Brian's hands burned beneath his gloves, a stinging pain only mitigated by the numb sensation from rope cutting into his circulation as he strained and loosened, pulled and tightened. He taught everyone on the crew how to trim the sail but he still ended up doing it more often than not. Being the only one trained in seamanship was the strongest attribute he brought on board, though sometimes he wished he could be dumb muscle Lenny or Terrance the smart-with-plants guy. They got breaks. When you live on a ship, the guy who knows about ships rarely gets to take much time off. Or, instead of getting a different job on the ship to relax, it would be better not to be on a ship. It would be better to live on land again, near a grocery store and a Denny's, and be a computer programmer instead of 'first mate.' It had only been a little over a year and he was surprised how much code could be forgotten in such a short time. So much had changed and been cast aside since the Crash.
Slack in the sail brought his attention back to salty reality as he reeled in a little tighter on the line, straightening it to catch an easterly wind that was barely blowing. The crusted seawater stiffened and cold air stiffened gloves on the outside but inside the mix of sweat and brine brought another sharp pang of pain. Waves lazily slapping the bow and the smell of seagull shit rushed his thoughts back to now. Thinking of the past was only going to make you want to hide at the bottom of a bottle that isn't there. Being present is what keeps those who are sane remaining that way. Accept and move on. No more buying TV dinners to take back to a TV-less apartment, no more Denny's Grand Slams, no more sharing comic links between cubicles and getting paid for it. All you have is now. Though the mind can't help but wander. At times like that, the best medicine for sickness for the past is loosening an letting a little more slack into the trim, releasing your grip and letting a little more of the salty residue into the bleeding cracks of waterlogged hands beneath bulky black gloves bearly keeping out the cold. Pain, perhaps the most effective way to stay rooted in reality, had taken on a entirely new meaning to the word when used in the world today.
Shit luck. Winds die down, the sail furls and droops. Now creeping along against the current, the next landfall seems to have gotten farther away. Dammit. The crew would be in deep shit should any other roaming ships come across their little operation--the outrunning of a particularly nasty bunch of heathens aboard a 60'-sum had taken every last drop of their diesel reserves. It's common knowledge to have a back-up back-up supply, but this time their jolly roger was jolly well fucked. Though this wouldn't be the first time it seemed as though living would be more up to fate than the decisions of the crew.
"Dammit. Just fuck." Deacon let loose another f-bomb. Fifty-third one today. Brian had been counting.
"Mmhmm." He secured the trimming line and stepped down to the lower deck to join the rest of the crew on the worry bench.
"How long you think it's going to take for the wind to get back this time?" Lenny was shaving. He had to be the only one stupid enough to not let go of old luxuries, not even bothering to notice rust accruing on the blades. Best fighter who gets into the most gore and it'll probably be tetanus or something like that which kills him.
"Reckon… two three hours. It's not the sailing season." You just couldn't shake Terrance. He'd already seen more than enough since the Crash that 'nervous' and 'scared' were a couple of the many emotional wires long since cut. "Best take the time while no one's got particular jobs that need getting done to talk about the next trade. Or raid. 'Sup to the folks on the receiving end which they want."
"This one should be trade. These colder parts, ain't no one got the will to fight much here." Deacon took out his buck knife from the leather holster stashed in his boot, sharpening it. A nervous habit. Probably to get ready for what he knew would turn into a raid, like they all had lately.
"Should I go get Zac from topside?" Brian itched his pocked nose. He could still feel a lingering tingle from where a new scar on his schnoz hadn't completely healed over the scant meat below.
"Nah, let the little psycho in on the trade plan and it's quickly going to become some scheme of how we can take over the town. Dude's obsessed with getting something back under his control." The knife sharpening intensified in strength somewhat noticeably.
"Yeah, guess we need someone staying out on top case a fast boat comes following our wake. But watch it Deacon." Brian shot him a sharp glance from behind the itching of the nose.
"Listen now, Mr. Brian Forbis, seaman extraodinaire, I know you two came on this rig together and you'd seen some shit together before that and all, but that dude, he's just a few more kills from tripping into bloodlust."
"Hmph. If anything he's just acclimated better than most."
"There's getting used to it, and there's getting to like it. Just saying, you know how things work, he goes nuts, and he goes down."
"I know. He knows. Anyway, that's for another time. For now how we gonna get trade started when we make landfall tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Terrance quit picking at something that may have been stuck in his teeth to chime in, though his hand wasn't completely out of his mouth before doing so, so the word slurred. "We'll be lucky to make it by night, and it'll be more likely the next morning."
"Nah, the wind'll be back here soon. Just on a little break but it won't take to long to get back." Brian was now next-to-newest since Terrance came aboard three months ago. It still felt like there was a little competition going on in the pecking order.
"So then how about what if we find a big town, but then go find a smaller town, and hit the smaller town before hitting the big town." With arms crossed Lenny ventured a bold Lenny-plan. Arms crossed meant he was thinking. He didn't cross his arms very often. It didn't matter much when he did. "We could find some extra guys in the trade who maybe got beef against the bigger one, and get them on our side to go raid that place."
"Len, that sounds more like what Zac would try to pull," added Terrance, back at whatever was stuck in his left molars, though still tossing his two cents into the pool. Brian hoped he was running out of that spare change. "Besides if they wanted to attack, they'd have done it already. They don't need a couple pirate yahoos to get them roused enough to sack and pillage."
"But--what if the… how about if the big one--"
"You mean to say, what if your imaginary big city instead wanted to wipe out the little city? And we could get on with the big city to crush the little city in return for some more diesel or something?"
"Hey hey! Now you speaking my language, graduate school college boy!"
"Shut it fatty." The hand come out of his mouth. "Least I got something I bring to the group other than my ability to sponge bullets."
"Fucking shut it you two, now come on." Fifty-four. "We got four tomato plants that look like they are coming up now from Terrance's plant house below deck, that's gotta be enough to get at least a gallon of diesel from a small city or a big city. We don't need to stir nothing up here, not when it's this damn cold. What we really need is--"
"PIRATES! PIRATES! GET THE GUNS, QUICK, THEY GOT A SPEED BOAT AND THEY'RE WITH THE REDS THEY GOT THE REDS FLAG, PIRATES! GUNS! SHIT!" Zac lunged to his bunk for the hunter's scoped .223.
"Seal off the lower deck Brian, stay low until you get the word." Terrance unsnapped his hip holster.
"I know the routine, get up there!" Brian knew Terrance was the smart one, but if anyone had to die in this attack he knew who he'd prefer.
"SHIT GOD DAMN THEY GOT A FUCKIN' ROCKET OR SOMETHING!" Zac was already on deck and firing by the end of his sentence.
"Fuck, just what we needed."
Fifty-five.
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