Overcome with the hopelessness of the situation, Culann drank half the bottle and passed out on the dock.
7
Culann ate a breakfast of beef jerky and Tylenol, which he washed down with half a gallon of water. He then snatched a glass from Alistair’s and went to see how his keg refrigeration system worked. The fog had thickened considerably while he’d slept.
He had a difficult time locating the rope he’d tied to the keg, but when he did, he managed to pour himself a cool beer, which made him feel better. If he could keep his beer cold without power, he thought he just might be able to solve all of his other problems.
With renewed confidence, Culann resumed loading bodies onto the police boat.
He worked hard over the next few hours, stopping only to eat lunch. It took all of his strength and several glasses of beer, but he finally loaded the last body onto the boat as a light rain began to fall.
If he was going to keep the dogs alive, he was going to need rain-catchers. He scoured the island for anything that could hold water. He found three large pots in Alistair’s, several buckets in some of the cabins, a couple of old wash basins, and then he hit the jackpot with a plastic wading pool that had belonged to little Marty. He set these all out in a row out front of Wal-Mart Jr. and hoped it would rain long enough to fill them.
Having taken care of the dogs, for the time being at least, Culann returned to the police boat, which was full nearly to overflowing with dead bodies. Since the island had been powered entirely by generators, he had no trouble locating a can of gasoline. He emptied it over the people he once knew, perhaps the last people he would ever know.
Even with the heavy fog, Culann didn’t want to risk attracting attention from the mainland, so he unmoored the boat and took hold of the bowline. He pulled the boat along the pier until he reached the shore and then he walked slowly along the edge of the water, dragging the boat along with him. The island sloped off pretty quickly, so the water was deep enough that Culann could lead the boat all the way around to the western edge of the island from shore. It was slow going, but much easier than loading all the bodies had been. After an hour, the boat was completely out of the line of sight for anyone who may have been gazing across the water from land. Culann lit a book of matches he’d taken from Alistair’s and tossed it in the boat. Flames spread the length of the boat, and Culann could almost immediately smell the flesh of his friends catch fire. It was like burnt hair, but a thousand times stronger. He took a long pole and shoved the boat away. The wind was coming from the south, so it pushed the boat along the edge of the island. Culann sat on the grass, surrounded by dogs who all stared with him as the blazing boat slipped into the fog and was gone.
Culann fished out of his pocket an already-rolled joint he’d found in Worner’s cabin. He lit it, inhaled and immediately coughed. It had been ten years since he’d last done this. Worner’s place had proved a treasure trove because it also contained two shelves of books. True to his word, Worner had been the most well-read man in Pyrite.
Amidst volumes on horticulture, government conspiracies of various stripes, and the occult origins of the Third Reich, Culann had found a pocket-edition of Robinson Crusoe, which he now read on the dock, leaning against a couple of dogs who served as a backrest. Alphonse curled up next to him.
He took four or five hits and found himself very stoned. Maybe it was because he was out of practice or perhaps Worner had managed to engineer a particularly potent strain of cannabis. Culann laid the book down on his lap and took in his surroundings.
The drizzling rain was cool against his skin, and the fog seemed to thicken by the minute.
Between the fog and the dogs enveloping him, Culann imagined himself in the bosom of a great fluffy cloud. He pushed thoughts of death from his mind and concentrated on the utter tranquility of the now-deserted island.
He thought he saw an orange light off in the distance. Then it disappeared. He squinted his eyes and saw it again, a little larger this time. It seemed to be moving towards him. It flickered ever so slightly as it approached. Culann remembered fairy tales his Irish grandmother had told him about the will-o’-the-wisp that led disobedient little boys off into the darkness. As the light loomed larger, he heard the sound of oars in the water. Someone was coming.
I’ve never been very religious. As a good Irish boy, I went through all of the standard Catholic rituals, first out of fear of damnation and then just to keep my mom happy. Then I stopped trying to keep my mom happy. To avoid a conflict, I made a point to never be at my parents’ house in the morning of a day when church attendance was expected. That way my mom could plausibly assume I’d already gone. I’m sure she suspected the truth, but was kind enough not to force me to choose between lying to her and disappointing her.
Recent events, I suppose, should have tried my faith, if I’d had any. Or maybe they should have driven me back to God. No atheists in foxholes and all that. But I’m not really an atheist. That would require making a decision and taking a stand. I’m just a guy that would rather sleep in on Sundays.
Worner’s crazy books on Nazi witchcraft and four-legged saints have nudged me to consider the spiritual side of life anew. After what I’ve seen in the last few weeks, it’s hard to be skeptical of anything. Virtually everything I once believed about the world has been proven false. Maybe I can uncover a deeper truth, even if there’s no one for me to share it with.
8
Culann stood as the boat pulled into view. The dogs surrounding him whined nervously. He still considered the possibility that this was all a drug-induced hallucination, but it certainly seemed real enough. An eighteen-foot canoe cut through the fog. A lantern dangled from a pole at the bow. Just behind the lantern, a figure paddled off the port side. Another figure stood astride the middle of the canoe, pointing towards the shore. At the stern sat a third figure who paddled off the starboard side. As the canoe approached, the two paddlers pulled in their oars and allowed the boat to glide over to Culann.
“You?” said the standing figure in a hauntingly-familiar voice.
“Oh, shit.”
The Captain hopped up onto the dock in one step. The canoe barely rocked. His companions stumbled after him with considerably less grace. As the Captain approached, the dogs slunk away, leaving Culann to face him alone. The Captain wore his usual bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses. He was accompanied by a skinny Inuit teenager wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and a round little white kid in cargo shorts and a t-shirt.
The skinny one rubbed the back of his neck while the fat one surveyed as much of the fog-blanketed island as he could see.
“How are you still alive?” the Captain demanded.
“I don’t know,” Culann replied. “It doesn’t affect me for some reason.”
“The others?”
“They’re all dead.”
The Captain shook his head and said, “You shouldn’t have taken it from me.”
“I know that now. What is it?”
“It is something you have no hope of understanding, much less controlling.”