(Part 5 of 6)
“Quit goofing around up there, you little hellion! You want to break your idiot neck?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I . . . ”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, but knock it off!” Elmer is barking at the boys through a malodorous cloud. The boys—Larry, Curly, and Moe (Elmer keeps forgetting their real names)—are doing their best to add another 30 feet to the antenna tower. It’s slow going and dangerous, but as the smaller, less-well-equipped operators go dark, Elmer needs the extra range to relay his messages from east to west (and vice versa).
Elmer had been meaning to do this for some time, but time was the one thing he always seemed to be lacking. Yet he has plenty of time today. Kim is proving to be more than an adept student—she’s proving to be an awe-inspiring force of nature. Few breaks, fewer errors, and a fist (Morse code keying style) that is so strangely metronomic and brutally fast that it sounds as though it’s being generated by a machine: Kim is destined to be the ideal operator. She types no less robotically than she keys. Certain automatic rifles are less consistent. And no later than 0700 every morning, the outgoing messages are typed, addressed, and ready to be sent on their way. The boys finish their deliveries by 1030, picking up payment (in tobacco, ammunition, fuel, and scavenged generator and machine parts) on their way back to the farm.
So this is what it’s like to be management?
Elmer even has time to finish the occasional White Owl or Dutch Masters—what passes for fine smokes in these days of hardship—and he’s beginning to wonder what Bigfoot is planning. Kim is worth more than the catfish she is costing him, and the Phans hadn’t dumped her on Elmer just so they’d have one less mouth to feed: They could’ve married her off, and probably made decent coin in the process, with her awkwardness being only a minor drawback. It might have even appealed to some men—she certainly doesn’t seemed inclined to chat off a fellow’s ear, unless he speaks in dits and dahs.
A breeze picks up, clearing the air in front of Elmer, and he can see the tower starting to sway, ever so slightly. Storm clouds have appeared in the distance, darkening the flat lands of Nebraska all the way to the horizon. I’d better tell them to . . .
“You boys better get down. Dinner is ready!”
Oh Lord, that voice. Elmer turns in the direction of his poor tortured ear, its tinnitus a bit worse than it was a few seconds prior.
“Hello, Bigfoot. Need another pair of shoes?”
She flashes a quick grin.
“How do you like your workers, old man?
“I’ve had worse.” Elmer tries to conceal his good mood between puffs: He’d rather Bigfoot not know quite how well she’s done, lest she want something more than shoes and fish.
“Oh really? Had worse?” Bigfoot lets the words hang for a moment. “Brought you something!” And she opens her canvas bag, from which she produces three pairs of hand-sewn socks. Elmer inspects them. They’re heavy—perfect for the upcoming winter—and they’ll probably outlast their new owner. Bigfoot waits just long enough to catch Elmer suppressing his smile. “I have a great idea for you. We’ll make lots of money!”
“We?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you about it over dinner!”
“So I gather you’re staying . . . What about Louis?”
“Who?” she looks momentarily nonplussed.
“Your husband?”
“Him! I sent him home. He has piano lessons.”
Lightning strikes miles away, and one of Elmer’s eyes rotates its image 180 degrees. The other defaults to a headache-inducing Terminator-view red: It’s disorienting. Elmer lurches forward a fraction of an inch before catching himself. This is going to make walking difficult.
“You okay, old man?”
“Fine!” But Elmer isn’t fine. The rain, just a drizzle at the moment but soon to transmogrify into solid sheets, is bound to ruin a perfectly mediocre cigar.
The boys—the Three Stooges—are down from the tower, ambling around Bigfoot, awaiting further instructions.
“Come on, boys! Let’s eat.” Bigfoot sounds enthusiastic, but she doesn’t hurry the boys along. She makes a little gesture to them—one that means something to the Three Stooges, if not Elmer—and she thumps along slowly, loudly enough for Elmer to follow without losing balance. The boys walk cautiously around him, forming a pack of sorts, guarding him as much from a loss of dignity as from the actual injury of a fall, guiding him towards the sounds of chopping and frying and the aroma of fish cake noodle soup.
***
The current drags the boat close to the island, not quite beaching it, but putting it within a quarter mile. So Jack drops the blood-stained anchor in the water and considers his options.
Sharks!
They’re not we’re–gonna–need–a–bigger–boat big, but they’re big enough to make Jack jump. And he would rather not dive into the drink for a leisurely swim with them. What to do? What to do?
If only I had a few friends to help . . . Oh!
And Jack remembers the galley, the sweet scent of fried human flesh still lingering in it—it’s custom-built propane deep freezer quietly humming along, the body crammed inside it almost certainly board-stiff.
Hmm!
There’s a decent sized blade somewhere on the ship, and given a bit of hacking, Jack could probably turn his old chum into, well, chum. That would serve as a passable distraction for some time, but not long enough for Jack to swim more than 1,000 feet.
Jack looks around the ship and sees nothing obviously suited for use as an improvised raft. He feels more than a little dismayed. So close! Then Jack thinks about the refrigerator and wonders about the buoyancy of the door. Wouldn’t hurt to try.
***
Louis doesn’t have piano lessons today. He still teaches—the rich farmers want their children to be properly cultured—but not on Tuesdays. He’s home for an entirely different purpose.
Where did I put those? Do we still even have them? Louis mumbles to himself as he rifles through box after box of papers. Birth certificates, contracts, the deed to the house, and notepads filled with recipes so elaborate that they would require a small truckload of ingredients to put together, written in Kim’s faint block print—the product of a week-long fever, one Louis was fairly certain would be the end of his daughter. It wasn’t. Louis is still grateful for that.
“Gone!” Louis’s voice reverberates through the attic, the lamp hissing beside him. “I’ll never . . . ” But there it is—a chart of the ocean’s currents. It’s been traced over, the lines and arrows indicating flow strength and direction, now deep depressions on the page. Something seems to be written on the back.
Math!
Louis loathes math—I’m a musician. If I can count to four, that’s good enough—but Kim seems to like it. Louis understands the girls’ plan more or less, but why the wife had suddenly sent him home to retrieve the charts and books is somewhat beyond him.
The books, filled with even more of the dreadful, soul-crushing formulas Louis had gone to conservatory at least partially to avoid, are in the same box.
A storm breaks overhead, the water landing so heavily that it rattles the house. Louis wonders if the wife will try to get home. Of course, she could paddle her way through a flood with those tootsies of hers.
***
Jack was right about buoyancy—refrigerator doors float, and well. He was also on the mark about the chum—it kept the sharks diverted. The only thing about which he was wrong was the size of the beasts themselves.
At first, they looked monstrous, but while pouring the blood and chunks of meat into the water and seeing them frenzy through their lunch, Jack realized the sharks were considerably smaller than a grown man. I should be the one eating them! Even his improvised oar worked adequately. It was a bit nibbled by the end, but at least Jack could honestly say he gave the sharks the finger—several of them in fact, and none of them his own, which made the joke all the better.
The beach is proving surprisingly pleasant, if empty. There appears to be nothing much on it. Water isn’t going to be a major issue—the reverse osmosis machine had proven light enough for Jack to carry on his back.
Food!
Jack’s not eaten in more than a week, and he’s starting to feel lightheaded. His first attempt at fishing hadn’t gone well, but practice makes perfect. Coconuts? There must be coconuts. But if there’s anything of the sort on the island, a patch of sand of uncertain size with a little greenery atop it, such isn’t obvious to Jack. Might as well go exploring. Jack’s schedule is open.
***
The tower goes up faster than Elmer believed possible. This is largely Bigfoot’s doing—she’s turned the Three Stooges into a work gang of such efficiency that Elmer is seriously considering hiring them out. Finding other towers to cannibalize isn’t terribly difficult: No one aside from Elmer wants them—the tubular steel sections are all-but useless for anything else. Somehow, Bigfoot and the Three Stooges have gathered up more vacuum tubes than Elmer thought remained in the entirety of the state. Some of them even work. Putting them together into a usable machine will take some time—different voltages, different designs—this isn’t the way to build anything if you have a choice. But Elmer doesn’t. It’s either this or nothing. The more other stations fail, the more Elmer needs to extend his reach.
Still, just a few weeks more, and Elmer will have the biggest, most powerful transmitter for miles, possibly anywhere.
***
All I do now is use the machines. Mom has taken over the cooking. I keep getting faster. I like this. I’m good at it. Not many people can keep up with me—they should try harder. Mr. Elmer let me move into the office. He says that I need it more than he does. I don’t know what he means by that.
On the air, I know exactly what the other operators mean, even if some of the messages we forward lose me. There is no confusion as to what I should be doing. I don’t have to write things down anymore. I don’t even hear code, not exactly: It’s just words to me. Mom brings me my food, and when she asks me questions, my hand starts to shake a little—I’m tapping out the answer on the table.
I need to remember to use regular words with regular people.
Mom and Dad brought me the charts and the books, and they showed me Elmer’s weather book and tables too. Currents are fascinating things—they flow all over the place, and they never stop, but they’re predictable, I think: They’re not like people. Some of the other operators have the same kinds of books.
So I can learn about the weather. If I work hard enough, I might even figure out what happened to Little Brother. He’s on a boat, somewhere, and I know where it was when the green waves came and the lights died. If I can do the math, I should be able to figure where the boat is, or where the boat stopped. That will be complex. I like numbers, but too much math isn’t fun.
But Mom wants me to find Little Brother. I would like to find him too. I can understand air and water. If I had a book, I could have predicted the green waves. I don’t know why no one else did. I guess they had other things they wanted to do.
I hear Mom knocking on the door. That means it’s time for dinner. But for me, dinner is breakfast and breakfast is dinner, which I like. My life is okay, but I am a little tired.
***
The table in the dining room has been overrun by parts—stacked high with tubes and wires and clamps and transformers. Salvaged car and marine batteries squat in the corner, right next to Louis’s rifle.
Louis and Elmer are crouched over a yet-unfilled, screwed-together electronics cabinet, a smooth piece of a wood—an actual breadboard—sitting atop it. Elmer is not having a good time. His cigar is dead, but that’s not the worst of it.
“Not that wire, the other one!”
“Yeah, okay,” Louis tries to conceal his annoyance, with limited effect, “This one?”
“Uh . . . ” and Elmer isn’t quite certain of which wire is which. His vision is decaying, with the images rotating and inverting even more frequently than they did before. Orienting himself—which wire?—is tricky. Could be worse. At least I’m not trying to diffuse bombs—which wire indeed. Nevertheless, soldering has become impossible for him, and the last time Elmer tried, he nearly rammed the tip of the iron through his hand.
So he’s teaching Louis. The Three Stooges, their coordination still rough with the imprecision of youth, tried their best, but their workmanship was so sloppy that the amplifier popped and hissed more than it did anything else.
What Louis lacks in technical know-how, he makes up for with a finely trained touch and a precision of movement that guarantees every soldered connection is all-but perfect, and his ears, no less trained, hear fluctuations in the output—things Elmer would have been hard-pressed to detect even 20 years ago—allowing him to adjust the soldered points accordingly. The work would go faster if Louis didn’t have to make the twice-daily trip from his house to the farm and back again to give piano lessons (hence the gun), but Elmer isn’t much inclined to blame a man for keeping productive.
“Boss?” Elmer and Louis, not certain of whom is being addressed, look up from the wafting sweet smoke of rosin-core solder to see the youngest of the Three Stooges standing before them, evidently pleased with himself. He’s wearing a seemingly new pair of overalls. Elmer is about to ask the boy where he got them, when . . .
“Yes?” Louis answers, and Elmer leans back, realizing that he has no idea of why the boy is here—Didn’t I send him out to check the apple trees?
“Miss Foot says I should tell you that everything is done, that we did a good job, and that dinner is ready.”
“Tell Miss Foot, uh, my wife,” Louis glances at Elmer, who is visibly amused, “that we’ll be there in a minute.”
***
Mom keeps bringing food to the office, but I don’t have time to eat. I wish she’d leave me alone.
I’m almost done with the math—all of it. The books were difficult for me—some of the words were unfamiliar—but I figured them out. The calculations for the wind and water currents were hard, but not too hard for me to do, and I’ve learned enough about meteorology to use the operators’ weather books to make a few predictions and analyses of larger weather patterns. People keep sending me information. They’re all slow. Waiting for them is boring, but not as boring as cooking. At least everyone tries to help.
I keep working: That’s what Mom wants.
By the way, the operators voted to give me a call sign of my own. Short ones are better than long ones—they’re easier to send. Today, I’m K1M—three characters. That’s as short as call signs get. I guess that means the other operators think I am good. Or it could mean something else. It could just mean that we’re all friends. I’m still getting faster. One of my friends—another operator—said I was terrifying, but in a good way. How is that possible? Is it good to be terrifying? Is it better to be terrified?
I like my call sign more than I like my real name, which has some accented characters that no one understands when I transmit them—even Mr. Elmer didn’t know them—and which I had to learn from an old guide I found in the office.
My clothes smell bad. I should change them. I’m really tired, but there are too many things to do. I need more coffee. Where’s Mom?
Return next week for Part VI, or buy Foresight (and Other Stories) today.