who drew the hunting rifle made himself scarce, and the rest came to join us. The ex-military man . . . he was clearly the leader; looked us over, then beckoned us closer.

"Now listen, and listen closely. I want you guys to stay by the vehicles. I want one of you between them and that house with Bob," he said, gesturing to a house just down the road. I couldn't help but notice just how advantageous our position was, there had to be more of us nearby, that I couldn't see. "I want two of you in front of the vehicles." He looked me in the eye. "You especially. I want you to stand right there, next to the front tire," he added, motioning toward the police car. I frowned, but didn't argue. I felt a bit exposed, and while I could ring steel at over a hundred yards with a revolver; that was back in the future, and the steel didn't shoot back. Or fall down bleeding, or screaming.

"And whatever you do," he added, glancing down. "Don't you dare draw or shoot unless we do. Do I make myself clear, or would you like to spend the rest of your days here known as 'Barney Fife'?"

"Yes sir, I get it," I replied. I then realized where my hand was. I nodded sharply, shoving my hands into my pockets instead. I was going to have to break that before it became a habit.

"Good," he said, turning away. He, one of the others, and my earlier team leader, made their way down the street. Away from the safety of our guns, they took no chances. For a few moments, it felt like I was watching some military documentary on TV, watching those men. One of them peeled off, hanging back, and the other two marched right up to the front door of that house.

After a few moments, the door opened, and I could see a couple of young men emerge. Vague strings of conversation drifted back to us. Things sounded civil, but tense. I noticed that all three of our guys were standing in such a way that the boys in the house had a clear view of us. In the gloom behind the house's apparent spokesmen, I saw a young kid looking at us. Couldn't have been any older than sixteen, maybe eighteen. Our eyes met, and he suddenly looked like he'd been hit by lightning. He ducked back into the darkness, and I lost sight of him for a moment. But he was back a minute later, and the look on his face . . . if looks could kill, I'd have been struck down on the spot. Before I could think too much on it, the boys of the house ducked inside for a moment. I shifted my attention to our leader. Neither he, nor the two that were with him, had their guns pointed anywhere but the ground, but I knew they could get them up, and into action, at a moment's notice.

Then, the house spokesmen came out. He exchanged some words with our leader, and then went to stand off by the side. A moment later, the rest of his small group came out to join him. The young man I saw earlier was back. He pointed at us a couple of times, and the others with him looked our way . . . no, now that I think about it, it was my way, and then looked away again. Two of our men went into the house, while our leader said something into a radio. At the far end of the block, at least three more men emerged from cover. One of them waved. Our leader then made his way back up to us. He tossed Derek the keys to our truck.

"You boys get down the road. Hope you've got enough room back there, because you've got a lot to haul back."

"Sir, what happened?" I said, feeling the tension finally start draining from my body.

"Turns out we got good intel," he replied. "These were the same guys one of the patrols ran into the other night. Seems they've been busy since anyone was last up here."

"Busy," Paul chimed in, coming to join us as Derek started the truck. "Breaking and entering?"

"Acquiring resources needed for survival," our leader corrected. I looked at him, he was absolutely serious. "If they'd been trouble, it'd have been 'breaking and entering,' but those kids are on our side. They've agreed to periodically turn over any firearms, tools, gear; anything they find that they don't need for their own survival. In exchange, we let them keep doing what they're doing, and keep an eye on them in case they run into trouble they can't handle."

"That was easier than I thought it'd be," I finally said.

"These first ones will be," our leader replied, slowly shaking his head. "It's the ones we don't get to fast enough that are going to be trouble . . . " he trailed off, crossing his arms around his chest.

"On that note, what the fuck are you all standing around here for? Your team lead tells me you've got eight more houses to search, and goddamit, you're going to get to every one before you get any sleep tonight. Break-time's over. Move!"

As we scrambled off, something hit me. I recognized the look on that kid's face. Never before that day did I ever see someone who truly hated or feared me. It's none-too-pleasant a feeling to know that you have that sort of effect on a man. None-too-pleasant at all.

June 3, 1249 BC – Day 215

“Lively now lads! Lively! I want that clay pounded harder than an asshole on Saturday night! We get any leakage because you bastards didn’t stomp this shit tight, I will personally find a hockey mask and go Lord Humungous on you!” I bellow through a cone of bark that served like a crude bullhorn.

Half a year of this existence cut off from what we would consider civilization has changed me. The quiet remains, the glimmers of uncertainty at times, but gone is the hesitation and fear. Oh, how has the fear left, replaced with a drive I had thought long dormant. The impulse that had driven me to begin salvage had blossomed into its full potential over the Long Winter. Others had hung themselves, fellated a gun or crossbow, flung themselves off cliffs or boats, or picked fights they could not win, all to end the pain of separation from our homes. Not I, even if the desire to take a long walk off a short pier had sometime been almost acutely overwhelming.

No, I had learned well, even if at times my own self-doubts tried to hold me back, and my salvaging had turned up an invaluable resource, a modern copy of Joseph LeConte’s 1862 paper ‘Instructions for the Manufacture of Saltpetre’. Combined with the knowledge of other members, I had helped spearhead the effort to start producing nitre beds to help deal with our wastes. Not only would it help to reduce the pollution we would cause from dumping untreated black water into the local ocean, but we would obtain a preservative, fertilizer, and perhaps best of all to our bellicose population, the primary component in gunpowder.

Now that drive that kept me going, kept me mostly sane, had brought me to Martha’s Vineyard. The island next door to Nantucket would be our first colony, mostly to spread out our population and keep the hunters, fishermen, and woodcutters from depleting the resources immediately about the island too quickly. After my success in setting up the first waste treatment system and nitre beds on Nantucket, I had pushed for being allowed to set up the waterworks there.

I had studied not just the basic engineering, but also geology, hydrology, and ecology under the experts we had with us who had survived. I had gone on hunting trips with Jon and studied with him and others how to use a sword. Like everyone during the Long Winter I had lost weight and put on muscle, leaving me lean and in the best condition of my life, even if I was probably now underweight from the near starvation diet of the first few months.

It had been hard, oh so hard to keep going. More than once I had gone to sleep weeping for all that had been lost, worn to less than dust by the passage of the sands of time in reverse. I had kept going for no better reason though than because I am curious. I want to be on the ships that set out to the rest of the world to explore. It was inevitable, it would just take time. If nothing else, we needed to find more women for our population, and the immediate locals were too thin on the ground to really help us out there.

But that was for a future date. For now I would continue to build up my skills and reputation such that when people thought about exploration and setting up colonies, I would be one of the guys who got brought along. I would see the world, step on sands potentially never before touched by human feet.

While ranting at the workers who were forming the packed clay lining that would become the foundation for the newest nitre bed, I was also quietly going over the plans for the latest bit of waterworks in my head. Supervision for phase was pretty easy, you just had to shout out meaningless insults and jokes while keeping an eye out for anyone slacking off or doing anything stupid. Despite the occasional bout of grumbling, the workers usually raised little fuss, mostly because I knew what I was doing and did not hesitate to help out if my, admittedly limited, expertise was directly needed.

The gladius at my side probably also helped.

It was an aspect of the society currently evolving that some were not quite comfortable with, but the ownership and wearing of weapons was something of a mark of status. It stemmed from the bad days at the beginning when power ultimately flowed only from the weapons at your disposal. The formation of the work camps stripped most people of their bats with nails driven through them and other such implements of chaos. Those who kept their weapons were thus seen as trusted and independent individuals.

There was a funny sort of strata to it all. Guns – while actually public property – made you a member of the top level of society as you were now ‘The Man’ and an authority figure. Bows and crossbows set you out as a hunter, and thus a provider for the community, although they were a bit awkward to carry around most of the time so they were a social symbol that said you were actively contributing to the survival of the community. Large knives were the purview of the hunters as well and a more common sign of status, although they could get conflated with chefs at time, who were still relatively well respected. Hand tools that doubled as weapons were the symbols of leaders of the lower class groups. I had an entrenching tool as my little status symbol as an engineering leader, while wrecking crew leaders had claw hammers and logging leaders had hatchets. The captains of fishing boats seemed to have picked up large hooks as their symbol of choice, and machinists usually had a ball peen hammer in their belts when out and about. Fortunately all places where alcohol was offered required the temporary confiscation of such weaponry, so incidents had thankfully been kept to a minimum.

But swords were something else entirely. A sword of any type indicated that you could use it, and were thus someone who was not just wearing shit for show. It was not that people went around duelling on the streets, just that the availability of swords and people who could use them was low enough that you could not be a poser with the damn things, as you would quickly get called out by those who knew better. It was not quite a sign of automatic badassery, case in point me, but it certainly marked a person as not one to trifle with.

My sword had been one of the first ‘new’ ones rather than something found in someone’s collection on the island. It was a simple thing really, just a spare section of a leaf spring taken from the suspension of a truck that had been taken apart for scrap and spare parts. I had called in a few favours from the machine shop boys and they had reworked it into a crude looking but quite effective little blade with a wicked sharp edge and a chisel point for thrusting. It had taken a few other favours to get the handle finished in bone and a leather sheath made, but the end result was a functional gladius.

The design was not the only thing we were stealing from the Romans, incorrigible idea stealers they were, and in fact the current plans in my head for the water works for Martha’s Vineyard were based off some designs found in the various scraps from history books we had found in libraries and private collections. On automatic pilot, shouting various obscene encouragements to the crew while thinking about aqueducts and waterwheels and everything in between, I did not notice the approach of an old friend.

“Ahoy there man!” A gregarious, friendly voice announces, causing me to turn away from the construction of the nitre bed to see a tall, brown haired lion of a man approach. Wearing the same sort of combination of patched together work clothes and buckskin leathers common to most people these days, he was a site for sore eyes.

“Joe? Joe, how’ve you been?” I ask incredulously. I turn back to the work crew and say, “Good work everyone, you can all take five here.”

“Good man, good. I’ve been keeping busy, same as everyone these days. Not enough time to be anything but busy,” Joe replies. “You?”

I shrug and say, “I have enough time for some extracurricular activities, but nothing you could call ‘leisure’. Hey man, I haven’t seen you since… fuck, March I think when we went hunting with Jon.”

Joe returns my shrug and says, “I’ve been helping the kiddies from cutting off their own feet. That incident after the hunting really sucked up my time.”

I snap my fingers in remembrance and say, “Right… right. I remember now. Bad shit there.”

Shaking his head, Joe sighs and says, “Tell me about it. At least that is all finally worked out and I can get back to business. I heard that you were getting in on this new colony stuff, and hey, I like to swing an axe, so I signed on up.”

“Got your hatchet and everything I see,” I say, pointing at his belt and the status symbol there.

“Yeah man, I guess that somehow makes me an authority figure now. Can’t say I really feel it,” Joe replies.

Fingering my own E-tool, I shrug and say, “I don’t either most of the time… until something goes wrong.”

Joe nods sadly and says, “Yeah man, yeah.” Shaking off the memories, Joe asks, “When do you next get off the island?”

“Next boat that shows up! The Boss Wookiee is coming in tomorrow for a week so I can finally get a few days vacation in with someone to make sure shit gets done. I’ll be back before he leaves so we can go over shit, but I’ve been here doing one thing or another for the past month. You?” I tell him.

“I just got here a few days ago, so nothing for me for a while. Of course, my shifts are like two weeks on, three days off – for certain values of off that is,” Joe says, eliciting a chuckle from both of us. There was very little to do during down time so most people treated it as a chance to do other work at a more leisurely pace on things they wanted to do, maybe pick up new skills.

“Tell me about it. My idea of a break is Jon’s idea of a day at the office,” I state, chuckling.

“Oh, going hunting on your own time are you? Looking to bag a deer or a cougar?” Joe asks with a grin, causing me to blush and then look around in embarrassment to see if any of my underlings saw that.

Coughing lightly, I say, “Well, while my objective is just maybe getting some new leather, if there are any ladies looking for a little extra pemmican, well…”

“So that’s what they’re calling it now?” Joe asked. Seeing the look on my face, he laughs and pats me on the back before he says, “I hear you bro, I hear you!”

The issue of the trading of sexual favours, men and women, for resources or other favours was a hot issue on the island with some calling it prostitution while others called it just a method for the distribution of scarce resources. The whole thing sort of bubbled beneath the surface, a black market in sex with no one really doing anything about it because everyone wanted it, they just did not want to admit that they were willing to sell or pay for it in public.

Especially since the ones most in need of the extra resources were the ones who were pregnant, the issue of pregnancy in of itself a completely separate can of worms that sort of cancelled out the intersection of the two bitch fests as everyone sort of shuffled off in uncomfortable silence at the colossal cluster fuck the entire situation was. Oh, there were still a few screamers, but we were faced with the cold hard reality that we only had so many resources to go around and if we wanted more then people needed incentive to get them and there were not enough guns on the island for the Stalinist methods of motivation to work.

Frankly, the fact that we could still scream about the ethics, morality, and practicality of the situation said wonders for how far we had not fallen, even if the yawning abyss of how low we could go still waited beneath the tight rope our society walked. Anarchy or dictatorship, those were the depths we could sink, those were the depths we had to avoid.

I wanted to believe we could be a force of light for this world, bringing three thousand years of technology and enlightenment to everyone, but just as we had risen above our animal roots, we had also plumbed the depths of human depravity and viciousness and found endemic tribal warfare culminating in genocide was not the worst setting on humanity’s bastardry dial.

Or as some philosophical knobs had put it, “Stay with the Light Side we must, not the Dark Path follow.”

The amusing catch-up conversation I was having with Joe was unfortunately interrupted by a kid on a mountain bike pedalling furiously up to the work site. Turning to meet him, we and everyone else just watch expectantly as he caught his breath before he asked, “Junior Engineer Brendan?”

I nod and say, “Yes, is there something wrong?”

The courier nods and says, “Yes. A boat just came in. There’s been an emergency recall of all engineers.”

I stared at the courier for a second, jaw hanging open in shock before I said, “I’ll be right down to the docks as soon as I can.”

Turning to Joe I say, “We’ll pick this up later,” and then turning to the work crew I announce, “Break is for the rest of the day, and if anyone gives you any crap, tell them to take it up with the Boss since this was an order from his boss.”

June 4, 1249 BC, Day 216

Like a brick through a window on Kristallnacht, the little piece of metal that sat on the table was so unassuming for all the pain and misery it caused. The hope of the island, so cruelly denied to us.

“Back home you could buy one of these for less than a fucking Ford if you knew where to go. Now? Not in a hundred fucking years will we be able to make one of these bastards,” Mike, by far the most vocal of the engineers in the assemblage of perhaps two hundred professionals and students, said regarding the broken bearing.

A five hundred kilowatt wind turbine on a farm. It had been like manna from Heaven back in late December when we got it working. No one had been crazy enough to try and rework the power grid, but there were so many big ticket items that we could run, like a full irrigation system and a lot of other miscellaneous items. And irrigation had turned out to be hugely important, as the Nantucket climate in this era was surprisingly dry.

But now… now… hundreds of eyes just stared at the bearing that had decided it had had enough and failed. That was it. Everything else in the entire system still had plenty of life in it, but that one bearing had obviously suffered some sort of manufacturing flaw. It would have probably been still under warranty back home. Here… here the turbine would never run again.

“Shouldn’t this thing have spares… or tolerances for lost bearings?” Someone in the crowd asked.

“If we had motherfucking proper lube, yes, it could tolerate the loss of a bearing for a while, probably more than a while considering how light of a load we put on it, but we’re already running the damn thing in a state that would make a methed up redneck with a lawn full of cars blanche. The rest of the bearings will probably go too from the additional stress. As for spares… the guys running this thing probably would have seen the problem months ago and put in an order. The part is high precision, and while it isn’t the most expensive component on here, it’s not exactly cheap enough to have ones not in use lying around either. At least not for an operation this size. Fuck,” Mike explained.

The Wookiee twins, so named because of their familial relationship and their abundant facial hair, plus their old screen names of ‘Captain Chewbacca’ and ‘Kodiak’, stepped forward. They and Mike essentially formed the triumvirate in charge of the engineers on the island, partly for expertise, mostly for personality reasons. People remembered them from the board and trusted their judgement – to some degree anyway – making it easier to talk to the council.

“Alright people, I know most of you haven’t been working at this, but we need to all be together on this one. We don’t want any unnecessary rumours flying about, making the situation worse. What we do need is to all pull together on this one and find a solution,” Chewbacca began. He then said, “Of course, this many engineers in one place, we’ll be lucky to agree on a project name.” That got a round of gallows laughter. “Fortunately, we have enough problems for all of you, on top of the hundred you were already working on. So let’s break up into our teams and start trying to break things down.”

I was under Chewie in the water and chemical works department, and even before I reached him and the sub-teams that were forming off of him, I knew already from the look on his face what he was going to say. We do not have enough power for the irrigation system, or at least not the one we wanted, and we are going to lose the majority of the crop this year.

We could probably get by on fishing, hunting, and foraging… but the stores of food we had brought with us on the island were already almost gone, and the vast majority of people were no good at anything but basic manual labour, at least for the foreseeable future, and we did not have enough tools for everyone to go hunting and fishing. We needed to do something radical, something drastic.

Normally painfully shy. I somehow found the voice to tell Chewie, “We need to send out a trading mission.”

He looked at me a little funny before he said, “We don’t really have the sea lift capacity…”

I shook my head, a little amazed that I was still continuing. I felt like I was on autopilot, watching my thoughts unfold without volition from the rest of my brain. I said, “I’m sure we can figure out a way to survive this year with the irrigation system wrecked. We can probably figure out a lower tech solution to the problem. No, we need to send a trade mission because we need to get off the island. It’s a dead end. We’re just recycling everything right now, but eventually it will break down in ways that we can’t recover useful materials from.”

“Yes, but…” Chewie began, before I shook my head. I could feel the eyes of others on me, could feel my skin crawling at their stares, their judgement, but for once in my life I was on a roll, I had momentum, and I was not going to stop.

“No. How much more diesel do we have? How much longer will it last? I have read the reports. The Eagle can make the trip; the crew and captain are still green at blue water sailing but with her tanks full of diesel, the Skipper says that they can just point into a storm and power through. We do it not for the food, but for the psychology, the propaganda. We do it so that everyone is reminded that there is more than just this island and lonely nights with empty stomachs and aching muscles to look forward to. Yeah, there’s the mainland to settle, but it just looks like more wilderness to everyone. We need to come back with things that people don’t see every day, things they need. We need to show people that if they go above and beyond just being wood cutters or ditch diggers, if they show some ambition and initiative, there are great rewards within their reach,” I explain, feeling like a steam vessel rupturing in slow motion, venting months of thinking and desires out into the public for everyone to see the mess.

There was an awful calm for a time before Chewie nodded and said, “I can see what you’re getting at. All right hotshot, you can be in charge of the team to figure out the viability of such a venture.”

I nearly fainted on the spot, but instead I just managed to nod and smile, wondering when the jelly feeling in my limbs would go away.

---

I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists

Alright, some swords! I have a feeling my namesake is going to be involved with one of those things, and by "be involved" I mean "get stabbed in the fucking face".

I do like the idea of social hierarchy by superior firepower; seems pretty much how we here at SD.net would run things.

Editor's note: This takes place on day nineteen, post-arrival . . .

Nightmares

Can't feel my fingertips. Can't feel my hands. Wish I couldn't feel my ears, because they're hurting like a sonofabitch right now. It's dark, and I'm chilled to the bone. Now I remember why I don't like astronomy too much in the winter months. Yet, here I am, peering through the eyepiece of a telescope right now; trying to get work done without freezing to death.

The stars madly shimmer, but I force myself to focus. It's like looking at them through a pool of water. Believe it, or not, I'm doing something important. I'm trying to figure out when we are, and I've only got a few hours to work tonight. You do that by looking at the stars, you see. Get a telescope with setting circles and an equatorial mount, make sure you've got it lined up right, go down this list of stars they give you, and record their coordinates when you think you've got 'em centered in your field of view.

I turn on my flashlight, covered in red cellophane, and look at the setting circles. I write down the numbers, and hope to God, Q, Haruhi, or whatever other malevolent force might've sent us here, that the real astronomers can read my handwriting tomorrow. Do the same thing every clear night, except with a different list of stars. I know, for a fact, that there are other astronomy buffs looking at the sky right now; going through their own list of stars. In the end, we'll all average the list of coordinates we've gathered. That'll tell us where the stars are now. We'll subtract that from where the stars will be back in the future, and divide by their proper motion to roughly guess when we are.

Saw some pale faces the first night someone got a good, long look at Jupiter through a big telescope. There was no Great Red Spot, just a couple smaller ones. That, and the lack of real habitation on the mainland, put us at least a few centuries back. I'll tell you, this is better than thinking about my day job. That's when the nightmares really start.

Four days earlier:
"How's he doing?" I asked the nurse, a dark-skinned young man. I was, of course, talking about the kid who got shot the first night we got to Nantucket. You know I checked up on him as often as I could? He had just a bullet hole through the leg, is all, but I still felt pretty bad about it. Me, and the guy who actually shot him. Initially, they said the kid would be fine. Just needed bed rest to heal up, is all. That was days ago, and now . . . well, now the nurse is giving me this look.

"He's doing okay. Not great, but okay," he said. I frowned.

"You told me that two days ago," I replied. For a moment, I was silent, thoughtful. Then, on a lark, I scowled and asked: "What's going on? Are you being straight-up with me?"

The nurse looked at me again, back to the shut door, and then back at me. He leaned closer, and lowered his voice.

"Infection took hold of his leg."

I gaped at him. I was about to snap off some damnfool thing or another, but something in his expression stopped me cold.

"Infection?" I parroted dumbly. "It's being treated, right?"

The nurse nodded. It took an awful long time for him to answer, though. "Yeah," he finally said. "As best we can."

"And what do you mean by that?" I growled. "This is the hospital. We got drugs here, don't we?"

"That's just the thing," a voice said behind me. The accent sounded Australian. I turned around to see one of the few doctors we had on this godforsaken island. "We didn't have a lot to start out with, and we've got much less than we ought to."

I felt a dull ache in the back of my head as I considered what he said. "But there's doctor's offices, pharmacies . . . medical places on the island, right? This place used to have ten-thousand people before we displaced them to who knows where!"

The doctor held up his hand, with four fingers outstretched. "That's how many pharmacies we have here. Four. The hospital makes it five. Most of the doctor's offices are located here, and at a couple of other places . . . but you're not going to get much more than samples there."

It was my turn to hold up my hand. Mentally, I kicked myself. This was a dinky little town, not some big city where there'd be a pharmacy every block. The dull ache was turning into a headache. "How about the houses? People had to have been prescribed all kinds of drugs. This is America . . . we were like Michael Jackson . . . over-medicated!"

The doctor scowled at me. His expression would've started fires. "You have to ask me that? This arrangement your people have worked out with all those little bands scattered through town; it's a half-arsed way of doing things, if you ask me. I have statistics that tell me about how much medication should be coming into our stockpile; I'm getting much less than I'm expecting. That means they're either hoarding it, or they're trading it with the groups you haven't yet sat on. Worse, half the pharmacies were cleaned out in the first few days of looting that went on. Who knows where all that ended up? Very shortly, I expect that I'm going to start prioritizing."

"I'm sorry Doc, but, what the fuck?" I said, taking a step back, pushing my glasses back up my nose.

"Look at where we are. I imagine that anyone needing serious medical treatment would've gone over to the mainland. They would've been less than forty kilometers away from resupply of anything they might've needed beyond the treatment of your usual mild ailments. Unless there's something I don't know, we have none of that, and we may not ever again."

The doctor looked at his watch and sighed, stepping back. I noticed that the nurse had already taken the opportunity to disappear. "I've got patients I need to attend to. Look, if you want to help, get every last bottle of medication on this island to the hospital, and get it all under our control ASAP." With that, he turned and walked away. As he walked down the hall, he paused, looking back.

"And stay healthy! We may be on the edge of a medical disaster as it is!"

I stared hard at him as he walked away. There was something about what he said that didn't square up. You know, like there was something he really didn't want to tell me and he just threw some words in there to cover up for that. Didn't think much of it at the time . . . I was just too goddamned angry.

Time passed, and I spent it all fuming. I thought about all those houses we'd visited, those people we talked to. I started to wonder how many of 'em were holding out on us. How many of 'em were holding back 'cause they decided they wanted to carve out their own little Republic of Bob, or 'cause they were hoping we'd negotiate with 'em, and give them a bigger slice of the pie.

Miraculously, in spite of all the balkanization, only a couple more people had been really badly hurt. They'd been people who'd decided they'd go all-out Lord of the Flies, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Beyond that, we'd kept the peace; but it was an uneasy peace. The more of us who ended up hurting, or even coming close to killing somebody, the less they called me "cowboy." Felt like they still resented me, you know, 'cause I was first. I let the genie out of the bottle. But, goddamnit, it wasn't happening like it does in the books or movies. We weren't magically coming together as a community and singing Kumbay-fucking-ya. Sure, we were starting to pull together, but there were a lot of pissants out there still doing their own goddamn thing, and people were suffering for it. Suffering like that kid, and everyone else in the hospital.

Guilt was being replaced by righteous anger. It was another warning sign, you know? Another sign that, maybe, I should stop and think about things. Goodness knows I was trying. That's why I jumped on the astronomy gig with both feet. Communing with the stars on a lonely fall night; it's good for a man's soul. Not like being thrown who-knows-how-far back in time.

"Shit, shit shit!" I heard, as I heard doors being thrown open. Me, and the guy that was with me, sprung to our feet, hands going for our guns. I checked myself as I saw four guys, three of 'em carrying the fourth. The fourth had done the swearing, and his shoulder was soaked with blood.

"Holy fuck, it's Derek," I swore as the light went on in my head. I rushed over to them at the same time I heard other doors being thrown open.

"What the hell happened, man?"

Derek never answered me. Instead, he screamed as a gurney was rolled up and he was laid down on it. One of the guys carrying him looked at me, and an indescribable look flashed across his face.

"Shot," he said. "Some people are holed up in a house at the outskirts of town. When we came by on patrol, they took a few shots at us and got Derek in the shoulder."

"Anyone who doesn't work here, clear out!" The doctor shouted as he burst through the door. He pushed us all, men with guns, until we got the point and backed out. The last I saw of Derek, the rest of our medical people had gathered around him. He was screaming as they exchanged terse words. Then, the door was pulled shut.

"So much for collecting all the guns, eh?" The man who spoke to me earlier said, eying me. His accent pegged him as the second Aussie I'd talked to today, but his voice managed to radiate both disapproval and disdain.

"With all due respect, fuck you," one of the men who'd carried Derek said. "This is America. There's no way in hell we could've gotten them all without ten times the manpower!"

"True enough," the Aussie replied. If he'd been bothered by the man's outburst, he didn't show it. "It's what we do now that matters. All of you, come with me. We're going back there."

"Whoa," I said. "Do you mean to tell me that there's nobody there now?"

"Not what I said," the Aussie replied. "I called in a couple of . . . 'sharpshooters' . . . to keep an eye on the place. We, will be the cavalry."

"Did you call the Old Man?" The other guy that'd been with me asked. The Aussie narrowed his eyes; there was something oily about the man.

"He's been informed, yes. We all know how spread thin we are, so it will take time for the 'Old Man' to pull together a team to respond to this. We're here now," the Aussie replied, turning away. And, goddamnit, we followed him. It made sense at the time, and shit, one of our own took a bullet. Didn't know yet if he was going to live or die, but one of our own had gotten hurt by some bunch of goddamn punks.

I found myself feeling the sixgun at my side, and for the first time in at least a week, I didn't care. Maybe I should've.

When we got to that house, it was late in the afternoon. There was a definite bite to the air. I saw the Aussie make his way over to one of the riflemen and say something to him. What he said, I do not know, 'cause I was making my way over to a covered position.

The house itself was like all too many houses in Nantucket; a lot of the windows had been smashed, and the door looked as though it had felt the loving attention of someone with a wood axe. The door itself was back in place; I guess they'd barricaded it somehow. It was dark inside those windows but . . . there . . . in a window on the second story I saw a flash of movement.

That movement made my stomach flip. Weren't these were the same guys who'd shot Derek? Now they were watching us. I wondered what they were thinking; what they were going to do now. What we were going to do. I reached for my gun, felt its reassuring presence, made sure I could get to it if things went to shit.

I just about jumped out of my skin when I felt the tap on my shoulder. With all the self-control I could muster I turned just my head, and saw the Aussie behind me.

"Sloppy," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Never, ever let yourself fixate and get tunnel vision. I'm going to try to parley with them now. Do try to stay sharp."

I bit my tongue as he turned away and walked back to the big Ford we'd all arrived in. He took out a bullhorn from the back and turned it on. I glanced around, and saw the rest of our guys scattered around. All of 'em looked at least as tense as I was. I, sure as hell, know that I had a white-knuckled death-grip on my old Colt as I looked back at that house. Sure enough, I caught another flash of movement . . . maybe a glint of late-afternoon sunlight on cold blue steel. I shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold.

"May I have your attention please?" The Aussie said. His voice echoed across the cold, barren street. "We mean you no harm. We just want to talk to you," he added. It was remarkable how, in that moment, the man's oiliness disappeared.

Cold silence greeted his words. The air shifted, and a bit of a breeze kicked up. Almost felt like it could snow.

"We mean you no harm," he said, again. "We just want to have a word with you."

This time, there was another movement at that top window. I could almost see whoever was standing there.

"Why!" Was the screamed response. "We're gonna fuckin' die here anyways!" There was something about that voice. Something wrong, like the speaker was having trouble forming his words.

"Nobody is going to hurt you," the Aussie replied, his voice booming across the street. It was self-assured, confident. Sure as hell wished I could've had some of that.

"We're ne'er goin' back! We're gonna be stuck here till we all die," the man in the window screamed. He definitely didn't sound right . . . almost like he was drunk.

"We don't know that," was the reply. "That is not guaranteed . . . "

The sharp crack of a pistol shot echoed. Without ever being aware of how it got there, my gun was out of its holster, my thumb drawing back the hammer. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself back from that abyss, and leaving the gun at half-cock. I risked a look back, and saw that the Aussie was still standing by the Ford. He looked nonplussed, even though two of the Ford's windows were now spiderwebs of broken glass.

"Shut up! We're gonna fuckin' die man! Gonna starve 'n freeze and we're gonna be virgins," the last part sounded like a sob. My throat was tight and dry, no doubt in an effort to keep my pounding heart firmly in my chest. The man sounded desperate in a way that I never thought I'd ever hear. I leveled my gun at that window.

"We will all make it through this," the Aussie finally said. His voice, utterly composed, the bastard. "If you come out, we will not hurt you. If you come out, you will be safe and warm tonight."

"Shut up!" The man half-screamed, half-sobbed. Another shot rang out, and I saw it. A muzzle-flash, and the glint of stainless steel. The bullet whinged off the pavement. "You don' get it. We're all gonna die!"

There was a thunderous boom, simultaneous with the ringing, tearing sound of an awful lot of lead punching into steel. To this goddamned day, I'll never know which one of us was first to shoot back in response to that shotgun; me or that rifleman. I saw my shot go way high, a puff of dust and splinters bursting from the siding above the window, and then it all went to hell. As I drew the hammer back, someone else in the house opened up with what had to have been a small gun, 'cause it sounded like a string of firecrackers going off. One of our guys traded fire with whoever was shooting that mousegun. I heard a surprised, pained shout from our side and heard another rifle go off behind me.

Just then, I saw another movement at that top window. In that moment I no longer cared as I, with all the deliberation I could muster, lined up that old Colt with the window and deliberately pulled that trigger back. The Colt thundered, and I saw an explosion of splinters from the windowsill, followed by a moment of eerie, dead silence. The crack of another pistol shot shattered that silence and I felt another surge of terror rip through me.

But the silence came back, settling down like a thick, oppressive blanket. I looked away from the house. One of our guys was sitting down, leaned up against a parked car. He had his jacket off, and he was pressing it to his cheek. With supreme trepidation, my eyes pulled back to that big Ford. One of the fenders was punched full of holes by, what I reckoned, had to be buckshot.

The Aussie stood up from behind the Ford. The bullhorn in his hand was gone, but neither was he holding a gun. His eyes swept over us, and up to the house. His lip was curled in a frown.

"All of you, with me. Move!" He said, sprinting forward. And, goddamn it, we had little choice but to follow. We sprinted behind him, in a grim pastiche of a fighting formation. Not a one of us had our eyes anywhere but that house; we half-expected to be gunned down as we charged in.

Miraculously, we made it to the door. The omnipresent silence followed us, seeming to mute even our footsteps, our breathing. The Aussie regarded the door, pushed on it once and then stepped back, looking at the man next to him.

"Put your shoulder into it," he said. I hung back as both men charged forward. With a creaking, popping noise, the door broke inwards, having only been nailed into place. Swallowing my terror, I charged in behind them, into the darkness that waited.

The smell was the first thing that hit me. It was the rank stench of cheap cigarettes, cheaper booze, and a copious quantity of vomit. Under that was a septic stink, like a well-used, under-maintained outhouse. I felt my stomach turning, even as I glimpsed a human shape by the window. To my credit, I didn't jump when I felt someone slap my shoulder.

"You, check upstairs. Now." the Aussie said.

Numbly, I obeyed, climbing those dark stairs; that nauseating stink following me. The only sound to be heard was my own thundering heartbeat. I gripped my gun tight, holding it out like a talisman against the darkness. I saw dim light at the top of the stairs. All the doors were open, and at the end of the hall was what had to be the master bedroom. I saw something, a human shape in that room, that made me throw myself against the wall. I swallowed and blinked, suddenly feeling both stupid and afraid . . . the shape hadn't moved, but I had to face what that meant. I closed my eyes, holstering my gun, preparing to step into whatever nightmare lay ahead of me.

I stepped into that room, and I swear I'll never forget that sight. I'll never forget the tale of human misery I saw before me. There was a young man, his face was bloody with splinters, and a hellacious gash cut across his cheek. In his hand was a .357 Magnum, but he'd never use it ever again, not with the top of his head gone. I swallowed hard, my eyes darting around. Out of the gloom I saw bottles of booze scattered around, mostly drained. I saw the furrow in the windowsill that big .45 slug had cut.

All at once, the pieces fell into place. He must've been stone-drunk, except then he'd caught a face-full of splinters and a cheek-full of lead. My eyes glanced down at his revolver again. He must've then decided to put himself out of his own misery.

"You goddamned son of a bitch," I said, my voice hoarse, and my breath shuddering. "Why? Fucking why!" I did throw up, just then, adding my own stink to the pervasive stench.

"What do we have here?" That voice again. I whirled back, and my eyes met the Aussie's. He looked at me, and then at the horror-show behind me.

"I . . . I didn't kill him," I finally managed.

"Not for lack of trying," he replied. His voice was desert-dry. He held his hand up before I could muster a protest. "Seems there were seven in all. The three shooters, and four others. It would appear that the four all died of a combination of alcohol poisoning, and massive overdoses. Suicides, all of them." He looked down at the young man, and back up at me. "If it makes you feel better, the other three are probably suicides too."

It didn't. Not in the goddamned least. It was suicide alright . . . goddamned suicide by cop. I looked away from the Aussie, my gaze sliding over the collected bottles of booze. Some of them didn't look empty. Sure, it was Jack Daniels, but shit, I'd have taken pure grain alcohol at this point.

"No."

I wheeled back at the Aussie.

"No," he repeated. "You will all gather up the alcohol and take it down to storage. If I catch any of you sneaking a drink, you have my personal guarantee that you will find yourself in a new line of work."

I gaped at him as he turned away. "I expect it to get worse over the winter," he said as he stepped out. "I don't want anyone at my back who isn't prepared to deal with that."

For the longest time I just stood there. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry. Tried not to throw up again. Tried not to notice the stench of misery, of death. Tried to force the images from my mind. But to no avail.

Day 176, Morning, Cape Cod

Packer expected an interested reaction from the native when he was shown the ring. A gasp, perhaps. Maybe a double take. He did not expect the frankly girlish squeal that caped native emitted, nor did expect him to lunge at the trinket like he did.

Fortunately, Packer was quick to pull his hand back. Then, calling upon years of isolation in his bedroom with little else to do, he executed a basic prestidigitation and palmed the ring. Passing it off quickly to his other hand, he pocketed it once again, while distracting Scar (that's what he was calling his new friend in his mind) with the hand that originally held it. Once it was safely out of view, he presented both hands, completely empty.

Scar whined, and spoke in a rather petulant tone. If Packer had to guess--and he did, the general gist of his message was, "Bring it back, NOW!"

Packer clucked his tongue. He pinched all his fingers together and brought them up to his mouth, gregariously chewing invisible food. Then, he raised both hands like he was holding an invisible bowl, making slurping noises. Finally, he rubbed his stomach and made a little burping noise. He folded his arms, eyeing Scar expectantly.

Packer thought he could see Scar trying to work out Packer's pantomime. After few seconds, his face glowed in sudden realization, and he shouted a command over his shoulder. In a few seconds, one of the others brought over a large, hollowed gourd and one of the cod fillets. These he passed to Scar, who passed them to Packer.

Packer bowed his head slightly, but Scar was rather impatient. He spoke again, and it sounded nearly the same as his first command. "Bring it back now!"

Packer shook his head. Held up the food, pointed at himself, then, he pointed back at Scar. First, I eat, then you'll get what you want. Scar frowned; Packer shrugged.

A scrape behind him made him remember that he wasn't alone. Packer pantomimed again, making chewing sounds, then pointing over his shoulder at the other prisoners. Scar's frown deepened, but he repeated his "Get this asshole food" command. Packer soon had three fillets.

It was only then that he turned to face the other two. They'd seemed to have gotten over their blind terror, and were now only suspicious. They watched him from behind ratty, tangled hair with wary, dark eyes.

Packer shook his head with a sad smile on his face. Good thing I like playing Charades. He sat crosslegged on the dirt floor and set the cod fillets, still wrapped, on the ground in front of him. He couldn't resist taking a long swig of water from the gourd(he was quite parched, he realized), but he set this down, as well.

They hadn't moved. He picked up his own fillet and unwrapped it. He looked up at them with a calm smile, and gestured them to sit. After a brief chittering conversation between the two, they did so. They each drank from the gourd, but would not touch the cod.

Probably waiting to see what I do, Packer realized, so he took a bite. Blech. Salty fish. But he put on a good show, rubbing his stomach and saying, "Mmmmm."

They still didn't move. Packer was momentarily nonplussed. Then, he picked up one of the fillets and held it out for the man to take. The man thought for a moment, then reached out and snatched it. Then, appearing to speak against his better judgement, he said, "Samsa."

"Samsa? Is that your name?" Packer couldn't help but ask. Then, mainly to himself. "Maybe it means...thank you?"

The man stared at him blankly. Packer picked up the third fillet and handed it to the woman. She took it easily enough, and said the same thing: "Samsa."

Packer grinned. "So it does mean thank you. Well, you're both welcome." Packer took another few bites, watching them. They were each timidly tasting their own, and looking like they enjoyed it. He couldn't resist.

He pointed to the gourd, which was by the man. The man looked at Packer, then at the gourd. Eyes lighting up, he passed it to Packer. "Samsa," Packer said.

The man laughed, and the woman gave forth a guarded smile. The man said something, laughing even louder at it. The woman offered up something of her own, perhaps a little more thoughtful. As he watched them converse, he realized that a significant part of their language was gesture. They were definitely repeating certain motions, even with a handful of fish. They seemed to be arguing about something, and they way they were going back and forth made Packer think of arguing with his sister. There was definitely a familiarity in their mannerisms, but it wasn't romantic. More...familial, he would have to say.

Eventually, they stopped talking and focused on eating. Packer let them do so a few moments, then he patted his chest with his hand. "Packer."

The man cocked his head, a puzzled expression on his face. Patient, Packer repeated himself, this time pointing at himself with his finger.

"Pak-ah?" The man repeated. Packer almost rolled his eyes. Even New Englanders of prehistory couldn't avoid dropping their R's, apparently.

"Packer," he repeated, stressing the second syllable and pointing at himself. "Packer!"

It was the woman who understood. "Packer!" she cried out, pointing at him.

Packer grinned. "Yes!" He gestured, palm up towards her. Now you go.

"Nara," she intoned.

"Nara," he repeated, pointing at her. Easy enough. He gestured the same way towards the man. The man said something like Doonik.

It was Packer's turn to cock his head. "Doonik?" he said, pointing at the man.

"Duniik," the man repeated. He heard the slight stutter in the second syllable, as well as the shortness of the 'u' in the first.

"Duniik!" Packer said, pointing at him.

"Ha!" Duniik said. Probably means 'yes' or 'that's right,' Packer thought.

Packer smiled. Alright. Managed to make friends with the natives. They're gonna shit when they hear about this back at Nantucket. But, I gotta get back there first. He stood up, and turned around, facing the door.

Scar was nearby, and came over when Packer whistled. Having palmed the ring again in the interim, Packer put on a bit of a show. His shook his arms. "Alakazam, alakazoo. I have to take a poo! Ta da!" And once again the ring was in his hand.

Scar wasn't impressed. He stood, arms folded. Let's get down to business. his posture seemed to say.

"OK," Packer said. He pointed at himself, then pointed out, towards Scar. He considered it for a moment, then called out something. The other four came over, two brandishing spears. The others lifted the bracing logs off the door, which fell outward towards the ground a little. Packer was pulled out through this gap, and the door and logs were reset.

Scar, calm now, held out his hand. Packer looked over his shoulder. The other four were taunting Duniik and Nara, who were at the door, apparently begging to be let out. Sorry, guys, Packer thought. He turned back to Scar, held up a finger. He reached out, touched the sleeping bag that Scar was using as a cape, then held his hands wide, a confused look on his face. He looked past Scar, trying to peer into the huts. He looked around, up in the trees, and then scratched his head in puzzlement. His message was simple.

Where's my stuff?

Scar appeared to think it over. He then turned with a swoop of his cape and disappeared into one of the huts. He emerged carrying nearly everything: the sack containing the axes, his backpack, and his crossbow. These he dumped at Packer's feet, but when Packer made to pick them up, a small hand shot out and grabbed his wrist with an iron grip. Scar said something, waving his free hand.

Packer stood back up. Held up a finger. Crouching slowly, he unzipped the sack containing the axes (they had, apparently, not yet discovered what the zipper was for. Perhaps that was why Packer still had his pants and boots). He pulled out a steel hatchet and passed it to Scar, silently hoping he wouldn't be hacked to pieces as payment for his generosity.

Scar held it with wonder. Packer picked up another one, then walked over to one of the huts, beckoning Scar follow. As he did, Packer took a hack at one of the logs, producing a shower of woodchips. Scar fairly squealed with delight, and tried it himself. Packer returned to the sack, deposited the hatchet in it, then pulled out the larger splitting maul. Around a fire pit, there were stumps of old wood which was apparently used for seating. He strode over to this, while everyone watched, and he observed the grain, set his position, and took a mighty overhand swing.

The log split easily in half. He set up one of the halves and had quarters one well-placed hack later. When he turned around, Scar was fairly drooling. He passed Scar the splitting maul, and the native ran hooting around for a while, in pure ecstasy. Packer took the opportunity to zip up the bag of axes, then looked to his crossbow.

The natives probably had no idea what it was. He definitely couldn't demonstrate it to them, or else they'd want it. He still had, supposedly, two more days before he was picked up; he didn't want to be without it.

As he hefted it, Scar was back. He laid a questing finger on the crossbow. What's this for?

Packer stepped back, and turned where he was facing no one. His face contorted in anger. He held the crossbow backwards, wielding it like a club. He smashed in the head of an invisible opponent, then made slashing motions, pretending the bow was a blade. Finally, he took one of the bolts and made stabbing motions with it.

Scar laughed. So did the other four. Packer grinned sheepishly, and set the weapon and its bolts aside with the axes. Then, he reached into his backpack and pulled out his final offering: a flint striker.

Scar was fascinated, and followed Packer over to the fire pit. There was some tinder nearby, and he made a ball out of it. He gestured towards Scar's hatchet, and he obtained it readily. Holding the flint striker steady, he pushed the blade of the hatchet down it, and a shower of sparks fell down. He did it a few more times, and the tinder flared.

Scar whooped. Packer stood up, and passed the tools back to him. Helping him position his hands, he set him to practicing. In the meantime, he returned to his backpack and fetched a t-shirt from it. The day was not warm, and he was shivering slightly.

He finished putting his pack on when Scar returned to him. Packer produced the ring, and dropped into into his waiting palm. Scar smiled, revealing several gaps in his teeth. Be it primitive dentistry or from combat, Scar had to be a tough little bastard. Packer raised his hand, the same way he did when they'd first encountered one another, and this time, Scar mimicked it. Packer turned, and started walking away.

He was almost gone when he heard the scream. It was feminine, so it had to be Nara. He turned around; she was being dragged from the jail by one of the other natives. Duniik was being restrained by the other four, and they looked like they were having a hard time of it. Nara was wailing, and Packer heard her clearly call Duniik's name.

Packer watched for a few seconds. His brain was trying to detach itself from his emotions, trying to save itself from a fight it knew he couldn't win. So what if she was to be raped? This was a primitive culture; things like this happened all the time. Best to put as much distance between himself and the natives as possible, surely.

But that crying! That innocent, petrified weeping! He couldn't stand that crying! How could anyone stand it? Shedding his encumbrances, he strode quickly back into the camp, a primal rage building in him with each step.

Nara was digging her feet in, fighting for each step she was dragged towards one of the huts. She was nearly there when Packer arrived. Without knowing what he was doing, he wrapped his hands around the native man's throat, wrenched him off his feet a few inches, and slammed him to the ground.

Packer had the element of surprise, a foot of height, and nearly seventy pounds of adrenaline-supercharged muscle over this opponent. It was like throwing a child. The man had been consumed by his lust, it seemed, so he offered no resistance whatsoever. He lay on the ground, supine, writhing in shock more than pain. Packer, seeming to watch himself from far away, raised his fist and slammed it down into the solar plexus of the man, feeling an immensely gratifying amount of give as the air was driven from the man's lungs.

The native's eyes bulged. He gasped silently, rapiding turning purple. Packer rose, then as an afterthought, drove his steel-toed boot into the man's groin. Then he did it again, even harder. The man couldn't even grunt in pain, and simply curled up into a ball, seeking to shield himself from any further onslaught.

The white-hot glare of fury receded as quickly as it came on. It was a good thing, too, because Scar was none-too-happy, and he had a hatchet and a splitting maul. He stomped over to Packer, shouting and gesticulating wildly.

Packer stood by Nara, who hadn't moved during all of this. Chancing a quick glance back at her, he threw a protective arm in front of her. He raised his other hand imperiously. Stop!

Scar didn't attack, but he did scream. He looked positively apoplectic. Packer held up his hand again, then pointed to Nara, then himself.

This seemed to snap Scar's fury. Understanding grew in his face, as did a certain wariness. He produced the diamond ring, pointed to Nara, then made a dismissive wave. Give me another ring, and she's yours.

Packer considered this. He looked over at Duniik, who was still being held by the other three natives. He pointed at Duniik, then at himself, and he quickly dug the two remaining rings out of his pocket.

Scar barked a command, and Duniik was let go. Packer dropped the rings into his hand, and Scar stepped aside. As Packer walked away, Nara rushed over to Duniik and they embraced, sobbing.

Packer was at his bags at the edge of camp when they approached him again. "Samsa, Packer!" Duniik said, tear tracks streaking his face.

"Samsa, Packer," Nara echoed.

Packer replied, "You're welcome," without much enthusiasm. He didn't feel triumphant; he felt homesick. This was a savage world, and he didn't want any part of it. He wanted to go back to New Jersey, to his house, his wife, and his dog. He wanted to spend evenings playing Rock Band and drinking beers with his friends, the cacophonous laughter at all their increasing ineptitude drowning out the music. Hell, he'd take Nantucket at this point: Terrance and Rustbucket bullshitting with him in his office after work, laughing so hard at the woodcutters' jokes in the cafeteria that he thought he'd piss his pants, strumming his guitar out in the backyard of his little house on silent evenings. Anything but this.

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, and he stumbled. Duniik braced him; he was surprisingly strong, for a little guy. It was a good thing he had the drop on that other guy, Packer thought as the world spun. It passed quickly--must've been a reaction to the adrenaline.

Packer looked at the pair. They were waiting for something, apparently.

"Alright, fine," he snapped. "You want to help? Here." he unzipped the sack and handed Duniik one of the two remaining hatchets. Zipping it back up, he passed him the bag. Wordlessly, Nara hefted his backpack, thought he had to help her put it on. Taking the crossbow for himself, the three left the camp.

Twenty minutes later, in the woods, Packer was coughing steadily.

Day 52, Night, Nantucket

The room was elaborately decorated(there apparently was a party supply store nearby, or so Packer'd heard). Rotating multicolored lights spun crazily. Massive speakers were hooked up to a series of amps, blaring out some Black Eyed Peas. And there was actually a DJ! A real DJ!

But no one, not a one person was dancing. There were a group of men on one side of the dance floor, and the women stood on the other side. Each group collectively eyed the other with a mixture of suspicion and outright fear.

This was the council's great plan? Invite a selected number of men, so that the women wouldn't be bombarded by the affections of slobbering idiots? Equalize the gender ratio briefly?

Packer had to admit, it was a nice gesture, probably done mainly for the benefit of the single women on the island. Surely, somewhere else in the Inn(or maybe in one of the airport's hangars), there was a similar room set up for couples. But man, was the execution fucked up.

Packer sighed. Well, you could just go out there and start dancing, but no one will join you. The men are scared of the guards and the den mothers, and the women are scared of the men. You'll just look like a bigger ass than you already do. This really is like a seventh grade dance, except instead of sipping fruit punch, the really nervous ones are probably getting stoned or something. No probably about it; he suddenly caught a distinct whiff of weed in the air, though he couldn't tell where was coming from.

Speaking of altering one's state of mind, the buzz from the whiskey was wearing off. He walked over to one of the tables (which had been fairly expertly adorned), pulled out a couple of chairs, draped his jacket over and then sat in one, put his feet up on the other, and pulled the flask out from his pocket. He almost had tipped it back enough when another guard came over.

"Hey, you can't have that in here."

Packer stopped. There was absolutely no conviction the guard's voice. "Come on, man. Nothing's happening. Nothing's gonna happen. No reason to go through a perfectly awkward evening sober." He reached over, snatched a clear plastic cup, and tipped a little tequila out into it. "It's a party. Have a drink with me."

The guard frowned for a moment, then silently reached out and took the cup.

Packer winked and raised his flask. "To the solstice."

"The solstice," the guard said uncertainly, and slugged back the tequila. He immediately started coughing, and Packer laughed.

"Oh well, better luck next time," he said affably. Suddenly, he stood, heading across the empty dance floor to where the DJ was set up. "Yo, buddy, you got a mike I can use?!" he shouted to the man, who was really more of a kid. Packer guessed he was president of his high school's AV club--if high schools had such things anymore.

At any rate, the DJ faded the volume down and passed him a wired mic. "It's on, Mister Packer," he said. Packer blinked. He didn't know the kid, but the kid knew him. Maybe he'd stopped by the shop or something, and Packer had simply forgotten.

"Alright, let's see if I can do this without feedback," he said tenatively into the microphone, his back to the crowd. When he turned around, as he expected, all eyes were on him. "Oh, hi!" he continued. "Didn't see you all come in!"

A few people on both sides laughed. "Listen, before you crazy kids get totally out of control, I just wanted to propose a toast. So go on, everyone pull out your liquor. That's right, don't be shy. Share and share alike, it's a party, after all! Don't worry, we're gonna get power back to the distillery eventually, so we'll have booze again one day." He paused for a few seconds as glasses were hurriedly snatched from nearby tables on both sides of the dance floor.

"Alright, I guess that'll do," Packer said. "Here goes. I would like to toast a few things tonight. First, the solstice. We're finally over the hump; the days are getting longer. Second, I would to have a toast to our hard work. We've done a fantastic job here, and we deserve this night. Finally--"

"A toast to you!" a female voice called out. Packer's eyes widened. The speaker was none other than High Heels Girl! Except she wasn't wearing high heels tonight, but a pair of red Chuck Taylors' hightops. This incongruity was further accentuated by the black evening dress she was wearing. It appeared to be decorated by an intricate pattern of beads which sparkled in the randomly oscillating lights of the reception hall. Her hair was, as it had been before, a rich chestnut color, but it looked to be professionally styled--that kind of impossible combination of immobility and fluidity that only a curling iron and several dozen bobby pins could make manifest. Her face, already quite pretty, was elegantly made up, as well.

She stood on the edge of the dance floor, slightly separated from the main mass of women, her glass held high. "Without you, Mister Packer," she went on, her voice pure as a bell, "there wouldn't be a party tonight, or electricity anywhere, or even running water!" She looked at him expectantly, while a few people towards the back shouted, "Hear hear!"

He stammered for a second, then finally got out. "Well, I was never too humble to accept a bit of praise, so I'll drink to that." He lifted his flask in her direction briefly, then swung it around the room. "Cheers!" When he took his pull from the flask, he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Quickly, he turned back to the DJ. "Thanks, man." He flipped the microphone easily back to him. Instead of walking over to High Heels Girl, Packer ambled easily back to his seat, as the music resumed. He sat, exhaling briskly. The tequila brought his buzz back, and he was feeling good.

He wasn't quite sure how long he sat before he heard High Heels Girl again. "Nice outfit. Planning on starting a mosh pit later?"

Packer looked up, his heart starting to race. She had crossed the dance floor (the first woman to do so, as a matter of fact), and she was watching him with a light, playful smile.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Packer said. "I'd hate to scuff up the floor before your basketball game." He gestured to her Chuck Taylor's.

She laughed a little. "Fair enough." She held out her hand. "I'm Kaley."

Kaley. Oh Jesus. Even her fucking name was cute. "Hi, Kaley." He shook her hand, the first time he'd touched a member of the opposite sex since the Arrival. "I'm Alfer--"

"Alferd Packer, I'm well aware. I saw the speech you gave at the last Council meeting. I was down in the front row. Did you see me?"

The image of him furiously beating off in his house after the meeting suddenly flashed in his head. "Uhh....oh yeah, now that you mention it, I do remember! Quite an impeccable outfit then, too, I must say." He hooked his toe around the legs of one of the chairs and spun it around. "Have a seat?"

"Thanks," she slid into the chair, while Packer poured out another pair of drinks. A trio of men were walking across the dance floor toward the cluster of women, ostentatiously looking like they were trying not to go that way and failing.

Packer made to hand her the bit of liquor, but he stopped. "Wait a minute, are you even old enough to drink?" Packer asked.

Kaley laughed. "I think the drinking age laws have been abolished." She paused for a moment. "Should I call you Alferd? Al? Seems...weird."

Packer shrugged. "Everyone calls me Packer. Well, the guys at the shop call me boss, but to just about everyone else, it's Packer."

"Head of the metalworking shop, that's right," she said. She crossed her legs. "You know, I wanted to take you up on your invitation. To come visit the shop, see you at work. But of course, I couldn't." She looked down for a moment.

He regarded her. "That bad, huh?"

"The best choice of a selection of bad choices," she said, looking up. "Actually, it's not all that bad. We have heating, lighting. We probably get the best food. Preference in medical care. And trust me, we're not bored. There is a ton of administrative work to do. Research and logistics analysis, as well. Organizing 3,500 people when starting from scratch is...a bit daunting. But we still have a little time left over for lingerie pillow fights, of course."

Packer chuckled. "Of course. I guess you've heard some of the speculation as to what goes on in that hotel of yours."

"We call it a luxury prison. It's very nicely appointed, but aside from the meetings and this little fete, we don't get out. That's why we always go whenever we can. It breaks the monotony."

He nodded earnestly. There was a brief silence, and Packer resumed passing her the drink. "Well, then let's enjoy your time out, shall we? Also, thank you for that toast back there. I appreciate the sentiment, Kaley."

"Well, we appreciate you, Packer." She held her glass up to her nose and sniffed. "Ew! What is this stuff?"

Packer grinned. Even the way her nose wrinkled up was adorable. "Tequila. Usually you bookend it with a salt lick and lime wedges, but I'm a bit short on them at the moment. If you need to beg off, I understand. Tequila's not for--" his jaw dropped as she slugged the drink back.

She coughed only once, then looked at him. "That's pretty gnarly shit. You gonna drink that, or do you need to beg off?"

"It'll go great with this crow I'm eating. Here's to you." He swallowed the booze at a shot and gave the barest grimace. "You know, you never told me how old you were."

"No, I didn't," she said placidly, a smile slowly creeping onto her face.

Packer rolled his eyes. "What, a lady never tells? Well, I'm no lady, so I'll offer my age first. I'm twenty-seven."

"Shit!"

"Shit?"

"I lost the bet I had with this other girl. I said there was no way you were over twenty-five." She reached over and pinched his right cheek. "You've got such a baby face!"

"Thanks," Packer replied sarcastically.

"Well, no matter," she said, taking her hand back. "I'm nineteen. Is that OK?"

Packer shrugged. "Fine with me. I always enjoy providing alcohol to minors. I used to tell them to go for a drive afterwards, but then their mothers got MADD at me."

They were quiet again. Behind them, the genders were slowly mixing. Mostly, clumps of men were talking to clumps of women, but a few had paired off.

"So, Packer," Kaley said. "You gonna ask me to dance, or what?"

Packer cocked his head. "Dance? Do I look like the kind of guy that dances? Kaley, the best I could offer you on that dance floor is a fixture for you to dance around. I'm horrible."

Kaley shrugged. "So, pour us another drink, we'll see how it goes when we get out there."

Packer opened his mouth, but closed it again before he said anything. His mind was spinning crazily, though, and it wasn't from the booze. Talking to a pretty girl? Actually finding her interesting? Dancing with her? What was this?

He decided that he didn't care what it was, and he'd analyze it later, when he was alone again. For now, Kaley was holding up her empty cup expectantly, so he poured her and himself another drink.

Day 176, Afternoon, Cape Cod

Sick. No question about it. Packer was getting sick.

Soon after they'd left camp, Duniik took the lead, leading them to a well-worn trail that was less than three feet wide. Packer was in the middle of spiking a fever(he now realized the shivering earlier was not just because he was cold), and things were starting to get thready, gray around the edges, so he didn't really care that Duniik was leading. He was trying to come up with a plan.

Once he got back to Lewis Bay, he'd lay up. Maybe get Duniik and Nara to gather deadfall for him so he could have a nice, huge fire going. He'd keep the blaze running for as long as he could, try to make it through the night, and hope to hell that the boat would be by the next afternoon to pick him up. At first, it was just a cough and a fever, maybe a little fatigue. Not too bad.

But now, hours into the journey, Packer was resigned. He was sick. The fever had to be over 103. He was shaking like a leaf. His cough was wet and he was hacking up wads of green sludge every thirty seconds. Each step was like jumping over a hurdle. There was no way he'd last out in the open for two more days. He figured he only had a few more hours before his mind started seriously slipping.

He was too sick to even feel guilty; if this was a modern flu, and he passed it on to Duniik and Nara, he was essentially killing them. But he thought it was the other way around. The flus and colds had burned themselves out on Nantucket during The Long Winter. He'd already had two colds and some kind of nasty bug that was probably H1N1. He had the antibodies; there was nothing else to get.

Nothing else to get on Nantucket, at least. But I read the news today, oh boy, Packer's mind sang wildly, and you ain't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Looks like you got yourself a genuine pre-Columbian cold. Something that they can shrug off in a day, or not even get to begin with, and it's gonna kill you.

Kill him? Probably. If the fever didn't cook his brain, he'd certainly drown in his own phlegm when he fell asleep. Either way, he was done. Alferd Packer was done.

But he did a good thing, at the last. He took some solace in that. He saved Nara from being raped. He got all of them out that jail thing. Once he keeled over, they'd go on to their tribe or village or whatever and tell the tale of the friendly white giant who rescued them. Then, when the other white giants came over from Nantucket, maybe the natives be friendly back to them in his honor.

Packer smiled a bit as he stumbled along. If that was his legacy, that was okay with him.

Up ahead, Duniik shouted something, and Nara, who'd been watching Packer worriedly, suddenly broke off into a run to catch up with Duniik. Packer plodded along, half crazed. Snippets of imperatives shot around his head: Gotta get some rest. Build a gasifier. Make it back it Lewis Bay. Figure out the chord progression on "Sad But True". Oh god, I forget to pay my mortgage this month!

He caught up with Duniik and Nara, who were standing still. They were at the top of a hill with gave them a magnificent view of the ocean, perhaps half a mile away. We made it! he thought, swaying like the pull of gravity kept changing direction every few seconds. Just gotta signal the boat...where's the boat?

Then, he looked to his right. Instead of unbroken water, he saw a vast protrusion land stretching off to his right; a huge peninsula jutting out where it should not be. It took him several seconds to process it, but then he realized:

This wasn't the Atlantic. It was Cape Cod Bay. They were on the wrong goddamn side of the peninsula.

Packer reeled, and plopped to the ground, wracked by spasm after spasm of coughs. I'm burning up, he thought disjointedly. Gotta be 104, 105 now. Never been so hot. Time to shuffle loose this mortal coil. He looked blankly at Duniik and Nara, who were watching him with a fearful concern. Hope you guys appreciate it. Have good lives.

Then the threatening grayness at the edges of his vision swallowed him up.

---

"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation." -Herbert Spencer

"Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain." - Schiller, Die Jungfrau von Orleans, III vi.

Editor's note: This takes place on day forty-six, post-arrival . . .

Venison

I glanced up at the sky through the trees; it was gray and mottled. There was a storm comin', and the entire landscape was painted in browns and grays. Winter was fast approaching Nantucket. But with it, was comin' the Sausage Fest. Now I know the highest-of-the-high would rather call it "Solstice Fest." The more old-fashioned among us wanted to call it a Christmas party. Except us non-theists outnumbered anyone who worshiped a god of some sort by at least an order of magnitude. Who knows, maybe that's why we all got sent here. Some crazy people came up with that kind of talk. Don't think more than one in ten of 'em are still around.

We may lose about one in ten of us, by the time this winter's over and done with. The fact of the situation's startin' to get to people, if you know what I mean? There isn't much talk about this 'RAR' ending anytime soon, like there was in the first few weeks. Those of us who are accepting the situation, we're dealing with it as best we can. Those of us who aren't? They're taking it badly. At least all the crazies who'd try "suicide by cop" aren't around anymore. Or, at least, they're keeping low. Leadership had a funny way of makin' sure that'd happen. Only it ain't that funny.

I pushed myself off from the tree I'd propped myself up against, my boots just barely making noise among the litter of the forest floor. I had my old Colt in my hand, and my eyes on my surroundings. I was doing my part for the Sausage Fest; I was deer hunting, and unlike most of those huntin' animals, I was using a gun. I'm a shootist, you see. Don't have much aptitude with bows or crossbows. It took a hell of a lot of wheedling and pleadin' with the Old Man for him to let me use the Colt. I told him, at the effective range of the crossbow or bow, I could take a deer with my sixgun. Told him people had been doing it since even before Sam Colt's Peacemaker ever turned up in the old West.

Finally, I told him it'd be good for my soul, you know. To shoot something with this old gun that wasn't a person. He looked at me, and finally, he said 'yes.' Guess he remembered the conversation he had with the rest of us almost three weeks prior . . .

Twenty-six days before:

"MRSA," the Old Man growled. We were all gathered in the hospital waiting room. Me, the other guys from the first night, and the Old Man himself.

"MRSA," I immediately echoed, trying to cudgel my brain into taking the word in.

"Yes," the Old Man replied, his expression was stony. I heard a soft sigh from the men around me. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus . . . the superbug. Resistant to all but a select few antibiotics.

"That's what that kid's got?" The guy who actually put that .22 through the kid's leg finally spoke up. He looked ashen white, and I couldn't blame him in the slightest.

"Yes. He's not responding to regular antibiotics," the Old Man said. We'd all been worried about that kid, you know. He wasn't getting better, and we thought that maybe the doctor was holding out on us. So we all went to the Old Man, and we demanded that he do something about it. So he went with us to the hospital, and had a talk with the doctor. Here we are now, and it doesn't look at all good. Something in the back of my mind started gnawing at me. Something I'd seen before.

"I thought we had vancomycin here," I finally said. That was it. We we had some of these drugs of "last-resort." I remember being part of the crew that took the inventory, and then guarded that inventory from everyone else.

"We do," the Old Man replied. It took him a bit, though, like he didn't really want to admit it.

"Well, what's the fucking problem, then?" Another guy said. "We got it, he needs it, what's up?"

The Old Man's expression became icy. His gaze became like daggers. "There will be no treatment," he announced, saying the words slowly and firmly. "They will do the best they can to keep him comfortable, but there will be no treatment."

We all gasped and gaped at the Old Man.

"What the fuck!"

"Yeah!"

"Why the hell not?"

The Old Man scowled and held up his hand. "The hospital is under-staffed, and what few medical people we have here are overworked. Myself included. MRSA will be a problem this winter. We have to be stingy with our stock of the drugs that can treat it. We have brilliant minds on this island; we can't afford to risk losing any of them to a superbug, and we don't want to breed something worse by mis-using what we have."

We stopped, dead in our tracks, as the implications of what the Old Man said hit home. This had to have been that 'prioritizing' the doctor mentioned over a week ago. Prioritizing, picking who lives and who dies of something 'cause we don't have enough of something to treat everybody who's got it. Who makes that decision? Who decides the criteria? Just then, I shuddered, and I'm sure the rest of us did too. I looked the Old Man in the eye.

"This fucking sucks," I growled. The Old Man held my gaze, and he didn't back down.

"It's an unfortunate reality of the situation we're in. I'm afraid that we're just going to have to 'man up,' and deal with the consequences of our actions."

Another thing hit me, just then. How many of us had been in and out of that hospital those first couple of weeks? Getting into things we shouldn't have gotten into. The doctor and the nurses yelled at us, demanded that we didn't touch anything. That we wash our hands. But there were more of us than there were of them, and we had other things on our minds, goddamnit . . .

Now:

. . . I shuddered and swallowed at the memory of that conversation. That kid died less than three weeks ago. People were mighty upset about that. They only got a little less upset when they were told what he was dying of. Council made damn sure to announce it at the same time they'd confirmed that a couple of other loonies had picked a fight with the Night Watch. Bastards, but I guess the message was clear . . . Don't pick fights you can't win, 'cause you might be a long time dying for your trouble. It takes harder men than I to take a tragedy like that and twist it back for the good of the community.

I shook my head. Guess we need to do what we need to do to make it through the winter. Just then, I noticed a flash of movement in-between the trees. My heart jumped as I froze on the spot, my eyes searching the woods. And there it was again! I could just make out the outline . .. yes! Looked like a nice whitetail. About sixty yards off. He'd be a pretty nice haul for the Sausage Fest. And if not then, we'd eat a little better for a while.

I very slowly knelt down by a bush, willing him to come closer. There was a nice little clearing between me and him, and I wanted him in it. I wanted to be damn sure that I could hit him, 'cause if I missed, it'd be a damned long time trying to find another one. The deer eased closer to the edge of the clearing, pausing to lower its head to nibble at something or another on the ground. I slowly settled back into a half-sitting, half-kneeling positing, resting my hands, and my sixgun, on my knee. The waiting had begun.

My mind flashed back to the meeting where Al Packer'd suggested the Sausage Fest. It was a damn fine idea, I think. In fact, a couple of people on the Council were kicking it around, in private. We needed a break. Something to take our minds off of how much everything sucks right now. Al Packer had beat 'em to the punch. I don't know what you might've heard, but I know for a fact that there are a couple people on the Council who are none-too-happy with Packer for stealing their thunder.

The deer eased closer. There were a couple of shrubs between me and him now. C'mon, you sonofabitch, just a little closer. I'm already salivating at the thought of how you'd taste hot off the grill. I slowly started to draw the hammer back. First click . . . second click, and shit, the deer froze and looked up. I froze too, trying to look as absolutely harmless as I could.

"Calm down, little buddy," I whispered. "Ain't nobody here but us chickens." I smiled at that . . . I've always wanted to say that. I held my breath as the deer looked my way. There was the barest hint of a breeze, and I was downwind of him. Finally, the deer seemed satisfied that there was nothing trying to eat him, and ducked back down to resume looking for something to stuff his own face with.

I smiled, he'd gotten a little closer. He was head-on to me, now. Wasn't the kind of shot I wanted, 'cause that .45 slug would have to go through his shoulders to get into his boiler room. Men used to defend themselves against grizzly bears with this round. A 255 grain bullet going at a thousand feet per second will make even a big bruin think twice. I don't think there's a bear on this planet right now who's going to be thanking us for bringing the art of overkill to the world a couple thousand years early.

I slowly drew the hammer back to full cock. Four clicks in all. I watched that deer. Like me, he was from back in the future. Like me, that made him among the last of his kind. After we were done eating them all, there wouldn't be another deer here for another three thousand years. Guess it's alright, though. Like us, the deer are transplants to this island. There were none here till people brought 'em over in 1922.

"Sorry, buddy," I whispered, as the deer stepped out into the clearing. "But it's either you, or me." I brushed the shrubbery next to me. Just enough noise to get him to stop and look up. He thought for a moment, started to turn back for the woods, and then paused again. There, under sixty yards, I had a broadside shot of a fine-looking whitetail deer. It was now or never.

I parked the front sight square on his chest, and then lifted it up a little. I was well inside minute-of-deer range, but I wanted to be damned sure that bullet would go where I wanted it to go. I held it there, as steady as I could . . . it's surprising just how small even a deer looks at sixty yards. Everything lined up and then . . .

Boom!

The Colt rolled back in my hand, and I drew the hammer back with my thumb, my eyes never leaving that deer. The deer's first reaction was to stand up, ramrod straight. He leaped back towards the woods, got about five galloping steps in, crashing through the brush. There, just inside a gap between the foliage. I parked the Colt as far up his body as I could see.

Boom!

He jumped, whirling around, trying to find what'd hit him. He started to run off again, and then he stopped, took one more look around, and then dropped like a rock. I was already up and running across the clearing, the instinct to get there first running through my veins. It was pretty silly, as the only predator of merit around here was us, but I ran anyway. I pushed through the brush, and there he was. Lying on his side, unmoving. He looked even better close-up.

"Happy goddamn Sausage Fest, boys and girls and . . . well, more boys!" I shouted, looking very much like I did on that one Christmas day when I got my first real telescope. Grinning madly, I holstered my Colt. "Bambi is officially on the fucking menu!"

Irrationally, I stopped, and looked around. I grinned again. Nobody to see that I was making a damned fool of myself. I'll tell you, I felt better than I had at any time since we got to the godforsaken island. Whistling, I drew my knife. There was work still to be done, and the skies were only getting grayer.

July 25, 1249 BC, Day 267

The gentle roll of the ship beneath me serves as reminder of the more violent tossing that had come in previous days. As it was, I leaned on the bow railing of the forecastle, trying to get my inner ear to remember that this amount of motion was not as bad as it could be while also trying to peer through the thick fog that had enveloped us since early morning. That storm had been quite simply the most terrifying thing I had ever experienced, and not even the first night on the island could compare.

“Still green about the gills there, genius?” A jovial, familiar voice asked. Turning about, I found Eric strolling towards me. One of the members of the crew I had hit it off with, he had been the person I had primarily been speaking with for the last three weeks.

“I don’t know, are we still lost?” I ask sarcastically while Eric exchanges the watch duty with Jason, the man who had previously been standing at watch at the harpoon launcher we had installed last winter.

“The sounding is now picking up the bottom, we think we’re getting close to land now, can’t be more than a day out,” Eric replies with a broad grin.

I perk up at that and say, “Really? Damn that’s good news.”

“Yeah… too bad we don’t know which land it is we’re approaching. That storm really blew us off course and we haven’t been able to sight on sun or stars for days,” Eric expands, the smile slipping a bit.

“Are we closer to Cornwall or Gibraltar?” I ask, referring to our two primary points of interest, since they were well known as being points where traders would be during the Bronze Age.

“Gibraltar… we think. The storm pushed us south and east of our last known location, so we’re probably getting close to Iberia… unless we’re completely wrong on where we are,” Eric explains as he checks over the launcher, wiping off the moisture from the metal parts that had accumulated since Jason had last performed a similar check fifteen minutes ago.

“Iberia, eh?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sweet Latinas for everyone,” Eric says, waggling his eyebrows.

“I don’t think Latin itself will show up for another half a thousand years,” I point out.

“Bah. Spoil my fun why don’t you?” Eric replies sarcastically.

Looking up at the sky to where the sun could be seen as a broad smudge just above the horizon across the thick fog, I considered it for a few moments before I said, “Well, we’ll know where we are in a few hours, at most. That fog can’t last long under this sun.”

My words prove accurate, for within an hour after my proclamation the fog has already burned away to a light mist and the wind begins to really pick up. The decks begins to swarm with crew as the sails are raised via the complex network of lines, and I stay well out of their way while still remaining present, a skill I had grown quite proficient at in the past three weeks of the voyage.

Despite the queasiness of my stomach, the terror of the storms, and the gnawing, irrational concern that we were in fact hopelessly lost, I was glad that I had come on this journey. Officially the proposal by the engineers to send an expedition to Europe seeking supplies was credited to Chewie, and really if I had not convinced him it would have gone nowhere, but I had been given my own rewards for proposing it in the first place. A spot on the mission was one of them. The right to bring a trunk full of my own trade goods in addition to the regular trunk of personal clothing and gear was another.

Probably the least expected but most useful perk to it all was that I was now technically head of the Colonial Marines Engineering Corps. The technically part came from the fact that the Colonial Marines consisted of about sixty people, and five of them were in the Engineering Corps, the other four being teenagers who had been planning to go into engineering when they got out of high school who had proven quick learners in the work camps and who had signed up for this crazy adventure.

Of course, there was the undercurrent that the Council was just trying to get rid of troublemakers with this expedition, which was probably why they had gone along with it surprisingly easily. The Skipper of the Eagle was a contentious one, and the presence of the ship represented a sore point for the Council in that theoretically the Skipper could give the Council the finger and sail off into the sunset at any time. The logistics were rather more complicated than that, but the impression was there on both sides and it caused friction.

The whole composition of the expedition was in fact that the only people who could be considered masters of their trade were the sailors, with nearly everyone else being jacks, or more often than not apprentices, of many trades. We were the seconds, the ones who it would hurt if we went missing but the really experienced and talented personnel would remain safely behind on the island. We were also the ambitious ones, the ones who pursued new skills aggressively. We were the ones who resisted definition.

Fortunately, while we only had ten .30-06 rifles, five M1911s, and a couple hundred rounds of each type, the machine shop boys had really come through for the rest of the newly formed Marine Corps. Surly and bitter with the council since what had happened to Al Packer months ago, they had sprung into action when the order for fifty crossbows and fifty gladii for the expedition had come through, no doubt feeling that we represented the next step up in Council jackassery. I still preferred the compound weapon I had found back in November, not least because it was accurate enough to justify having a scope, but the new ones were nasty things using spring steel prods and a powerful winch system.

The ballistae made from multiple truck springs were also a nice addition to the harpoon launcher, giving a significant amount of extra punch at the cost of accuracy and load time. Not that we were hoping to use them, but it paid to be prepared when planning on interacting with Bronze Age peoples.

The thoughts and recollections of the conversation were interrupted by a commanding voice announcing, “Still fraternizing with the crew over there lieutenant?”

Glancing at Eric I say, “Looks like I’m on the clock now sailor,” before I turned and saluted with rather more enthusiasm than skill Captain Roberts, the only man with actual military experience from before on this adventure.

Returning the salute, Roberts slid in next to us and says, “Drill isn’t for another hour… and besides, I was just a fucking E-5 before, so I wouldn’t mind joining in on this fraternization.”

Captain Roberts is officially the ranking military officer and the only person he had to listen to was the Skipper when it came to the status of the Eagle. Unofficially he is the guy sent by the Council to make sure we did not go running off and try and form our own empire at their expense. Doubly unofficially, he had still privately fumed at the Council over the Packer fiasco despite still being loyal and had made it abundantly clear that he wanted us all back on the island with olive skinned wives from the Mediterranean so we could rub it in the face of the Council.

I still do not know when or where he got the peaked cap and overcoat, but considering how nerdy our group was, he had taken to the nickname ‘Commissar’ with rather a great deal of good humour. Not that he had those on today, it was not yet noon and the temperature was already soaring with the last traces of mist burning off in the sunlight.

“I still don’t know why they decided to make a civilian a lieutenant,” I grouse lightly while going back to looking at the sparkling blue waters that stretch out all around us.

“As I am now an officer I am forbidden by the stick surgically inserted up my ass to comment on that, but as a former sergeant unfairly made a mustang by circumstance, I can safely say that there was no way in hell you could have even been a corporal, but you still needed a rank to command men,” Roberts replies.

Grinning at that, I ask, “Permission to snigger sir.”

“Granted,” Roberts says, and both Eric and I chuckled at the sideways remark against junior officers everywhere.

“By the way, good Red Dwarf reference there son,” Roberts remarks once we got the laughter out of our system.

“Didn’t know you were I fan, sir,” I reply.

“I have my eccentricities,” Roberts answers coyly.

We stayed like that, just shooting the shit for perhaps half an hour, waiting for the marines below decks to finish up with their breakfast. Eating before dawn was reserved for the morning crew of sailors, but officers, even officers-in-name-only could get their bowl of slop whenever. For the marines, since launching there had been nothing to do but endlessly drill for everything from assisting in damage control to first aid to repelling boarders. When not drilling there were also theoretical lessons, and the Engineering Corp would spend long afternoons and evenings reading old texts and running over problems to keep our math and physic skills sharp.

Just as Roberts was starting to glance at his watch with considered looks on his face, the man perched high up in the rigging cried out the words we had all been waiting three weeks to hear.

“Land ho! Land ho!”

Everyone on deck looked up in pleased surprise and expectation; just sort of watching the man waving and pointing up in the rigging, before the officer on watch shouts out, “Quit your gawking and get back to work. Now is the time I want all of your asses in full gear!”

“Damn… alright, I’ll go inform the troops, you stay here as the marine officer on deck until I get back,” Roberts said, more or less just telling me to stay out of the way while he got things in order. I nodded, not wanting to miss out on this.

It took about half an hour more for the horizon to shift and change, a thin smudge of hazy tan and brown that stood between the endless expanses of blue that were the sea and sky, the first such separator we had seen since Nantucket had disappeared from view nearly three weeks ago.

My heart pounded in my chest. Three weeks of sailing. A month of preparation. Half a year of dreaming. Decades before that of a need to explore and see the world. Today it all came to a head. In a few hours I would set foot on land again, but it would be like setting foot on the moon. Never before in the history of this world had the Atlantic been crossed by humans. It was a staggering, heady sensation, to know that you were a part of history being made.

My knuckles went white as I gripped the rail, willing the ship, already outracing the wind at full sail, to go faster, to get us to this new land so I could see it with my own eyes, so that I could smell it, feel it beneath my boots and touch it with my hands, running sand and soil through my fingers. I practically drooled with anticipation.

Standing there waiting, letting the wind whip through my hair and the sea salt spray of the ship running over the waves mist my face, my expression turned to a frown as an imperfection became apparent upon the growing landmass on the horizon. A smudge of black and grey that went vertically instead of horizontally, sitting just a few degrees to starboard of our current heading.

There was a fire, and a big one, somewhere on the mainland.

The whole ship was abuzz with activity now, everyone roused for this momentous occasion, but already people were starting to point out the massive pillar of smoke reaching up into the sky. Finally the XO announced out, “All crew, sound general quarters! I repeat, sound general quarters!”

I blinked twice before I rushed away from the foredeck and down into the ship. Joining the frantic press of people in need of a place to be, I eventually slipped into my quarters and began to don my full battle dress. We did not have enough metal to spare, or time to process it, for full armour, but we did have plenty of leather from the hunting parties, and with a little processing we had some tough leather armour, supplemented with bits and pieces taken from sports equipment. Legionnaires we were most definitely not, but it might turn a bronze blade enough to turn a sure kill or maiming into a survivable wound.

Gladius and small wooden shield at my side, I then put on the real weapon we would rely upon, my crossbow, along with both of the quivers of bolts I had. One set were wooden ones made on the island, lower quality but expendable. The other set were aluminium hafted, steel broad heads that were meant for hunting and I would try not to lose to the ocean.

Running back up on deck, I found the ballistae and harpoon launcher now fully manned instead of just being watched for safety and accumulation of moisture. The marines were also assembled on deck, present but out of the way of the sailors. You could smell the tension in the air, an undercurrent to the prevailing sea salt smell and the emerging stench of sweat from men wearing heavy leather in the hot Iberian sun.

Finding the four other men, boys really in my eyes, of the Engineering Corp, I ensured that they were smartly assembled, like me holding their crossbows in their arms. While technically we would be the first ones to assist in damage control and we were really just here to make sure wells and latrines got built properly, we were still expected to fight first.

I nod to them, feeling acutely sick and trying to keep the anxiety off my face, but I think I only half succeed. Instead I manage to dredge up the best explanation my rational mind could think up amidst my imagination going wild and say, “There is a fire on the land we are approaching, and we may need to assist the locals in combating it. Be prepared and look smart now lads.”

They grinned at me, a sort of faux British officer accent slipping into my Canadian accent as I tried to sound like an authority figure. I then stood in the formation as Roberts went up and down, inspecting those under his command. Five engineers, including me. Five officers, including himself. Five squads of ten with two designated marksmen each. Sixty men total. Sixty men in the Colonial Marines, a laughably named organization formed by lost nerds with little training.

We were the thin line between whatever chaos was out there and had caused the fire.

The land now filled the horizon and the black column of smoke rose up monstrously high. I felt incredibly small and insignificant. My stomach twists. I just watch silently as one of the sailors goes up to Roberts to whisper something before handing him a spyglass. Going up to the forecastle, he looks out silently before he calls out, “Lieutenants! Report here immediately!”

I and the four other junior officers, the others at least a quarter deserving the title of officer where I am completely undeserving of it, rush up. He hands us the telescope over to one of the other men and silently points. We each in turn take the instrument.

When my turn comes, I see a dozen galleys, their masts down and their oars out, swarming about the bay outside of a river mouth, a fortified settlement clearly under attack. On one side of the river a massive fire has clearly consumed the majority of the settlement there, but the other side with its wooden palisades and stonework defences still resists. Tiny, distant figures wage a toy soldier war where real blood is shed. I can see more galleys on the beaches, figures dragging animals and other people unwillingly to the boats.

My stomach turns and I want to throw up, but instead I just look at Roberts. He looks at us, at the scared, pale expressions on our bearded faces. He nods and then says, “This is not our battle.”

I feel like I have been punched in the gut, but before I can get over my own anxiety to protest, Roberts says, “But I’m going to make it our battle. Lewis, inform the Skipper that we will engage the attackers with the intent to drive them from this settlement.”

A few minutes later as we stood, grim faced yet determined, the ship rushing ever closer to the shore, the galleys now visible with the naked eye and no doubt now wondering what the hell we were, the fog horn of the Eagle sounds and then – a cheeky, defiant one the Skipper – the strains of Gustav Holst’s “Mars, Bringer of War” began to play over the ship’s sound system.

Onward we sail, in time to the orchestra of war, the themes born from traditions that stretched back so far they were old even in this ancient time. Somewhere along the line someone began to hum along with the song, probably nerves, but soon everyone had joined in, an a cappella accompaniment by over a hundred throats on top of the audio bombardment from the speakers.

My throat constricts and my mouth runs dry even as I blare out nonsense sounds in an attempt to imitate an orchestra. The scene of the horrific battle seems to draw ever closer, the moment of violent collision between times inching ever onward. My mind considers the terror of those before us, struggling for life and death only for an alien vessel, larger than anything they have ever seen, to come rushing in from the depths of unknown oceans, screaming out sounds never before heard by their ears while bearing down on them. I know it would make me panic.

We can see the purpose of the galleys in the water now. Penned up at the mouth of the river are numerous little boats of various shapes and sizes, none of which are a match for the galleys. A few large round boats carry a dozen warriors each while many smaller ones shaped like canoes and rafts carry what looks like fleeing women and children, trying to get upstream and inland away from the fighting. The current and the fire interfere with their attempts though and some are swept out into the killing grounds. Boats of all types litter the bay from those who had attempted to brave the gauntlet presented by the galleys.

But now it was the turn of the galleys to suffer an unfair match-up. We approached the ships just as the last strains of Holst were dying away, but whoever was on the loudspeakers clearly had a ‘Greatest Classical Bellicose Hits’ play list for the familiar and bombastic opening chords of Wager’s “Ride of the Valkyries”.

“Marines! To the rails! First and second squads, starboard side! Third and fourth, port! Fifth is reserve! Engineering, at discretion! Prepare for volley fire with bows at my command, all firearms are to remain safe until my order!” Captain Roberts barked out as the battle drew nearer, the stench of burning oil and wood drifting to our nostrils.

I nearly freeze at what should have been an expected order, but somehow I overcome the instinct to allow myself to get overwhelmed and I announce over the music, “Upon announcement of beginning of volley fire you may fire at will, but upon my order to assist in damage control you are to cease firing immediately. Just like we trained, people!”

Going to the nearest available spot on the starboard railing, I quietly load my weapon with one of the cheap, wooden bolts before holding it grimly in my hands, waiting for the signal from Roberts. Ahead of us one of the galleys looms near, the crew getting up out of their seats at the oars to peer up over the gunwales at the incredible sight we must present.

Bracing myself against the railing against the rocking of the ship, I slowly line up through the scope on an olive skinned man with long, curly hair and an elaborately dressed beard, wearing a patterned green and red tunic. We draw nearer, the man’s face growing larger in my scope as I adjust for the closing range and the shifting of the waves. I can feel my body tremble with terror, anxiety, and anticipation. I intend to kill another human being, to put a crude chunk of wood with bits of sharpened metal attached to one end through the vital parts of his anatomy.

We are almost on top of the galley, everyone on the railing practically looking straight down at the occupants of the lesser ship, the Eagle starting to turn away when Roberts cries out, “Starboard volley!”

I react without thinking, pulling the trigger while blinking, along with the sixteen other men and the ballista on that side, transforming the deck of the galley into a charnel house, men writhing about and thrashing as bolts penetrate their flesh. Frantically I search for my target amidst the chaos, and find him screaming silently on the deck, the distinctive fletching of my bolt marking where my shot went high but lucky and entered his throat just above the breastbone.

I almost collapse, almost throw up, appalled at what I have done. I think there were several others who shared that sentiment, but Roberts bellowed out, “First and second squads, reload! Reload! Port side, prepare for volley!”

My eyes lock with Roberts and I can see that he knows. He knows it is no easy thing to ask one man to kill another, but that is what all the endless drilling is for, to seal away that natural revulsion behind an automatic response. To not think about ending another’s life, but to think about those around you, about failing them if you do not respond.

I begin the task of loading my weapon once more as the ship shifts beneath my feet, slaloming towards the next target. I do not even finish getting the string all the way back when Roberts shouts out, “Port volley!” and the air fills with the twang of the crossbows and the explosive release of a ballista. More men die.

The Eagle heels about sharply, rapidly bleeding off speed, coming about on another galley that was rapidly trying to turn about, its oars thrashing in the water as the men panicked at our terrifyingly unexpected arrival. The starboard ballista fires again, and while I think they aimed for the oar decks, the effect is rather more spectacular. A brightly dressed man up on the decks clearly trying to organize the oarsmen catches the bolt square in the chest, hurling him off the boat and into the water.

I cannot hear the tormented screams of the oarsmen no doubt now convinced that the emissaries of some terrible thunder god have come to cut them down. I cannot hear them because the music over the speakers drowns them out while not interfering with the Captain’s orders. I wonder for a moment just how clever the Skipper is.

I pause to assess the situation for a moment, not having the stomach to shoot again into a densely packed, panicked crowd so soon and instead I quickly scan the battlefield with my sight. The other galleys in the water are turning to flee in a blind panic while the warriors in the circular, leather boats began to break out of their shelter in the bay, paddling furiously for the galleys we had already wounded. Meanwhile on the shore…

All my disgust at killing vanished in an instant, water flashed to steam by a tsunami of righteous fury. Through my scope I watched as a man dressed similarly to the one I had killed shoves a sword through the chest of a woman while those around him shove his boat off the sandy beach. He was so small at this distance, but I could see the casualness of it all. He does not have time to carry her struggling while escaping, so he kills her so no one else can have her.

“Sir! They’re killing hostages on shore!” I report out, drawing the Captain’s attention.

Turning his own spyglass on the beached galleys, Roberts lets a grim look pass over his face before he bellows, “Designated marksmen! You have permission to fire upon the brightly dressed bastards! And make those shots count!”

A gun goes off and perhaps a hundred metres away one of the “captains” has his head explode in a shower of gore. The efficiency of rowing immediately drops for that boat. Roberts then calls out, “And next time someone sees something like that, don’t be afraid to tell me right away!”

On the next pass on a galley, I feel a murderous glee well up within me as I fire this time, and while I miss the target I was aiming for, two other bolts transfix the bastard and mine flew into the midst the oarsmen, undoubtedly drawing blood. The addition of the guns ensures that the captain is amongst the dead this time.

Momentum and the prevailing winds we are tacking against carrying us out of the battlefield, we pause to take a breather while the rest of the battle unfolds. On the shore the assault on the fortified position is breaking as the warriors there realize that their naval support is running away, while many of the defenders in the little boats begin to return to shore, bypassing the enemy positions to encircle them. Other boats have carried their load of men to some of the floundering galleys, the warriors within clambering up the oars that would have smashed them to a pulp had they tried this before.

Without our intervention, this would have probably been a slow, grinding battle with the attackers slowly cutting apart the defenders while the city burned from whatever had been ignited. Now the attackers were caught in between a rock and a hard place, encircled by their former victims and our ship. Many on the shore were already abandoning the effort to get the ships out onto the water and were just running for their lives. Not that it would help many of them, considering that the defenders who had broken out of the river mouth were now advancing on the boats waving bronze axes.

One ship had manages to get free from the shore though, the man who had executed his captive up on the bridge, extolling the oarsmen to row for their lives. I hear the look out shout, “It has captives aboard!”

“Skipper! Take us in pursuit of that pirate if you would! All marines hold fire! If the fine gentlemen on the harpoon could prevent them from escaping that would be greatly appreciated!” Roberts announced.

I had to hand it to the captain of the galley, he was clever. Rowing parallel to the shore in close and into the prevailing wind as much as possible, he definitely hoped to lose us by going where we could not with our sails and clearly deeper draft. Too bad for him we knew exactly where the bottom was with our sounding equipment. Too bad for him we had a diesel engine and could move regardless of the wind. Too bad for him we had a harpoon launcher taken from the Nantucket Whaling Museum and refurbished by our machinists such that it could once again snare a blue whale.

With a concussive thump of expanding gas the harpoon launcher fired, the heavy harpoon trailing a bright white rope behind it as it sailed through the air to slam into the fleeing galley just above the waterline and hold fast. The line quickly went taut, causing both ships to lurch, although the much smaller and less massive galley’s change in velocity is considerably more violent than the Eagle’s.

With the mighty diesel engine humming beneath our feet, the powerful electric motor attached to the harpoon line begins to retract, hauling the galley in toward us. I can feel it in my own chest; I can feel it in the men around me. We are all the young men who were not content to sit back on the island. We are all the young men who definitely want wives of our own one day. We are all the young men with the little white knight inside us who never got to shine back before all of this happened. We all know what will happen to any captives on that boat.

We are pissed off and heavily armed and our prey is being reeled in for us.

“Hold fire! Hold fire!” Roberts cries out, urging the men not to kill the innocent along with the guilty. Already the decks are being abandoned, the crew either leaping overboard to take their chances with the sea and the locals, or hiding beneath the decks. The captain is clearly amongst the latter group as his corpse is not on deck or floating in the water.

With a jarring bump the galley coasted into our hull, wood splintering on it under the impact. Roberts continues to call out, “Hold fire… hold fire…”

I do not know who does it first, but suddenly one of the marines grabs one of the lines next to the railing and jumps off, landing hard on the deck before drawing his sword and shield. I gape at this for a second. The gladii are weapons of last resort! But before Roberts can get the breath into his lungs to scream himself blue, two more men follow the lead of the first, and then the entire squad is dropping down onto the deck.

Of course, now they have crowded their landing spot and the tough as nails bastards below decks are starting to draw bronze knives, spears, and swords seeing no better way out of their predicament.

I look at Roberts as he gapes at the stupidity of his men. Looking at my own men, I spy one of the boarding ladders and do some quick estimation. Shouting out to the other engineers, “It is damage control time boys!” I rush over to the ladder and immediately begin to work the pulleys, lifting it up. The others rush to my side and begin to assist, moving the ladder out over the galley where we drop it down onto the stern deck.

Setting down my crossbow, I draw steel and my shield and announce, “Let’s get those idiots out of there!”

Roberts is behind me, M1911 in hand, its percussive report ringing in my ears from his suppressive fire as the marines charge down the ramp. Upon reaching the wooden deck of the ship, I cry out to my men, “Tight formation! Tight formation! Just like we drilled!”

We are not legionnaires, but there is a definite hint of the steel discipline of the Romans we are emulating poking through, still in need of tempering and polish. Shoulder to shoulder, our shields out as wards, we form up a wedge while more men join us, the officers and marksmen keeping the enemy bottled up.

Again, it is the hot heads in the squad that jump down that press down into the lower decks first, now confident that they will not be surrounded. Roberts and two of the lieutenants shove past me and follow them in. For a few minutes there is the echoing bang of .45 pistols and the screams of men while the rest of us hang back, unable to squeeze in after them.

Finally though Roberts emerges and says, “Everyone but engineering back on the Eagle. Now!”

Standing aside while the others begin clambering back up the ladder, I look back to see Roberts beginning to launch into an apoplectic tirade against the men who went onto the galley without orders, three of them looking like they would need to see the ship’s medic later, while the lieutenants wave me forward. Nodding to my men, we advance into lower decks.

The smell is what first hits me. It is the smell of sea rotted wood, algal growths, urine, feces, the acrid tang of gun powder, and most of all blood. There was not a whole lot of room under the deck, enough for two levels of rowers and about twenty people crammed atop each other, their hands and legs bound with leather cords. The bodies of their captors lay all around, variously stabbed and shot.

Lieutenant Jorma, a tough Finnish bastard who had actually been planning on becoming an officer in his homeland after high school, nodded to me and said, “We need to get these people out of here.”

Nodding to him, I sheathe my sword and gesture for my men to do the same. Once we are all secured I gesture for them to help me pick up a young man, barely more than a boy, from the pile and haul him upright. In the dim lighting, I can see that he is terrified, not just of the situation but of us and the shouting outside.

I smile weakly, no idea what to do, but I just calmly walk him out onto the deck while the rest of my crew disentangle the next person. I can see him better now, taking in the darker tones of his skin, the somewhat paler shades than expected in my mind for a typical Iberian indicating that he probably has ancestors who are recent arrivals on the peninsula.

Still smiling at him, I kneel down and slowly draw my sword, keeping a hand on his wrists so that he cannot escape, and then I carefully cut through his bonds, first his feet and then his wrists. Getting back up, my hand still about wrist, I smile and point to the side. Seeing the strange ship and the faces of the dozens of marines staring down at us, he gladly stays on the vessel he understands.

His flesh tearing, paint peeling, ball shrinking tirade coming to a close, Roberts shouts out, “…and if any of you ever do anything like that again I will personally make sure you are stuck on latrine duty for fucking life. Now get back on the ship before I start yelling again!”

Scurrying away from their enraged CO, the now diminished marines scamper up the ladder before Roberts turns to me. I feel my own balls shrink at his glare, but he says, “Don’t mind the look; I’m just stuck on pissed-the-fuck-off-sergeant mode right now. We clearly need more work on discipline. Good job on creative interpretation of ‘damage control’.”

“Thank you sir,” I reply, glancing over to where the next two captives are being brought on deck. Spying the boy I had already set free, they begin to shout to each other in a totally incomprehensible language. The boy holds up his severed bonds and then points to me. Looking at Roberts, he nods and I oblige to cut them free as well. The women are crying joyfully even as they retreat from me, and I can not help but feel a mixture of immense pride at doing right with a bit of disappointment of their fear of me.

It is at that point that the first boat of local warriors shows up. They stay well back in their little boats, wary of our firepower but clearly wanting to get aboard. Roberts looks at them for a second before he turns to me and says, “Get that harpoon free so we can disengage from this boat and let the locals get their own back.”

Nodding I call up to the crew on the Eagle and order, “I need a hatchet down here, immediately.”

While the men on the Eagle move to fulfil my order, I sheathe my blade once more and go up to the freed captives, hands out in a placating manner, showing that I have no hostile intent. The women shy away, while the boy seems to take a braver stance. Reaching out to him, I gesture to his wrists where the leather bonds still remain. He hesitates for a moment, but cutting him free already has probably given me quite the boost in trust.

Undoing the bonds, I toss aside the scraps of leather, and then I point to the scraps still about the wrists of the women, and when another man is brought out of the hold I point to his still tied bonds. The kid quickly gets what I am saying and moves to untie the man. By this time on of the sailors has brought me a hatchet and I call out to my crew, “Okay boys, I’m going to need your help. I want one of you to go down into the bilge and find the harpoon, and the other three to help hold me. We can let the locals free their friends.”

Roberts pauses and says, “Not bad, but I don’t want anyone we don’t know running about below decks with all of those weapons on the corpses. Jorma! Get a team to secure all the pointy things and supervise the locals.”

I feel a slight burn of embarrassment across my cheeks for not thinking of that, but Roberts just says, “Don’t worry about it; you’re doing learning fast for such a fucked up situation. I’ve seen actual lieutenants flounder worse than you before. Now get to work.”

Looping the cord at the bottom of the hatchet about the bottom of the handle of the hatchet so that I will not lose it if I let go of it, I gesture for my crew to pick me up and lower me over the side of the galley to where the harpoon is protruding out, letting a slow but steady trickle of water in as the ship rocks with the waves. In a few hours the ship will probably start to sink, but for now it is still buoyant.

Swinging the hatchet, I begin to hack at the hole, expanding it outward, while the man on the other side starts to push out the harpoon. It takes a few minutes of hanging upside-down by my feet, sweating and swearing, but eventually the hooked spear comes free and the crew of the Eagle retracts it up for inspection and then reloading.

Pulled back up, I take a few moments to let all of the blood that has rushed to my head to return to its normal place before congratulating my men on a job well done. Roberts gives me a thumbs up before he announces, “Okay people, our job here is done, let’s let the locals take over.”

Evacuating off the boat, we lift up the boarding ladder and then move away from the ship. With our departure, the boats move in, the men clambering up the oars to find the now released captives waiting for them. The warriors are mostly bare-chested, their squat bodies like barrels of muscles covered in tattoos, scars and war paint. Brightly coloured trousers and heavy leather boots complete the look, and while certainly not the most protective attire, it certainly suits the blazing Iberian sun better than our heavy leather armour.

Stripping off my helmet to let the pool of sweat that had accumulated there pour out, I watch as one of the warriors thumps his fist to his chest and then pumps it into the air. Is it congratulations or a challenge? Roberts decides to settle on a neutral response and salutes, a gesture we all replicate. The warriors are somewhat taken aback by the mass action, but then one of them imitates the gesture and soon they all pick it up. Roberts releases the salute and we do the same, and then he imitates their salute, thumping his chest and raising his fist in the air. This gets a big cheer from the warriors.

Roberts then points to the fire still raging on the opposite bank of the river and picks up a bucket of water that had been set on the deck when general quarters had been declared for fire suppression purposes. The locals howl with what I suppose is delight and seem to indicate that they would appreciate the assistance.

Turning to us, Roberts says, “Get out your shovels and axes boys, it is firefighting time.”

I look at the conflagration so huge it attracted our attention to this bloody battle, and I gulp nervously at the enormity of the task ahead of us. Against the invaders we had the advantage of surprise and technology on our sides. Against a fire?

I suppress the urge to run for my bunk and instead nod, saying, “Sir, yes sir.”

---

I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists

Hm, so something happened to Packer. My guess is either a), He's dead, or b) he's living with the Natives and the rest of us think he's dead.

That must have been a terrifying sight for all involved. You're raiding a coastal town, having a good time, when all of a sudden a massive boat blaring battle music charges you and giants on board kill your comrades with thunder sticks.

---

My Xbox Live Gamertag is Sergeant Matt

"Faith is the great cop-out, the great excuse to evade the need to think and evaluate evidence. Faith is belief in spite of, even perhaps because of, the lack of evidence." -Richard Dawkins

Grammatical nitpick:

The singular form of "corps" is "corps," not "corp." The "United States Marine Corps" is a single entity, not a collection of entities each of which bears the name "corp," for instance.

---

This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov.

I'm pretty sure that is a typo as I use the term 'Corps' elsewhere. I will go back and fix that.

EDIT: So I did it three times. Whoops. I do know that it is supposed to be Corps, I just missed that.

---

I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists

Day 181, Morning, Cape Cod

Packer yawned hugely, then pulled the blanket up around his chin contentedly, getting ready to go back to sleep. Then, he realized what he was doing, and shot bolt upright.

Where the fuck am I? He looked around, wide-eyed. He was in a hut, this much was clear. It was small and cozy, perhaps having a diameter of seven feet, and it appeared to be in excellent repair. The walls alternately some kind of tree bark and animal hide, arranged in such a way, Packer guessed dimly, to keep airflow to a minimum. Posts driven into the earth allowed everything to be lashed together, and it looked fairly sturdy. There was a hole in the apex of the roof, which allowed smoke from the small fire pit in front of him to escape. There was a fire weakly burning in it now; without thinking about it, Packer leaned over and threw a couple of nearby sticks onto the embers.

He then turned to himself. He felt weak, and hungry, and thirsty--but not sick. No phelgm. No cough. No fever. Glancing under the blanket that covered him, he found himself naked, but clean. Now, it was starting to come together.

Someone must've cared for him while he was laid up. He couldn't remember anything. Two gaps in his memory so close together. It freaked him out a little, but he was mainly happy. Unless someone decided to have batting practice with his coconut again, he thought the worst of it was behind him. He yawned again, rubbing his cheek as he did so.

Wait a minute. Packer felt his face. There's way more hair here than there should be. As a rule, his hair grew quickly, but not very thickly on his face. The stubble he was sporting had grown so much that it had lost the bulk of its rigidity.

"How long was I out?" he murmured to himself. "Why can't I remember anythi--"

Directly across from him was the entrance to the hut, an arch about three feet tall. A figure stooped and entered.

"Nara?" Packer croaked.

"Packer? Packer!" Nara crossed the hut quickly and knelt next to Packer, taking his head and cradling it against her chest for a moment. It was only after she let him go that he got a good look at her. She looked completely different; her skin was clean, her hair smooth and shiny, and she was wearing some kind of cloth dress with a red pattern on it. She was grinning hugely, she spoke with both an excited tone and eyes.

Packer stared at her, bewildered. Things were still a bit fuzzy, and, of course, he had no idea what she was saying. He held up both hands. Slowly.

She stopped, but she was still smiling. Was it...was she proud of something? Proud of keeping him alive? Had she taken care of him?

"Nara," he began slowly. He pointed at her, then to himself. Then the fire, the blankets. The hut. The gourds of water in the corner.

"Ha," she said. Yes.

Packer couldn't help himself; he smiled back. "Samsa," he said, feeling like a complete moron. How are you supposed to thank someone for saving your life when you can only speak one word to them?

She turned to the gourds in the corner, pouring some liquid into a wooden bowl. This she set near the fire, on a flat rock that looked like it was designed to be some kind of cooktop.

He gave her dress a tug, and she turned back around. "Tell me more," he said pleadingly, beckoning to her. "How sick was I? Where are we? How long was I out? Temba, his arms wide!" He accompanied this by patting his chest and holding the back of his hand to his forehead.

She paused, considering. Finally, she decided to start pantomiming, too. She grabbed an extra blanket and curled up on the ground, trembling, making horrible, wracking coughing noises. Then, she cast the blanket off and stood up, throwing her hands out like she was blind. Then, she called out the following:

"Jenni! Ojenni, Imi hel! Helmee jenni!"

Packer's blood ran ice cold. He was delirious, calling for his wife? Jenny! Oh, Jenny, I'm in Hell! Help me, Jenny! Just how often had he been saying that so she could repeat it?

Nara was continuing with her pantomime. She fell back down, put her hand against her forehead, and took it away at once, wincing like it was on fire. Then she got up, went over to the gourds, and brought one over. Packer sniffed it, and his vision went double for a moment.

Nara giggled. She pointed at him, then made rapid drinking motions. She fell back down again, snoring loudly. After a few seconds, she sat back up.

Wow, looks like I was a handful. Packer smiled, a bit embarrassed. He then pointed towards the outside, where the sun was shining. Nara gave it a bit of thought, then gave a single, sharp nod, blinking distinctly and exactly once as her head moved. Packer made it up to his knees, wrapping the blanket around his waist. Given that he didn't smell of piss and shit, Nara had, no doubt, seen every nook and cranny of his body in keeping him clean, but his sense of modesty prevailed.

With her help, he got around the fire and out into the open air. He had to squint against the brightness of daylight, and he stood on wobbly feet. The day was bright and warmer than it probably had been all year. In fact, there were twinges of green to the nearby plants and trees. Spring had definitely arrived.

Nara said something. He looked down at her; now that they were standing side by side, he realized that she was probably fairly tall, as far as her people went. She was probably five feet, maybe five-one.

As his vision adjusted, he could see further into the distance. They stood on the slope of a large hill, perhaps three fourths of the way up. Above them stood a rim of huge first-growth trees. and gaps in these revealed several streams and brooks cutting their way down and across the slope. The hut Packer'd spent so much time in was paired with another one, but these were the only manmade structures nearby. All around them, the hill had been cleared of trees, and small shrubs and plants grew in profusion, stretching on down the hill.

There, near the hill's bottom, perhaps five hundred feet away, stood the settlement. It was probably thirty to thirty-five buildings in total, ranging in size from huts as small as the two next to which they stood, to longer buildings comparable at least in footprint to a good-sized house. Small figures crawled all over the scene, moving to and from the woods, in and out of buildings, and out into the fields and pastures on the hill.

And finally, spreading out past the village was a marshy plain. In this the streams converged and cut squiggly paths towards the ocean, which was perhaps a half mile further on. There was a reasonably wide beach at the water's edge, and Packer spied a few more structures and what looked like boats in and near the water.

Packer frowned, concentrating. Why were they up here? The answer came as rapidly as the question: Quarantine. He was sick, probably raving when Duniik and Nara made it back. They pled their case, and the village elders or chief or whatever allowed him to stay--but away from everyone else. Since someone had to care for him, Nara stayed up here, too. But then...

He turned to Nara. "Duniik?"

She said something, waving a hand towards the village below. Packer thought he detected a tone of disdain in her voice. That jerk's down in the village, chasing girls. Or something to that effect.

Packer then pointed to his stubble, then rubbed it, a perplexed look on his face. He pointed to the leaves on nearby plants, then the sun in the sky. How long have I been here?

Nara had to think about it for a little while, then her eyes lit up. She said something emphatically, realized that Packer wouldn't have the faintest idea what she meant, and so she held up five fingers on her left hand, tracing a semicircle over it with her right index finger.

Five days.

Packer exhaled. "Whoa." It certainly seemed to match his facial hair growth. That...whatever he had put him out of commission for five days? He was so delirious and exhausted that he remembered none of it? Or maybe they she had given him something--some kind of herb or root that kept him knocked out, so wouldn't thrash around and destroy the hut, or start a fire. Maybe it was the pungent liquid Nara had let him sniff.

Well, whatever it was, it had worked. His immune system fought off the bug--or bugs--and he seemed to be little the worse for wear. Weaker, sure. But he'd get his strength back. And when he did...

Then what? The boat back to Nantucket, if it had ever been deployed, had come and gone three days ago. If he was extremely lucky, they'd found some evidence on the beach at Lewis Bay. Maybe a ripped shirt or some bloody sand, or discarded kelp wrappings for the cod fillets. They who'd sent him out here would spin the story as it suited them, and that would be that. No search. No rescue attempts. Maybe a crude wooden plaque in the office of the machine shop.

Packer shrugged. Well, I suppose I'll stay here for a while. I probably ate up a lot of these people's resources, so I'm sure there's some way to repay their kindness. He turned to Nara. Pointed to himself, then her, then down to the village, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

She made to say something, but was interrupted by the comically loud rumbling of his stomach. She laughed a bit, then motioned for him to come back into the hut, bunching her fingers together and putting them up to her mouth. Then, she flicked her wrist in the direction of the village. First, eat. Then, we'll go down to the village.

"Ha," Packer said. As he got down to crawl back into the hut, he though to himself, If only to properly thank her and Duniik, I have to learn their language.

Day 52, Night, Nantucket

Packer was smitten. He couldn't deny it. How could anyone deny it? Kaley had actually gotten him to dance.

The first session the dance floor, it became rapidly obvious why she'd opted for sneakers instead of some butt-lifting high heel shoe: she loved to dance. For the first few songs, Packer felt insanely self-conscious. He had no rhythm. He barely moved his feet, and he had no idea what to do with his hands. This is kids' stuff, he found himself thinking repeatedly.

But perhaps the alcohol finally achieved maximum effect, or perhaps he was transfixed by her lithe form, or even her smell--fragrant, sweet, flowery, intoxicating--but he suddenly and rather simply started to feel the music. Where he'd had no luck in achieving this esoteric state at every past attempt at dancing in his entire life, something clicked. He was like Steve Martin in The Jerk, when he discovers his rhythm.

So they danced together for a good forty-five minutes. While there were certainly more provocative displays going on around them, theirs was no G-rated exhibition. In particular, Kaley seemed to be fond of grinding her ass into him with exquisite pressure, and Packer was damned if he wasn't fond of it, too!

They returned to their table, breathing hard, sweating just a bit in the cool room that was turning warmer, and happily a bit sore.

"And you thought you had something to worry about," Kaley said. "You're a great dancer!"

"Made great by you, and you alone," Packer replied with a smile. He lifted his flask, which had remained bravely behind, and gave it a shake. "Looks like somebody's been poaching my booze. Oh well, still plenty left." He measured out two more drinks.

"Hold that stuff, I need to get some water first. You want some?" It could've been the lighting or Packer's energetic imagination, but he swore that she arched her back a little when she said that last sentence, the light catching the texture of her beaded dress just a little differently.

So many jokes and quips attempted to shove their way out of his mouth at the same time that they got stuck, and Packer only managed, "Please." She smiled, and sauntered off across the dance floor, which was now packed.

The genders had fully mixed. A large portion of the attendees were paired off and dancing, but an equally large portion stood at the periphery or sat at tables in small, mixed groups, carrying on animated conversations over the thumping bassline of whatever was playing. Where the room had smelled of stale weed and fear a few hours ago, it now smelt...well, like stale weed and good vibes. The same hum of energy Packer had felt outside in the Nantucket Inn was manifest here now, and it seemed to float on the air. As if you could reach out and grasp the laughter, or inhale a good joke. Packer suddenly shook his head; he was probably imagining all this nonsense, because he himself was having such a good time.

Kaley was back quickly with two largish glasses. No doubt about Packer's swooning; his heart rate almost doubled when she sat back down. She handed Packer one of the glasses, and he slammed it back in a few seconds. "Wow, I was thirstier than I thought."

"Tell me about it," Kaley remarked, "I polished off a glass myself before I even came back." She sipped hers more daintily now. "So, I'm guessing that this pop music isn't really your scene."

"Not so much, no," he said, smirking. "What do you think my scene is?"

"Punk, I guess."

Packer snorted. "Well, it's better than being called a goth, I guess, but not quite right." He threw up the horns for the second time that night. "Metal is where it's at. Louder, faster, angrier. But you know, I appreciate the classics, too. Who doesn't like "Freebird," after all?" He then sighed a bit. "But, I think the days of the solid-body electric guitar are numbered, and I'd guess that rock and roll in all its forms, like pop music, will fade away eventually."

"Wow, that's kinda depressing." She flipped a loose strand of shiny hair back over her head, and it stately assumed its intended position thanks to her UltraHold hairspray, or whatever it was called.

"I guess," Packer sat up a bit straighter, "but it's the natural progression. Electric guitars will be replaced with acoustic ones. Auto-tuners will give way to, you know, actual singing. A lot of things will be bittersweet memories. That's why it's important to build up new things--replace that which we've left behind with something new. Something that's our own."

Kaley regarded him for a moment. "You're a pretty upbeat person, huh?"

"Generally so, yeah. I get into funks, of course, like anyone else, but I like to focus the joys of life, large and small, in whatever forms they might come." He held up his glass of tequila. "Take this, for example. I could lament that there won't be tequila made anywhere in the world for centuries to come, and that after this is gone, it's gone forever. But instead of taking it as a loss, I accept it something to be reinvented. Some day, our descendants will make it to Mexico, where they'll find the blue agave plant. They'll first brew pulque from it, but eventually, they'll distill it, perhaps for ease of export. And then the world will have tequila. I don't weep for its demise; I envy those who will discover it again!"

Kaley held up her own glass. "All that over this little bit of booze, huh?"

Packer smiled, a touch embarrassed. "I'm also a bit of a long-winded ass. But a cheerful one, at least!"

Kaley smiled back at him. His heart rate tripled. So this is what it was like to be a hummingbird. "And how are you dealing with life outside of work? How many people do you live with?"

"No one." Kaley's eyes widened a bit. "It's true. I live way outside of town, in a tiny little house. The council has suggested that I either take in some roomates or move into a building closer to town, but they won't push me too hard. I think they're afraid I might get kidnapped by marauding natives, or something patently absurd like that. Me, the machinist, dealing with natives! Can you imagine?

"To answer your first question, though, I usually fill my off hours playing music. I never picked up an instrument before the Arrival, but there are a bunch of guitars and basses in my house, along with tons of printouts of guitar tabs, books on music theory. It passes the time."

"Cool," Kaley said. "You'll have to play something for me sometime."

"Uh, OK, but I really suck. Can I have some more time to practice first?"

She smiled. "Deal." She held up her glass. "So, what should we drink to now?"

He thought about it a moment, licking his lips quickly. "To the eventual rediscovery of tequila. Once that occurs, the rediscovery of Spring Break can't be far off."

She laughed. "Sounds good. Cheers."

"Prost," and up went the tequila. When he set the glass down, he held his hand out to her. "Kaley, would you like to dance?"

She feigned shock. "Why yes, I would!"

So they went back out on the dance floor. This time Packer found it quite easy to immerse himself in the music. It didn't matter what was played, so long as it had a good beat. His perception shrank, his focus only on Kaley. Her arms, lean and toned, glimmering the erratic lights of the room. The sparkling beads on her dress, their hard, angular texture as he ran his hands over them contrasting with the smoothness and softness of her exposed skin that he occasionally chanced to touch. The smell of her hair as she danced in close to him...or was it simply the smell of her? Objectively, Packer dimly acknowledged that Kaley, like him, should reek of tequila and sweat. This same dim acknowledgement was applied to the fact that he could give two shits about what she should smell like, because she smelled, and looked, and felt, simply wonderful. She and the throbbing music were his world.

There was, therefore, a moment of confusion when the music changed. Apparently, it was time for a slow dance. He and Kaley stopped with gyrations, stared at each other dumbly for a few seconds, then a bit clumsily arranged themselves appropriately: her hands clasped behind his neck, his on her hips.

"Well," she said, looking into his eyes, "this is a pleasant change of pace."

"I was about to say the same thing," he said earnestly. For a while, they simply stayed that way, gazing happily into each other's eyes, swaying gently with the music. Then, as the song drew down, Packer's heartbeat sped up. His body had been telling his brain something all night, and finally, his brain was going to listen.

He moved his hands up her sides, detaching them briefly and respectfully to skim past her breasts, and he slid them gently just under her jawline, stopping when he held the back of her neck, and he tilted her face upwards towards his.

Her smile faded--not because she was upset, of course, but because a first kiss is of such supreme importance.

Packer moved in. Every sense was was hyper-aware, honed to a razor's edge. She filled his vision, every detail of her face in crystal-sharp detail. He heard her breath, and nearly silent gasp as, perhaps, she fully realized what he was doing. Both their bodies were thrumming like they were live wires, each trembling slightly. His nose was filled with her, to the point where he could almost taste her. Slowly, his heart racing, fighting every instinct to simply rush in, he parted his mouth slightly. He closed his eyes. Close now. He could feel her breath against his lips. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Then, the next song started playing, and everything went to Hell.

Packer stopped. That song kicked something loose in his head; it drew up a memory long ignored. He had been at his senior prom. Dancing. Dancing with his wife, when she was still his girlfriend. This same song was on. He gazed deeply into his wife's eyes, captivated by her stunning beauty. He told her he loved her--the first time he'd ever said it to a girl and meant it. She peeped(how could he ever forget that adorable sound?) and, tears welling up in her eyes, she told him she loved him. From then on, they were inseparable. A sudden storm of disjointed ideas spun up and thrashed its way through his brain, and the net outcome of this torrent was this:

I am about to kiss someone who is not my wife.

One eye opened. He grimaced. Kaley was in front of him, waiting, apparently still captivated by the moment. He was not. He released his hold on her neck and stepped back, both eyes open. The disconnection seemed to have as strong an effect as dumping a bucket of ice water on her. She snapped to, suddenly, a look of wide-eyed shock on her face.

"What? What's wrong?" she asked, a small amount of panic in her voice.

He floundered helplessly for a moment, his jaw working like that of a fish out of water. How could he explain...? He couldn't explain this! She couldn't understand! Finally, he said, "Uh, I think dinner's not agreeing with me. I gotta...gotta use the restroom. Gimme a minute, OK?" Before she could reply, he was quickly stumbling off the dance floor, past the tables, towards the bathoom.

The bathroom was dimly lit, and only one sink was working, the rest having been cannibalized for parts a month ago. Packer splashed ice cold water on his face. His hands were shaking badly. He felt a surge of bile rising in his throat, like he was about to vomit. He looked at himself in the mirror with abject disbelief and inconsolate rage. What the fuck is wrong with you? he sneered silently at his reflection. A pretty girl shows some interest in you and you're ready to throw your marriage away? What happened to 'til death do you part,' fuckface? Scumbag! Asshole!

Packer balled his hand up into a fist, fully intending to bury his hand in the mirror and destroy said fist in the process, but then a couple of guys burst into the bathroom, howling with laughter. "Man, vodka goes right through me!" the first guy shouted. "Hey, Mister Packer! What's going on, buddy?! Pretty cool party, huh?"

Packer shook his head, trying desperately to get his shit together. His fist was so tightly clenched that he felt blood running under his fingernails. Finally, he answered, "Pretty cool, fellas. Think I hit the tequila a bit too hard, though."

The second guy said, "You alright, man? You gotta yak?"

Packer held up his hand--his other hand. "I'm good. Just need to cool off, you know? See you out on the dance floor." He pushed past them, out the door--and nearly bowled someone over. A woman. But not Kaley.

"Mister Packer?" The woman was short, a shade stocky, and middle aged. She was wearing some kind of business suit. "I'm Gail Underhill. I'm one of the 'den mothers,' as we're known to the island at large."

"Uh, pleasure to meet you, Ms. Underhill," Packer shook her hand distractedly. "Listen, I have to g--"

"Please, call me Gail. I really need to speak with you. Let's have a seat." She gestured to an empty table and Packer, too disoriented to argue, obeyed.

"Now, let me explain how our little cloister works," Gail said. "We den mothers have assumed responsibility for our girls in all matters. We protect them from physical and emotional harm. We shelter women who wish to end their association with their current mates, be it because of abuse or simple dislike, or any other reason. If one of our girls is interested in a man, we vet him. As much as we can prevent it, there will be no coercive relationships on this island, nor will any woman be threatened by the severe gender imbalance. Since we hold a virtual monopoly of the island's woman, we are quite powerful and the Council will accede to essentially any demand we make.

"You may be asking yourself what all this has to do with you." Gail pointed across the reception hall. "Kaley there," she said, "had taken quite an interest in you. You may not remember, but she was among those of us who watched you install our gasifier, and she was impressed. At the last council meeting, when she heard you were speaking, she made it a point sit as close to you as she could. She was again most impressed by your speech and your bearing. We all were.

"Under normal circumstances, with her decision confirmed, you would've been approached by one of our agents, and we would've arranged an interview between you and myself, and perhaps one or two other den mothers. If we found nothing objectionable about you during that interview, you would've been permitted to visit Kaley at our hotel...under supervision, at first, of course.

"Your proposal for the party, however, threw a monkey-wrench into our normal plans. Some of us went to the Council and arranged for this," she gestured around them, "whereby a group of men would be invited for the purpose of giving our girls at least a bit of contact with the outside world and, more importantly, men. The only men they normally see are the guards, and they've been instructed not to talk with their wards. So have the girls been told by us. Anyway, each girl got to choose a single man to invite. Kaley chose you.

"I am many things to these girls, Mister Packer. I am their protector. I am their friend. I am their advocate. I am their confidant. In my view, their happiness and safety is paramount and trumps all other considerations. Kaley has spoken to me very frankly about you, and it is my opinion that she's very taken with you. As such, I have taken the initiative to speak here with you tonight. I've watched you two interact, and my initial view of you is favorable. With that in mind, I've decided to conduct an informal interview with you here, right now. There will, of course, be a formal one later, as needed, but I think we can clear the majority of the hurdles tonight. Before we begin, do you have any questions?"

Packer shifted in his seat. He felt weak and shaky, and he guessed he looked pale as a ghost. He pointed to her left hand. "How long have you been married, Gail?"

She glanced down at her wedding band. "Twenty-four years," she said. "At least, until seven weeks ago."

Wordlessly, Packer dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out his band, and its sharp, angular surface gleamed. "I don't wear it anymore," he said, "mainly because it's tungsten carbide, and if I break my ring finger at work, they'll have to cut my finger off to get the ring off. But because I don't wear it doesn't mean I don't keep it with me. It doesn't mean it's no longer important to me. Do you understand my meaning, Gail?"

"I think I do, Mister Packer." Gail folded her hands and he pocketed his ring. "I would like you to elaborate a bit, though. I can assure you that what you say will remain in confidence."

Packer thought a for a moment, then began: "I'm a faithful husband. Before I was a faithful husband, I was a faithful fiancée, and a faithful boyfriend. Now, I have only been married for three years and change, but I'm not over it yet. In my head, that is. Most of the time, I don't think about it, but when I do, I think of myself as still married. I took vows to remain faithful to my wife. How can I reconcile those with a new relationship, when I still think those rules are in force? The answer is simple: I can't. I can't." He hung his head miserably, having to fight a growing lump in his throat.

Gail was silent for a moment. "I see, Mister Packer. Well, I could try to explain this to Kaley, but I'm not sure she'll understand. Forgive me if I seem insensitive, but I don't really care about your happiness. It is her I am concerned about, and if you reject her for any reason, it is my opinion she'll be devastated."

Packer looked up, frowning. "Protect her, then. Lie, if you have to. Surely, you have reasons for disqualification that can't be attributed to my refusal, right?"

Gail nodded. "Several. Venereal diseases and HIV, for example. Congenital birth defects. Family history of certain cancers or other diseases. Infertility. Any of those apply to you?"

Packer shook his head momentarily, then said, "Closest one is infertility. My wife and I planned on never having kids, and we were saving up money for me to get a vasectomy. And yes, we found a doctor who was willing to perform it. I had half a dozen consults with him, explaining my ethical and philosophical problems with reproduction. Took a lot of convincing, but he agreed."

Gail was quiet for a moment. "That'll work. Regrettably, I have extracted from you during this interview the following: you had a vasectomy six months ago, and are thus permanently sterile. I should warn you, Mister Packer, that this will disqualify you permanently. Once I tell Kaley, the other girls will know. Even if other girls are interested in you, and you...overcome your current disposition, you will be known as infertile and thus ineligible. And given the paramount need of all couples to be able to reproduce, I doubt you'll ever reach a point when a mate is available to you. Are you alright with that?"

Packer was silent, looking across the dance floor. He spotted Kaley's hightops amongst a crowd of people, then a slice of her hair in a gap between two other people's shoulders. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recapture the wild joy he'd been immersed in just a handful of minutes ago. But all he could picture, all his senses would relay to him, was his wife. His heart felt like bursting. He suddenly missed his wife more than ever; it was not a question of if the tears would come, but when.

"Yeah," he said finally, eyes still closed. "I am. Kaley's a great girl, and she doesn't deserve to have her heart broken by me just because I'm fucked in the head right now." He opened his eyes. "And, as for the future, well...actions have consequences, don't they?"

"Indeed, Mister Packer. For what it's worth, I'm sorry things can't work out for you. You seem like a good man. Kaley could've been quite happy with you, and you with her." She rose. "Good luck, Mister Packer."

"Thanks." He watched her depart, heading back towards the crowd where Kaley was. Packer stood, suddenly. He didn't want to see her be told. Quickly, he walked over to the table where his coat was. He slid into it quickly, snatched his flask, and was to the door in just a few seconds. It wasn't fast enough, though. As his hand touched the wooden door, he heard, over the shouting and joking and music, a distinct, pure, heartbreaking sob.

Day 212, Dawn, Cape Cod

"Packer?" Duniik crouched slightly to peer into Packer's hut. "We hunt now?"

Packer stretched, hanging his feet off his bed. "Soon, Duniik," Packer replied groggily. "I am just awake. Please come in." Immersion was truly the best way to learn a language. Also, needing to learn it helped.

After spending a few more days in the quarantine hut, Packer was escorted down to the main village and paraded around a bit like the sight he was. He was just happy that the place didn't smell like feces. When he was brought before the elders of the village, he was made to participate in a ritual which, he later learned, established him as an honored friend--not quite in the tribe, but still a great leap better than being an official stranger. Also, the elder who performed the ritual was Duniik and Nara's father, confirming the familial relationship between the two. There was a small, abandoned hut at the periphery of the village, Packer was given this as his home.

So, with all his stuff now back in his possession, he had to find a way to start getting in everyone's good graces. He wasn't outright avoided, but everyone knew they couldn't understand him and vice versa, so he suspected he was the butt of more than a few jokes. Learning the language was of prime importance, so he spent most days following Duniik around, simply repeating whatever he said and mimicking whatever gestures he made. Duniik quickly learned his purpose, so he offered to teach Packer.

The language was surprisingly elegant. The spoken component was very simple, but with a few well-placed gestures, one could generate quite complex ideas. Packer learned that they used hand gestures to signify all modal verbs, for example. The spoken part of "I go to the beach" and "I will go to the beach," was nearly identical. To modify tense, one inserted a modal place-holder, kas. Then, when speaking that placeholder, pushing one's hand up signified that the tense was now in the future. To say "I can go to the beach," the phrasing was exactly the same, but the gesture changed. Instead of pushing one's hand up, you rolled the wrist in place clockwise, palm facing your body. It was similar for prepositions. One modified the generic preposition, bo, with hand gestures.

Packer was already bilingual, having studied German extensively in college, and he thought that helped him learn here. It took about a week before he could construct simple sentences, and two more before he was able to use gesture in a way that others understood him. As for he understanding them, he generally got about sixty percent of what was said around him. He understood nearly everything spoken directly to him, because everyone knew to keep it simple.

The other strangeness of the language was how overloaded with meaning simple words were; no clearer was this example than with Duniik's name. It consisted of two words: iik meant person, which was simple enough, but dun, transliterated, meant way. There was so much more behind that idea, though. The Way, as Packer understood it, was their religious and secular code of behavior that was the ideal. It governed almost all actions. For most activities, one could ask himself: Do I follow The Way in doing this?

So, Duniik's name took a massively complex meaning that could be distilled to the following: Person who acts, thinks, and upholds the ideal traditions and beliefs of the tribe, as described by The Way. Packer was no linguist, so he couldn't tell if this was an anomalous way to go about building up a language, but it had a certain elegance to it. Common complicated ideas and thoughts could be spoken in a few easy syllables, and Packer needed all the help he could get.

Other than becoming friends with Duniik, Packer spent his time working on carpentry. He had a metal hatchet, knife, and multitool, so he was able to construct things that were light-years beyond what they were capable of, even if he didn't have nails. He had worked with metal mainly, these last six months, but basic woodwork was within his range of experience, as well. Most often, through, he found himself wishing for a saw with a blade longer than three inches.

Still, he began by constructing simple stools for people, giving them as gifts to the elders...which they actually enjoyed. At the same time, he built his bed; sleeping on the ground was not doing wonders for his back. At four feet by six feet, it took up perhaps thirty percent of the room in his hut, but he could stow stuff underneath it, so he really wound up gaining space.

Duniik now stood in Packer's hut, eyeing him expectantly. Most people in the tribe fished year-round. Duniik, however, came from a long line of proud hunters, so he spent most days traipsing through the woods. Packer learned from him that women sometimes joined in the hunt, too, and that his sister, Nara, was no slouch herself. Packer guessed that was probably why they got captured by those other natives: they'd been out hunting and strayed into their territory.

The main reason Duniik always wanted Packer to hunt with him is that it massively improved his success rate. Packer had his crossbow to offer, which made killing anything but a bear a sure thing. Packer couldn't track an animal to save his life, but Duniik's skills were honed by a lifetime of practice. He brought them to their quarry, and Packer shot it dead.

Some days the hunt had ended before it properly began. Just a few weeks ago, a deer had edged into the fields surrounding the village, to snack on the various beans, berries, and squash growing throughout it. Duniik showed Packer how to inch closer without alarming the deer, and Packer hit it through the neck at more than seventy yards--by far his best shot to date. That detailed the other key advantage of the crossbow: one didn't need to close to throwing distance to make a kill.

At any rate, they found the deer a hundred yards away from where it had been shot, nearly exsanguinated. Duniik and Packer carried it back to the village, and then they had the whole day to do whatever the hell they pleased. As Packer recalled, he worked on finishing his bed, and Duniik resumed courting some girl; Duniik was about twenty, and the age of marriage was fast approaching, he told Packer.

Packer pulled on his T-shirt and his boots, having worn his jeans to bed, yawning hugely again. It was around the first of June, and there were over fifteen hours of daylight. Everyone in the tribe seemed to match their sleep pattern to the length of day, dropping off to sleep an hour or two after sunset, but Packer was still counting time the mechanical way, and so, he found it difficult to wake up at dawn, which was before five AM, as the clock in his head went.

Packer reached under his bed and pulled out the crossbow and his knife. Attaching the latter to his belt, he then selected three bolts from his remaining seven. He was going to have to try his hand at fletching, soon--back on Nantucket he'd taken a class offered by some kid on bowmaking and fletching, but it assumed some modern contrivances that Packer didn't have on Cape Cod. He would have to adapt the technique, but all in due time.

Packer looked at Duniik. "Where we go today?" he asked.

Duniik thought about for a moment. "East," he said finally. "Something something many days something have been there. Good hunting, I hear."

Packer nodded, but stopped himself after a single motion. Multiple nods of the head meant something entirely different than a single nod. The latter meant 'yes,' but the former seemed to be a rather childish insult, a demand of the other person to fellate you. It was not a serious insult, but Packer still winced at the memory of learning the distinction the hard way.

The two stepped out into the fresh morning, and Packer felt and invigorating rush overtake him. Spring was slipping towards summer rapidly, and the days were trending warm. Packer didn't think it'd get too hot come July, but after the Long Winter, he was perfectly alright with a little sweating now and then.

Duniik hefted a gourd he'd left outside the hut and passed it to Packer. He chugged the water heartily. If this water was carrying any sort of parasites, his gut was apparently up to the challenge. So far, he'd been okay.

"You need to shit?" Duniik asked. Actually, Packer wasn't sure if it was a vulgar term; there seemed to be only one word for moving one's bowels, and it covered all contexts. Packer's sense of humor having never matured from that of a five year-old's when it came to toilet humor, he translated the word as 'shit,' simply because he found it funny.

"No, I will be fine for the hunt," Packer replied. One could simply urinate wherever he pleased, though most people didn't do it in the village proper or the streams. Defecation, however, could only take place at the community latrine. Packer was pleased to discover that the latrine was both well away from the village and their sources of drinking water. It was a simple, ash-lined pit. When one was finished, there were more ashes available for spreading on top of your feces, and this kept the flies down. It was about as sophisticated as these people could manage, and Packer could only imagine how many lives this basic hygiene practice had saved.

Packer passed Duniik back the gourd, and he slung it over his shoulder with a strap. He hefted his spear and hatchet, put a stone knife into a sheath sewn into his breeches, and slapped Packer on the shoulder, chucking his head to the east with a grin.

Packer grinned back. If this was to be his life--for the time being, anyway--he was perfectly fine with that. He thought less and less about Nantucket, and all its trappings. He would probably have to reach some kind of decision about what to do and where to go when winter approached, but that was many, many months away. For now, there was hunting to be done, more of the native language and culture to learn, and woodworking to fill Packer's days. So, together with his friend, he struck out across the fields in search of prey.

---

"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation." -Herbert Spencer

"Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain." - Schiller, Die Jungfrau von Orleans, III vi.

Editor's Note: This takes place on day 100, post-arrival . . .
Birdcage

Click!

Click! Click!

Click-click-click! Click!

That's the distinctive sound of a gun hammer impacting the frame of a .38 revolver being dry-fired. A lot of .38 revolvers. I cast my gaze down all the people in this little hotel conference room, their faces scrunched up with concentration. Each one of 'em trying their hardest to hold a correct Weaver stance. Every last one of 'em was a woman.

"Take your time," one of our other guys said. "Smooth and steady's the key. I don't want to see a single front sight bobbing."

"Don't lean back," I said, stepping up to one of the ladies. "You want to lean forward so you're firmly grounded when you shoot." I made very sure to keep a respectful distance, yet still, I felt wary eyes on me. At the back of the room two of the "den mothers" watched us guys, while we trained their girls how to shoot. Some of us should've been happier. We got to go into the womens' inner sanctum, and see a sight most of the general population wouldn't see again for a very long time.

On the other hand, the Old Man's words had been burned into our heads:

"There will be no fraternization with the women. They have been instructed not to speak with you, and I expect you to return the favor. If I hear that any of you were trying to take liberties, or take advantage of your position: I will personally have your balls fed to you on a silver platter."

He paused, and let his warning sink in. And then, he cleared his throat.

"The Council does not want to give the general population the impression that they are playing favorites."

That was us. Surrounded by the only modern women on Earth, but unable to do a goddamned thing about it. People had raised a stink those first few weeks, when some in the Night Watch were using their positions to buy the favor of the ladies; and were using that same power to move the competition out of the way. We lost two people that way. Passions had gotten inflamed, and they'd let their cocks do their thinking for 'em. Unfortunately, one of 'em made the fatal mistake of bringin' a knife to a gunfight. The Council came down on the winner like the proverbial ton of bricks. Instead of winning the heart of a lady, he won an all-expenses-paid trip to Muskeget Island. In the dead of winter. He was sentenced to a week out there . . . but he didn't make it. When we went out to find him . . . all we found was a frozen corpse.

So the rules were simple. If you wanted to settle down, you left the Watch. If you didn't, you kept it in your pants. So, here we were, guardians . . . gaolers. There were but a couple hundred women on an island populated by three-thousand lonely young men. More than a few of those men would find release in the beds of their fellow men. The folks who weren't gay to begin with were naturally bisexual to some degree. But there were an awful lot of guys who weren't as bisexual as their fellow man; and were too goddamned young and stupid for their own good. And there were enough of 'em around that it was safer to keep the women all contained in one place.

But there was an uglier truth to it. A truth that I don't think more than one in fifty of us knows. The womens' confinement was just as much for the community's safety as it was for theirs. I pried it out of a couple of folks with my old friends Jack Daniels and Sam Colt. No . . . no . . . No threatening was going on. More like "take a biologist out shooting and/or drinking." The ugly truth was that we were facing a demographic catastrophe. Too many men, and not enough women. Without some Bronze Age hotties in the gene pool, that pool was doomed to dry up; and the only mark we'd make on history would be to confuse the hell out of some future archaeologist.

That was something to worry about once we got through the winter. And, I'll tell you, it wasn't a sure thing. It's bad enough that the winter season tends to bring out the worst in people. That it makes 'em antsy and prone to depression. It's worse when a man has a real reason to be depressed, little support to keep him going, and nothing stopping him from acting out the very worst in him. There wasn't much to do, except send people out to cut down trees or break up houses for the gasifiers. The more skilled wound up maintaining greenhouses . . . training for the spring to come. Those who hadn't withdrawn into their own personal hells were testy and argumentative. More than a few folks ended up cooling their heels in jail with a lump on their heads for their troubles.

Hence our interaction with the ladies. Anyone who's ever kept any sort of caged bird brighter than a canary knows that you've got to keep the birds from getting bored. So the Council was sending people in to teach the ladies what they knew. Partly to keep them from going crazy from their isolation. Partly because the heads of those ladies was the safest place to keep our collective knowledge. For some, it was to allow the den mothers to vet 'em. But not us.

I looked over at one of the other guys, picking up the percussion-cap pistol that was sitting on my table. He smiled, and then nodded. It was time to see how much the ladies had learned.

"Okay," I said, raising my voice. "Cease fire!" I waited until I was sure all eyes were on me. "We're going to try something. I want every one of you to cock your hammers, but don't pull your triggers till I tell you! We're going to see how well this practice has worn off on you. Are you all ready?"

I saw heads nodding. The den mothers glared at me. They knew what was coming next.

"Alright, everyone, ready!" I smiled. All eyes went forward, and all the revolvers came out. None of the girls had their eyes on me. I drew the pistol's hammer to half-cock, and quietly slipped a percussion cap over the nipple.

"Aim!" I drew the hammer back to full-cock.

"Fire!"

Crack!

In the confines of the conference room, that tiny percussion cap was loud enough to set ears ringing. Pride swelled within me as I saw that more than a few of the girls didn't flinch at the sound. But others, I saw flinching. I saw jumping. A couple squealed in surprise. I looked at my fellow guards. We'd laugh about this later. But, for now, it was back to the business.

"We're going to do this again," I said. "Sometimes, I'll have this go off. Sometimes it won't. But we're going to get it so that none of you flinch."

Like it always did on the days the boys and I did this, the training ended when I'd gone through the five percussion caps I'd brought with me. It struck part of me as odd that, when boiled down to the essentials, we were teaching our prisoners how to fight back against their jailers. Not that they really wanted to escape. After all, they held a unique, and privileged, position in our evolving society.

I buttoned up my coat and donned my hat. The rest of the boys would handle carting the hardware back to the watchhouse down at what had been the Tuckernuck Inn. As for me, I'd be making the rounds; which consisted of a mile-long foot patrol to the hospital. The Watch had secured a number of houses around town for itself. Gone were the days of riding around in pickups like some third-world militia. The fuel was too precious to squander on motor vehicles; and the parts that made those vehicles go were much too useful elsewhere to waste on personal transportation. Save for the long patrols on bicycle, all patrols were conducted on foot.

I stepped outside into the winter night. Orion was already high in an eastern sky ablaze with stars. It was the sort of night sky that was unknown to all but a select few of us modern folks. The only things to interrupt the expanse of starlit sky were the starkly nude branches of trees. It was just about possible to make your way around by starlight alone, but my fellow watchmen were too jumpy for that to be a good idea.

I adjusted the six-gun at my side and turned on the flashlight. It was one of those long-life LED jobs. Just like almost every other flashlight the Watch carried. I took up a leisurely pace. Mine was the only artificial light that I could see. I was surrounded by empty, dark houses. Inert light posts stretched up into the night sky, slender black shapes reminding me of what had been here before. Few of us were superstitious enough to believe in nonsense like ghosts, but, we were in a ghost town just the same. I wonder what happened to the folks who used to be here. Did they all wake up on a barren island back in the future with just the clothes on their backs? Or did whatever send us here sweep them all screaming into the void?

I shuddered and tried to think of something else. But what was there to think about? All the inventive ways folks were coming up with to die around here? Some people were simply too cussedly proud for their own good. A few had hurt themselves, managed to somehow hide how bad it really was, and then up and died because, when they finally gave in and sought help, they were too far gone to make it worth spending our limited supply of antibiotics to save them. There were a couple of hunting accidents. Some got carried away lumber-jacking and had been crushed to death by trees or houses. Offhand, I knew of a couple of drownings, and a number of people who'd accidentally killed themselves from carbon monoxide poisoning when the first really cold nights had hit. On that same note, a couple had perished in fires. There were at least three people, having less woodland knowledge than they thought they did, that I witnessed dying of mushroom poisoning. There were some really nasty cases of food poisoning when some of the food that had come back in time with us had started to spoil.

But all too often, people were dying because the horror of the situation had finally sunk in and they couldn't cope anymore. Since the Council had locked up most of the booze heavier than wine, and all the drugs more potent than caffeine; people didn't have as much opportunity to go out of this life drunk or overdosed as they used to. Some had settled for going out of this life froze-to-death instead. Some used pointy or sharp things instead. Others found their release at the end of a noose, or off the edge of something high. A couple had disappeared on hunting expeditions, or just plain disappeared.

As I turned the street corner, I shook my head. Happy thoughts, man. Happy thoughts. The air here is crisp and clean. Crisper and cleaner than any of us had ever experienced in our lives. Those who were persevering were starting to develop physiques they'd have never developed back in the future. Fat was melting away, bodies were gaining definition. The food that we were starting to acquire for ourselves was far more healthful than much of what had come back with us. The better-tended greenhouses were starting to bear vegetables and herbs . . . a welcome side-dish to cod, venison, bunnies, and squirrels.

And there was the Sausage Fest. That had been a huge success. Even though some of us got less enjoyment out of it than some others . . .

Forty-eight days ago:

The music was playing and the bodies were moving. Happy people with full bellies. Happy people who were happy because they didn't have to dig ditches or latrines under the watchful eye of some humorless SOB with a shotgun. Happy people who happy with intoxication, since the Council had opened the booze taps, and people had brought the best of their own private stashes with 'em. Happy people who were simply happy to still be alive.

Me? I was leanin' up against one of the columns. A metal-bodied flashlight in my hand, a can of pepper spray on my belt, and a nightstick at my side. To tell you the truth, I simply ain't much for dancing or partying. Don't get me wrong, I like the ambiance, it's just that I'm no good at parties. So I was on duty. There were a couple of fellas like me, and a couple of fellas who drew the short straw and weren't good enough horse-traders to have gotten out of it.

"How are you holding up?" Someone said. I turned and saw the Old Man standing in front of me. He'd found a suit that fit him.

"Just dandy, sir," I replied, tipping my hat to him.

"Good. Just because you're on duty doesn't mean that you can't enjoy yourself."

"Quite true, sir."

The Old Man nodded and smiled. Then he leaned a little closer. "One more thing."

I pursed my lips and nodded.

"I know that some of you refer to me as 'the Old Man.' Don't do that here, tonight."

"Uhh, yes, sir," I managed to squeak out.

"I'm not Commander Adama, and I don't look like EJO. This job makes me feel old enough as it is. Do you understand?"

"Uhh, yes sir," I replied, swallowing. And then I saw the Old Man do something that I never really thought I'd see him do. He grinned at me.

"Good," he said, as he turned away.

Feeling a bit unnerved, I wished I had a hip flask like some of the people here tonight. I shook it off, as best I could, and scanned the crowd. I saw suits among the crowd, and a couple sitting up at the head table. They were the Council, The folks who were either the Saviors of Nantucket, or the orneriest goddamned sons of bitches that ever walked the Earth. As someone who'd been on the Watch since the beginning, I knew them a bit better than most people.

There were some who were on the Council because they really belonged there. They'd taken charge in that first week and had made all the right calls. Others had been military, or ex-military, back in the future. Some were bean-counters, or den mothers, or were the leaders of the groups with valuable skills. They knew where everything was, or what we could do. A couple were on the Council simply because board tradition, such as it was, wouldn't have had it any other way.

On the other hand: Some were there because the Dilbert Principle had dictated that the Council was the safest place for them. And some were there because they were Personalities, and won the arguments that counted. And some . . . well, between you, me, and the trees; they were grade-A assholes who were there because they knew where all the bodies were buried and had the balls and skill to exploit that knowledge to the fullest.

What they all had in common was that they were hard, ruthless people. They had to be, to have kept this herd of cats from destroying itself the first month we were here. They had to be, to make the tough calls that had to be made. And I respect each and every one of 'em for that. I'm just a gun-for-hire, I don't want that kind of job. But I will say that I think some of 'em wanted that job too much. Some wanted to hold onto that job because they felt nobody else was qualified to do it. Others felt it was their top-priority to ensure that they stayed in power simply for its own sake.

One of 'em was making his way over to me now.

"Yo, Cowboy," he said. His grin was almost convincing. I nodded to him, and tipped my hat.

"At your service, sir," I replied, pushing myself off the column.

"Hell of a party we've got going here, don't we?"

"You could say that," I replied, noncommittally. He'd been one of those who'd been upstaged by Packer, and I saw the hidden barb in his question.

"Have I ever told you that this was my idea?"

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Good," he said. "Where does that goddamned asshole Packer get off? Just because those goddamned gasifiers of his gave him a little weight to throw around, he suddenly thinks he's someone important."

Well, as the semi-official head of the island's machinists, he actually would've been entitled to a seat on the Council. It's just that with Mike and the so-called Wookie Twins already on the Council; guys like the clown in front of me had been able to justify not offering him a seat. And if it weren't for the gasifiers, we'd have been full-on Stone Age come spring. None of this made it to my expression.

"I can't really say, sir."

He nodded. My answer had no substance. When dealing with sharks, the first rule was to not offer 'em anything to bite on. Fortunately, for me, there was already someone else's blood in the water.

"Look at him," he said. I leaned forward a bit, and there was Packer. For a split second I felt a pang of jealousy. There was a very lovely lady he was chatting with. The expression must've made it to my face, because it seemed to have given the political shark fuel for his tirade. "You'd think that asshole would've taken the trouble to find something nice to wear; since he had to go and push the idea to everyone before the time was right. Except there he is, looking like some fucking goth or punk, trying to get in that poor girl's pants."

Well, to be fair, it looked to me like the feeling was mutual. I grunted. It would've been a career-limiting move to point out to the shark that tonight's event was meant to be a casual party where we castaways in time could relax and forget our troubles.

As the two were about to kiss, suddenly things skidded to a halt. I heard that "clunk" from clear across the room. Packer took off for the head, leaving the girl staring at him. At their table in the back of the room, I saw one of the den mothers excuse herself.

"That's right," the shark said. "At least someone is putting that asshole in his place."

Again, to be fair, it looked like Packer was the one who bolted. But I said nothing, and mentally begged Haruhi and Q to go inflict their boredom on someone else. Like magic, it seemed, my prayers were heard.

"Councilor," I heard the Old Man growl. It was an affable sort of growl; like the kind a tomcat would make while trying to decide if he had enough room in his belly for one more field-mouse. The Old Man was on the Council as well, and his position was unassailable. The shark's sour mood vanished, like early morning mist, and he slipped back into full political mode. I saw the Old Man nod, ever so slightly, at me as he lead the shark away. I didn't catch whatever it was they were talking about, as I noticed the den mother intercept Packer as he left the head. They both headed for a corner table, where I couldn't see 'em.

I leaned back up against that column and crossed my arms over my chest. People were behaving themselves, remarkably enough. The radio clipped to my belt squawked, and I listened as some of the other boys had picked up a couple of folks who'd had enough to drink. They'd be sent outside to sober up and shape up, before they'd get the chance to turn the Sausage Fest into an Old West barfight.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the den mother emerge into my line of sight once more. I caught the expression on her face . . . it was stony and humorless. I wondered what went on between her and Packer. I filed it away as I saw her go up to the pretty young lady Packer had been chatting with earlier. She lead her off to the side, and it looked like words were exchanged. Unhappy ones, if I were any judge of people. The young lady staggered off, like she'd been hit by a bolt of lightning. She sat down at one of the Ladies' Tables and was, at once, surrounded by three other girls. Don't know what happened to Packer . . . he must've slipped out, 'cause I never saw him again that night.

The music kept playing, and the party kept going. The incident slipped from the front of my mind. It wasn't any of my business, after all. I later had to strong-arm someone who decided that Jose Cuervo had granted him a charisma bonus with the ladies. He couldn't have known that many of the seemingly-available young women already had their eye on someone for weeks before the Sausage Fest. He got argumentative, but a nightstick to the gut and some not-so-gentle persuasion from Paul, my fellow watchman, put a swift end to it.

When I got back inside, I passed by the shark. Fortunately for me, he was chatting with one of the young ladies. I eyed them both. It looked like friendly, casual chatter, and I thought nothing of it. He wasn't hitting on her . . . even someone on the Council wasn't immune from the wrath of the den mothers. A thought occurred to me as I made my way back to my post. I scanned the crowd. It seemed a bit thinner than before, as people were starting to have their fill of fun and good times. But, for the life of me, I couldn't find that young lady that Packer had been with earlier in the night. I shrugged it off again. These sort of things happen, you know? A guy and a girl try to hit it off and click, but end up clunking instead. I know that the community's going to great effort to minimize that, since one of the ladies pulling off a Juliet would've been a real disaster.

The Malevolent Powers got bored again. At that moment, I saw a suit making his way towards me. It was the shark from earlier, and there was something about his expression that immediately had me wishing for my six-gun, and maybe a truck-full of backup armed with Bushmasters. No, he didn't look upset. Oh no, not at all. He looked like he was happier than a pig in slop. No, that's not quite the right simile . . . He looked like the shark that he was, and he'd just happened upon the world's biggest, fattest seal . . . and that seal had just suffered a massive heart attack and wasn't going to get away.

"Hell of a party we've got going on tonight," he said. This time, there was no resentful barb hiding behind that statement. This time, he meant it.

"Yes sir," I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing at all," he said. "I just wanted to let you Watchmen know what a bang-up job you're doing tonight, keeping the peace."

"Thank you, sir," I said, after a few moments of dumbfounded surprise. I suddenly realized there wasn't enough firepower on the island to take the edge off of what I was feeling right then.

"I was wrong about this party," he continued. "Things are looking up already," he added. I watched him head over to spread the discomfort to another one of the boys, and wondered what the hell that was about . . .

Now:

I leaned up against a stop sign and exhaled sharply. My breath glittered in the dim light as I shook off the memories from that night. You know, it took me half a month to find out what that was about? Didn't find out until after I'd drawn guard duty at the womens' sanctuary. And even then, it took coming up with this firearms training gig to find out.

Sure wish I hadn't. The ladies don't talk to the guards, and they don't even talk to us when we're teaching them the finer points of handling a Ruger SP-101. But they talked amongst themselves. The girl that shark had talked to? She just happened to be friends with a gal named Kaley. And she ended up letting it slip to a certain political shark that a certain machinist, already on the Council's shit-list, was eminently expendable.

I squeezed the grip of my old Colt, and shivered. And I'll tell you, it had nothing to do with the cold. Nothing at all.