Page 2

Luke might’ve. He snuck an unauthorized peek into Uncle Henry’s personnel file once just to find a real name; something on a form or document; something addressed to him. He succeeded, but regretted it: the name he found was Uncle Henry. That’s what the guy signed, that’s what the guy used, and that’s who his own mail was addressed to. The IRS called him that, as did the Social Security Administration, not to mention the Publisher’s Clearing House and the Elvira, Mistress of the Dark fan club. Even the White House addressed him that way when it acknowledged his suggestions and turned down his invitations. It left Luke with more questions and nowhere to go for answers. How the hell does Elvira fan club material end up in someone’s personnel file?

"Pirates, maybe? You think?" Luke asked. Kidd and Uncle Henry grunted in unison, and Luke continued, "No one’s on deck. … You think they know we’re here?" Luke returned the binoculars to Kidd. "Anyone think they’re just sleeping below? … No? I don’t, either."

Eleanor (Kidd’s wife) and Sparx -- a former naval radio-intelligence operator and Gulf War vet -- were spying on the brigantine from another part of the Max. They made up the rest of Kidd’s standing, full-time crew. "There might be a couple of people on deck," El called. "We see … two ... two, Sparx? … two … just kind of standing there."

"They aren’t watching us," Sparx added. "They aren’t even facing us."

"Well, they can’t be moving a hell of a lot, either" Luke answered, disappearing below decks and immediately returning with another set of binoculars. "Where are they?" Sparx gave him detailed locations – she never looked the part of a war vet, but when she tapped her military experience she was all business and coolly professional – disconcertingly so, at times. "Yeah.I see them," Luke said when he found them, "You’re right: they aren’t moving … In fact, they’re too still … The things on the Breezae were like that -- they just stood still forever, it seemed, in the same place, not going anywhere … like statues, or Republicans. But look -- what the hell are they wearing? … Costumes? … They look like old-time pirates or …"

"Pirates of the Caribbean," Sparx clarified, now on the bridge.

"No shit," Luke answered. "This isn’t the Bering Sea."

"No," she answered. "I mean Pirates of the Caribbean, the Disney ride. I recognize one of them."

His curiosity more than a little piqued – hammered, actually -- Luke wanted to ask the obvious dozen-or-so follow-up questions, but immediately reconsidered. He knew from experience she was probably right, and that was the important thing. How she knew was unimportant. Her Saturday nights before the Plague couldn’t be any stranger or more tragic than they were now. They were all in the same boat, for that matter, figuratively and literally.

With the mention of Disney, however, the Max’s passengers were showing more interest in the situation. There were half a dozen of them, rescued from the cruise ship Breezae, which had itself become a charnel house of Titanic proportions weeks earlier. The Max had come across the Breezae afterward, drifting aimlessly in the Caribbean currents and trade winds. There were obvious signs of an evacuation, and except for a dozen zombies promenading along the spacious decks, it seemed deserted – a combination of factors adding up to opportunity. All the crew of the Max had to do was wrest it from the zombies and claim it under international maritime salvage laws later, assuming there was a later. It looked like two or three days of work for a profit in the double-digit millions, at least. They knew nothing of the human survivors trapped for weeks below the Breezae’s decks, or of the hundreds of zombies waiting for them only one hatch away, patient but voracious. The Max crew soon found out, however, and became trapped themselves with the other survivors, with no way to call for help. It was like waking up in your coffin and knowing Hell was on the other side of the lid.

For a little less than two days that aged everyone involved a little more than two decades, it was touch-and-go for the most extreme stakes. When they learned they were drifting into Cuban territorial waters, they also learned the Cuban government wanted to sink them as cheaply as possible before the Breezae washed ashore. Forget rescue -- and that’s exactly what they all did. Relying on themselves, the crew of the Max made it out intact, though there were losses among the other survivors. In the end, they were all a safe distance away when the ill-fated Breezae and its ill-fated Latin assassin joined each other in an untimely ill fate. Hundreds died anonymously, and only the Max knew what truly happened to them.

[ Continue to page 3 ]