X-Isle (3 page)

Isaac shambled off amongst the scattered cargo, his massive shoulders rolling from side to side as he walked, his hands dangling from his sides like the paws of a grizzly.

Baz let out a long, long breath as Isaac disappeared into the wheelhouse. He looked at Ray. “You OK?”

Ray said, “Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?” But then he knelt upon the bench seat, leaned over the stern of the boat and threw up, all in one movement. It was very neat, almost graceful, the way he did it. Baz felt his own stomach tighten as he watched, and thought for a moment that he was going to come out in sympathy. But no, it wasn’t going to happen. He reached across and put a hand on Ray’s shoulder, feeling the sharp definition of the bones shivering through the baggy yellow T-shirt. God. He 
was
 skinny, this one.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m scared too. You’ll be all right.”

“I 
am
 all right.” Ray pulled himself back into the boat and wiped his mouth. His face was very white, and his eyes looked teary. “I just get a bit seasick, that’s all. Happens every’ – he took a deep juddering breath – ‘every time. I’m fine now. I’m fine.”

Why did he have to keep pretending he was such a hard nut? The last ten minutes had been terrifying enough to make anyone puke.

“Christ, I really thought he was going to sling us over, though,” said Baz. “You wouldn’t even know which way to try and swim. Can’t see a thing.”

“Yeah, well. You can’t blame him for being mad. He’s just lost about a ton of gear.”

Baz rested his chin on his forearms and looked over the stern of the boat, staring down into the hypnotic swirl of the wake. After a while it seemed as though it was the boat that was standing still and the water that was moving, passing beneath them, foaming and snaking away into the surrounding smog. Awful to think that there was a whole city down there. Most of a city. Office blocks, supermarkets, shopping malls, streets and flyovers. And people. Thousands and thousands of people, all drowned. Baz thought of his mum then, and Lol, his sister – saw them leaving, smiling and waving from the car. Off to go and stay with Auntie Carol for a few days. A holiday. A little break. Back on Sunday. 
Be good!

But the car didn’t come back on Sunday. It drove off down Maple Close, and by Sunday there was no Maple Close for it to ever drive back up again.

A terrible thought exploded inside Baz: maybe his dad had been caught up in the shooting. Accidentally. No – that couldn’t happen. No... no... no. He 
wouldn’t
 think that. Not his dad too. He wouldn’t think it... wouldn’t think it—

“Want some chocolate?”

Ray’s pale hand was extended towards him, shaking. He was holding out a piece of chocolate. Three chunks.

“Wow. Where did you—?” Baz decided not to finish the question. He reached out for the chocolate, and saw that his own hands were shaking as badly as Ray’s. “Thanks.”

The chocolate was half melted and very old, but Baz couldn’t remember when anything had tasted as good. He chewed the first piece quickly – a huge burst of joy that filled his entire being – but then let the second piece melt slowly in his mouth, trying to make it last as long as he could.

“Mum gave it me,” said Ray, munching on his own piece. “In case the cornflakes weren’t enough.”

It was miracle stuff, and it cheered them up.

“They must’ve been nuts, those guys on the raft.” Ray’s eyes widened at the memory of it. “What did they think they were gonna do? Pole-vault aboard?”

Baz laughed. “Yeah. Pole-vaulting pirates.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? About me... you know... being sick?”

“No. Course not.” Why would it matter? Ray was a funny kid. “Tell you what, though, I reckon this smog’s clearing a bit. Look.”

They could see wispy patches of blue above them, just here and there, and the circle of mist had widened, become less dense. The water was choppier now, and the boat bounced across it with a rhythmic smacking sound.

Baz turned to look back at the coastline they had left behind, clearer now that the mists had receded, and was amazed to see that the so-called mainland appeared to be no more than an island itself from this angle. A flat island with broken outcrops to either side. But perhaps beyond that long low ridge lay other ridges, land that stretched southwards for hundreds of miles. Had people survived there too? People who were better off, perhaps? People who still had cars and computers and mobiles... proper beds, proper food... people who would someday come and make everything right again...

No, you shouldn’t think like that, his dad had said. This was global. It had to be, or they would have heard otherwise by now. There were no phones, no planes, no helicopters. There was no electricity and no communication, and nobody was ever going to come to the rescue. Forget it.

Except that you couldn’t forget it. It was like watching the same film over and over again – and maybe that was because it had all started with the TV. A big swirly spiral, white against blue, almost filling the screen. Smaller spirals, breaking away from the main one, dividing, subdividing. They were like slow-motion fireworks, huge Catherine wheels, hiding whatever country lay beneath them. India? His dad had been in the room, drying his mop of hair on a green towel as he stood in front of the TV. Baz had only been mildly interested. Terrible things always seemed to be happening in India, or China, or wherever it was. What could you do?

Words coming out of the TV, serious voices. A man and a woman taking it in turns to read: ‘
...
 
originally known as Hurricane Delilah, continues to grow and to multiply...
 
by far the highest readings ever recorded...
 
now deep concerns over Mumbai and San Salvador...
 
authorities are advising...
 
”

His father had stopped drying his hair. The green towel hung limply in one hand, a corner of it trailing onto the carpet.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“Don’t know, but it doesn’t look good. Not if you happen to be living in Asia, it doesn’t. Or Central America...”

The TV pictures had changed. They weren’t just swirly patterns anymore. Baz watched mobile homes tumbling end over end across a field, trees bending down to touch the ground... and waves – impossible waves engulfing row upon row of beachfront houses. People running, screaming, falling, being swept away. My God... where 
was
 this?

“Dad? That... that couldn’t happen here, could it?”

“What?” His father didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off the screen. “No. No, don’t worry, son. We’re about as far inland as you can get in this country, and a long way above sea level. Nothing like that’s ever going to happen here. Not unless it happens everywhere else first. Come on. Time you were in bed. Go on up and do your teeth, then we’ll phone Mum and say good night.”

“Wonder how long it takes.” Ray’s voice broke in on Baz’s thoughts.

“To get to the island? Dunno. Couple of hours maybe.”

Ray said, “I still can’t believe I’m actually on the boat. I just can’t believe it...”

“I know. It’s...” Baz leaned forward, arms across his chest, hugging himself. “I mean, what d’you think it’s gonna be 
like
 there?”

“Hard work, I reckon. But everybody says it’s great, don’t they? Getting fed every single day. Three times a day, I heard.”

“Hey – that’s what this girl I know said! The one whose cousin was there. She said that Preacher John had built, like, a proper new factory with a canteen, and that you got three meals a day.”

“Well, I bet it’s true. Must be.” Ray paused, and then said, “Why do they call him Preacher John? Did you ever see him?”

Baz nodded in the direction of the wheelhouse. “No, but those guys are his sons. That’s what my dad told me. Preacher John’s the boss. It’s his business – the factory and the salvage and all that. Dunno why they call him Preacher, though.”

“Oh. So the boat’s his too?”

“S’pose so. Have you tried to get a place before?” said Baz. “I have. Twice. First time we had eggs – half a dozen real chicken’s eggs – but some kid had a big tub of cocoa, so that was enough. Second time we had American rice, but got beaten by a goat. A goat! Where do you get a goat from?”

“I never tried before,” said Ray. “Mum said I was too small. She still thinks I’m too small.” He looked at Baz. “I’m thirteen and a bit, though. Your face is a right mess. Blood all over it.”

Baz glanced around the deck area, wondering if there might be a bit of cloth or something that he could use to clean himself up. There was nothing handy that he could see – just empty plastic crates and a few remaining tins. The contents of the tins were written in black marker pen on the lids. 
B/BEANS. I/STEW. P/APPLE.
 That must be somebody’s job in the factory. Marking up the tins. How hard could that be?

“It’ll have to wait,” he said. “Hey, look – is that it?”

The humid smog had faded away completely, and the boat was sailing on open water. There was a horizon now, and smack bang in the middle of that horizon they could see a dark shape, hazy grey, rising from the sea.

“Wow. Yeah, has to be.”

“Wow.”

The dark shape was a long way off, miles to go yet, but that was it all right. Their destination. X-Isle.

CHAPTER
 
TWO

The name was a kind of joke. The tiny island, once part of the posh Tab Hill district, was where Preacher John Eck based his salvage operation. So first it had become known as Eck’s Island, and then X-Isle.

Visibility from the mainland was usually poor – thick steamy mist followed by sudden tropical downpours – and the island was too far away to be seen in any case. The 
Cormorant
was the only boat in the area, and no makeshift raft could cover such a distance. X-Isle was a natural stronghold, safe from invasion.

In the hazy spells between smog and rain, the converted fishing boat would sometimes be spotted roaming the coastline or anchored far out to sea as the divers went about their business. All the underwater world was within the grasp of those four men, the treasure of the city theirs for the picking. The mainlanders could only look jealously on, and wait for whatever scraps might come their way. It was said that Preacher John and his sons had enough food stored on X-Isle to see them through their lifetimes, and the thought of this drove the mainlanders to concoct ever more crazy and desperate schemes to get at it.

Hence today’s attack. Baz breathed in deeply through his open mouth at the memory of those wild faces beyond the porthole, the sudden hammer of gunfire.

And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this – properly filled his lungs. The surrounding water still looked grey and scummy, and the air still reeked of nameless decay, but it was far better than back on the mainland. There you learned to take short shallow breaths, preferably through your nostrils. You tried not to gag, and you hoped not to catch some terrible disease...

“Storm coming.” Ray was looking towards the dark confusion of cloud rising beyond the island. There was no outline to the cloud, no definition, just a blur of grey spanning the horizon. Such storms came and went nearly every day, sudden ferocious downpours that momentarily swamped the land, and then evaporated once more into a steamy haze.

“We might get there first,” said Baz, “if we’re lucky.”

The diesel motor drubbed on and on. Eventually the island was close enough for Baz and Ray to be able to pick out some of its features. They could see a large white building standing on a plateau. Lots of windows. Perhaps this was the factory – although it looked more like an office block or a school. Part of the structure, to the left, had collapsed. The remains of other buildings rose from the surrounding waters, their roofs shattered by the force of the earthquakes, timbers sticking up at crazy angles. And further out into the sea stood a great tangle of stone and iron girders – a square construction, like the battlements of a castle or a church tower. Yes, the top of a church tower, protruding above the choppy waves, all smashed in on one side where some huge metal thing had toppled into it. The metal thing was a crane, Baz realized. He could see the concrete counterweights and the operator’s cabin, an open glass door dangling high above the water.

The boat headed directly for the church tower, keeping a steady line. As they drew close, the engine note changed, throttling back to a slow tickover. Two of the Eck brothers emerged from the cabin – Amos and Luke – to stand one on either side of the boat. They grabbed long wooden poles, obviously a practiced maneuver, and made ready.

Where the twisted metal of the crane had collapsed against the tower, an archway had been formed. Baz and Ray looked upwards in wonder as the boat slowly began to nose its way beneath the rusting girders. The two men pushed with their poles against stone and metal, helping to guide the boat safely through the gap. It was a tight squeeze, and Baz wondered why they didn’t just avoid the whole lot by going around it. Maybe there were other obstructions elsewhere, hidden dangers just below the surface of the water, and this was the quickest and safest way.

Baz leaned over the side of the boat, stretching his arm out horizontally as far as he could. He managed to briefly touch the tower as it passed by, the grey lichen-covered blocks of stone brushing warm against his fingertips. The scale of it all hit him anew. He was as high above the city as a hammerhead crane, as high as a church tower, and the world that he had known lay many meters below the swaying deck of the boat. It made him dizzy to think about it.

Isaac emerged from the cabin doorway, squinting upwards as he checked the sky. His beard looked darker than ever somehow, crow-black against the looming grey of the storm clouds. He glanced at the litter of empty crates and boxes, spat in disgust, and then lumbered round the outside of the cabin to make his way onto the foredeck. Baz and Ray could see the skipper’s raised hand pointing this way and that as he helped guide the boat to shore.

They were almost there. The bulk of the island towered above the fishing boat now, a dark mass beneath the heavy sky, and Baz felt the first drop of rain spatter on the back of his wrist.