For two weeks, I followed Naalnish’s route to Boston. After an isolated year in the mountains, curiosity had me stopping several days in larger cities to do some scouting. I wasn’t sure if I’d see factions of dystopian governments under the control of tyrants. Or if there’d just be small clans of men working together, rebuilding and protecting each other. But I didn’t see shit. Wasn’t it human nature for people to stick together and leverage the strength in numbers thing? Perhaps the decreasing ratio of man to aphid was to blame for the lack of organization.
I reached Boston’s harbor at dusk and hid the truck in an empty garage. Then I pulled out my cloak. Made from gray fox hides, the Lakota crafted it to fit my frame and conceal my gear. The hood draped large enough on my head to conceal my face.
Humping enough artillery to satisfy Joel, I picked my way along crumbling sidewalks to the wharf. A welded steel wall of vessels lined the docks, moaning as they rocked against the tide. Only one ship crawled with life.
I watched the activity from the rooftop of an abandoned bait shop. At least twenty crew members loaded crates, greased and tightened mechanical parts and guarded the ramps. These weren’t the typical guards who once patrolled our harbors. These enforcements carried machine guns and reeked of malice.
An hour into my watch, two crew members scuffled on the ramp. They stood toe-to-toe, blades at each other’s throats, shouting. The closest guard turned toward the brawl, raised his gun and shot both of them.
Heart racing, I climbed off the roof and crept across the pier. Smuggling inside a crate before it was loaded would be safer, right? But, as I neared the container yard, I knew it wouldn’t be easier.
Shipping containers stacked three high and five deep in a labyrinth of aisles. A fork lift hauled away crates at random to load on the ship. How the hell would I determine which ones were going? I tugged on the doors of the crates I passed. All locked.
The scuffing of feet crept around the corner, followed by the waft of cigarette smoke. Shit, shit, shit.
I pressed my body between two crates and held my breath.
Still round the corner there may wait,
A new road or a secret gate.
J. R. R. Tolkien
“It’s the fucking sea pirates, man. They’re shutting down the exports—”
A succession of coughs rent the air and thickened the phlegm-caked voice.
“Christ, smoke another one,” a second man said.
The scrape of feet paused at my alcove. My lungs screamed for oxygen.
“I think I will.” A lighter sparked. “Besides, with fucking weather blowing across the Atlantic like it’s been, this’ll be the last ship outta here till summer.”
“What are they exporting now anyway? Last five trips were mostly grain, but there ain’t any farmers left to harvest the stuff.”
“Grain ain’t why these ships are still running, my friend. Weapons are the passport. But if you still want passage to Europe, I’ll get you on. You’ll have to pay your way in sweat.” The man coughed. Their boots crunched on the gravel and began to fade. “Gotta warn you, though. The few passengers crazy enough to travel…” His voice ebbed into the night.
After a long silence, I sneaked back to the Humvee.
For the next week, I watched the sailors ready the ship. Day and night, they shot, stabbed and mutilated trespassers—aphids and men trying to board the ship. At the end of their shifts, they flitted off to a dingy pub, the wharf’s only establishment. The youngest man always split from the ragtag gang and traversed in the opposite direction. That was when my plan hatched. I followed him.
His stroll took us through the seaport’s barren streets, his red Pet Shop Boys T-shirt like a tail light in the gloom. The dilapidated buildings sat empty, ghosts of what was once the center of commerce. He veered off into a grotto and entered a boarded-up retail shop.
In the back, I found a window with an exposed corner. Inside was a bare one room shop with a mattress in the center. Next to the mattress, a meaty, bald man waited.
The Pet Shop Boy I’d followed accepted a firearm from Baldy, examined it and leaned it against the bed with a nod. Then his hands went to his waistband. A couple of tugs and his jeans and briefs fell to his ankles. What the—
Baldy grabbed Pet Shop Boy’s nape and shoved him to his knees on the mattress. Then he freed a revolting purple erection and mounted him.
Something dark and loathsome tunneled its way to my womb. The something that was born in my father’s basement. I raised the carbine, but couldn’t move, my eyes glued to the spectacle. The pounding hips, the fisting of hair, both mouths wide open. I felt it in my thighs as if old bruises had resurfaced.