There was another explosion. Another wave. More water. We were drowning in water, even aboard the ship. Still the mariachi music thundered on.
“Where’s your lifeboat, Wingnut?” I shouted to Churchill. More waves rolled across the deck, and I could see the Caravan pulling farther ahead before it disappeared behind fog and explosions.
“DON’T HAVE A BLOODY LIFEBOAT!” he shouted. “JUST ME AND THE OPEN SEA!”
I grabbed a bucket and began bailing gallon after gallon of water off the ship. For every bucket I tossed, ten more splashed on. It was hopeless, but it was still better than doing nothing. Better to die busy, I figured, than to die bored. Another symphony of explosions sent six streams of water skyward. The ocean rocked, absorbing the force of the explosions as the streams fell downward, snapping like lightning as they struck the water.
A massive wave formed from the shocks erupting from the explosions. Ropes of surface tension yanked the water that covered the deck, pulling it toward a huge tidal wave that was gathering in the distance. The Retired Lobster dropped low as the massive wave pulled us into its trough. A frothing crest loomed overhead, and the boat quivered as its engine gave a final shout.
Bertha ran out onto the deck. “It’s dead!” she announced.
“Thanks for clarifying,” I said, and she rolled her eyes. “With engine performance like that,” I added, “I’d have thought you built it.”
“You better hope we die,” she said, shaking a fist in my direction, “or else I’m gonna kill you.”
“If you’re half as bad at murder as you are buildings things, then I won’t bother to worry.”
Phoenix grabbed the deck’s edge, and I did the same. Brace yourself, he mouthed, and I nodded as the wave’s crest curled over us. For a brief moment, our ship hung, suspended, in a shimmering tunnel of blue. And then the wave crashed upon the ship, and light danced in the corners of my eyes. I felt my body yanked from the deck, crushed between salty tendrils. I tried to let myself go limp as the wave tossed and pounded me like a baker with a ball of dough. My neck snapped from side to side, and water forced its way into my nostrils to drown my lungs.
Then my back was slammed against something solid, and I felt sand in my palms. I moved my fingers, and felt a plastic bottle, and then an aluminum can. I pushed my feet down and I felt land, or something like it.
New Texas.
I hauled myself out of the water and onto the beach. I rubbed my eyes and saw Kindred waving to me in the distance. Then a hand slapped itself across my face, and my ears rang.
“Don’t insult my inventions again,” said Bertha in a husky voice.
I watched her outline as she hiked toward the fortress, then I turned and ran toward Kindred, who was now leaning over a limp body at the ocean’s edge. As I got closer, I recognized the face: Churchill. A clump of seaweed covered his bald head.
Kindred raised a hand to her cheek. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, “I think he might be—oh gosh, I really think he might be—”
“Dead?” I offered.
She nodded with pursed lips. Sand crunched behind us—Sparky was running across the beach, a wrapped syringe and a beaker full of black fluid in his hands.
“Hey, KB,” he said, nodding in my direction before kneeling next to Churchill and filling the syringe with the black fluid. Tim poked his hairy head over Sparky’s shoulder and started reaching for the crumpled wrapper Sparky had torn from the sterile syringe.
I stared at the black liquid in the beaker. “What is that exactly?”
Sparky tore open Churchill’s shirt and plunged the needle into his chest. “Cafetamines,” he said. “A chemical cocktail of my own creation, consisting of caffeine and amphetamine salts.” He stared at me for a second, and his left eye twitched dangerously. “I use them every day,” he explained.
“Well, that can’t be good for his heart.”
“Nothing is bad for a dead man’s heart, and I’d guess we could both agree that a bad heart is better than a dead heart.”
Tim gained momentum in his quest for the crumpled wrapper, but then Sparky saw and snatched it away. Tim frowned—if such a thing were possible for a sloth. I’d never seen an odder couple.
Churchill shot upright, screaming. “JESUS CHRIST, MY CHEST!”
“He’s seen Jesus!” said Kindred, clapping her hands. Tim yawned, and Kindred turned to me. “Tim’s a Jewish sloth,” she explained.
Churchill panted hard. “It feels like my heart’s smashing against my bloody chest.”
“Excellent,” said Sparky, his eye still twitching slightly behind his glasses. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”
Kindred patted Sparky’s hand. “We’re going to have to talk about this later, dear. You’ve got a problem. An addiction, I’m afraid.”
Sparky narrowed his eyes. “And what would you call your obsession with blueberries, then?”
Surprise flashed across Kindred’s face. “Well, I—er—they’re very healthy, you know!”
Churchill propped himself on his elbows and scanned the horizon. “Where’s my ship?”
Kindred bit her lip. The Retired Lobster had, well, retired.
“And the Caravan?” he asked.
“We—well, we lost sight of it… what with the tidal wave and the fog,” she explained. “And then you guys washed ashore and—there was a lot of pressure, okay?”
A horn sounded offshore, and with it, the fog surrounding New Texas dissipated, revealing the Caravan, coiled around the island like a snake around its prey. Someone gave a signal, and the red and gold tapestries we’d seen earlier were spread out again. The blue must have been hanging on the opposite side, I thought: they hadn’t surrounded us to attack us, but rather to hide us. We were now in a world apart. Away from the rest of the ocean. Away from the Federation. Alone.
A thin line of boats formed a bridge between the island and the surrounding ring of the Caravan. Phoenix walked to where the line met the shore, ready to meet the Caravan’s leaders. His hair glowed gold in the scattered sunlight. You’d never have known he’d just had the crap beaten out of him by the tidal wave.
“Ah, the Caravites,” said Kindred. “They’ve got their own little clans, they do. The vagabonds, the exiles, the thought-to-be-lost-at-sea-men, the Irish, the—”
“Founders,” interrupted Churchill. He thumped a fist to his chest proudly.
“The English,” said Kindred, rolling her eyes. “Few bolts missing in those ones, if you ask me.”
Phoenix lifted his left hand to his head and rested his thumb along his jaw. His forefinger was pressed to the corner of his eye, and his middle finger pointed skyward. It was a strange salute, but I remembered the explosion in the Tube by Moku Lani when Mila had done the same thing on the screen. It was an obvious departure from the standard Federal salute. It was one they could call their own: the Lost Boys’ salute.
Three men emerged from the first boat’s cabin as its bow struck the beach. They walked single file at first, but, upon seeing Phoenix, the first two broke formation and stood shoulder to shoulder, protecting their beloved leader.
Phoenix muttered something, his hand still held to his head, and the guards returned the salute before parting. A man with a thick beard, a captain’s hat, and two bushy brows like patches of wool stepped forward. The two guards dropped a ladder from the bow, and the three of them climbed down to the beach.
Churchill waved a hand. The guards, their leader, and Phoenix approached us, whispering among themselves. Whatever they were talking about, the bushy-browed man appeared to grow increasingly concerned. The guards pulled Churchill to his feet, and their leader offered me his hand.