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  The tavern was little more than a smoke-filled shack with a bar along one wall and a long table down the middle. Culann tried to stifle a cough – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d encountered cigarettes indoors. Frank and Culann plopped down at the table next to a wiry, white-haired man.

  “Hey, Frank. This your perverted schoolteacher?”

  Culann glared at Frank, who pretended not to notice. Culann had wanted to make a new start out here, but Frank had evidently already soiled his reputation.

  “Gus, meet my cousin, Culann.”

  Gus nodded. The barman limped over on a bad right leg. He had a shaved head with a thick hunk of muscle at the base of his skull. Frank introduced Culann to the barman, Alistair, who also happened to be the mayor of Pyrite. Frank asked for two orders of “the special”—a plate of burnt scrambled eggs served with a draft beer and a shot of Canadian Club.

  13

  “Gus is the first mate of the Orthrus,” Frank explained. “He’s gonna bust your balls good.”

  At this, Culann took a closer look at Gus. He was the smallest man in the bar and nearly the oldest. He was also nothing but muscle and bone, all sharp edges, and he sipped his whiskey with the calm contentment of a man who knew his business. Though Culann outweighed him by easily thirty pounds, he had no illusions about which of them were the strongest.

  “You work hard,” Gus said, “and you’ll be fine. I don’t begrudge a man his perversions as long as he pulls his own weight.”

  “Hear that, Culann? He don’t begrudge a man his perversions.”

  “Well, I appreciate that. I don’t actually have any perversions, though.”

  “We all got our problems, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Amen, Gus. Why don’t you tell Culann why you’re here?”

  “Stabbed an Indian back in Utah.”

  “See, Culann, your little attempted statutory rape is not that big a deal.”

  “Leave him alone, Frank. Why don’t you tell us what you’re doing up here?”

  “Yeah, Frank,” Culann chimed in. “What are you doing up here?”

  “I wanted to go some place with no women.”

  “I always knew you were queer,” Gus said with a snort.

  “Hell, I’m not queer. I been married three times.”

  “Three?” Culann asked. “I only knew about Cathleen and Alison. You got

  married again?”

  “Yeah, my mom doesn’t even know about it. I married this crazy girl in Memphis.

  Lasted a month. At that point I realized I’m just too love-stupid to take any more chances.

  So I’m up here hiding from women, living like a monk.”

  Alistair hobbled over with their breakfast and another round of drinks.

  “How about you, Alistair?” Frank asked.

  “How about me what?”

  “What’re you doing up here?”

  “I don’t know how civilization’s gonna end,” he answered after a reflective pause,

  “but I know it’s coming soon. Maybe nuclear war, race war, some new super-virus, hell might even be some kind of computer virus. All I know is, Pyrite, Alaska, has got to be the last place on Earth that would be affected by that kind of thing. I figure this is the safest place for my wife and boy to be.”

  “That’s bat-shit crazy,” Frank said. “Julia goes along with this?”

  “Of course she does,” Alistair said. “She’s from Toronto. She’s seen societal decay up close. She knows I’m right.”

  14

  “Toronto?” Culann said with a giggle.

  “God sees you laughing, boy,” Alistair snapped. “When it happens, He’ll come for you first.”

  After this declaration, Alistair spun around and stomped away. Culann made a mental note to apologize later.

  “He’s got a kid out here?” Culann asked.

  “Yeah, little Marty,” Frank said. “He’s about six, I think. Cute little guy.”

  “Is there a school out here?”

  “No, but you heard the man,” Frank said with a smile. “The world’s coming to an end, so school’s not going to do the kid any good anyway.”

  A tall, rangy man of about thirty-five in overalls with bushy red hair and a neatly-trimmed red goatee walked over.

  “What’s up, Frank? Is this the pedophile?”

  “Nah,” Frank replied, “he’s a hebe-a-phile.”

  “What’s that?” the man asked Culann. “You like little Jews or something?”

  “The word is ephebophile,” Culann said. “It’s someone with a predilection for teenage girls. But I’m not an ephebophile.”

  “Predilection?” the man said to Frank. “Is this guy like a dictionary or

  something?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I call him Noah Fucking Webster.”

  “Who’s Noah Fucking Webster?” the man asked.

  “He’s the guy who invented the dictionary or something. Isn’t that right Culann?”

  “He wrote a dictionary,” he replied. “It’s called Webster’s Dictionary.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen one of those,” the man said with smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Webster—hey, just like that little black kid, remember that show?—Anyway, I’m Moses McGillicuddy.”

  The big man extended his hand. His skin felt like the surface of a baseball bat.

  McGillicuddy didn’t squeeze too hard, giving Culann the impression that he was holding back, careful to avoid crushing his delicate fingers. Culann squeezed a little harder to let McGillicuddy know he wasn’t that soft, or maybe just to convince himself. McGillicuddy didn’t seem to notice.

  “So, McGillicuddy,” Frank said, “we’re swapping life stories here. Care to contribute?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell my cousin what brings you up here.”

  “Money,” McGillicuddy replied. “I used to be a machinist down in Flint,

  Michigan. Worked for GM. Then the plant shut down, and I was out on my ass. One day 15

  I was shooting pool with this guy who tells me any dumb motherfucker with some balls can make good money hauling nets up here. And I said, ‘Hey, I’m a dumb motherfucker with some balls.’ So I dragged Margie up here, and here we are.”

  Alistair came over with another round of drinks. Culann started to apologize for laughing earlier, but Frank put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

  “Don’t rile him up any more,” Frank said after Alistair left. “Crazy asshole’s bound to piss in our beers.”

  “What’d you do to old Alistair?” McGillicuddy asked.

  “I laughed when he said Toronto was an example of societal decay.”

  “Hah,” McGillicuddy laughed. “Guy hates to be thought of as a rube. Which he is, by the way. Societal decay my ass. You ever been to Flint? You can’t kick a can down the sidewalk without hitting some three-toothed, black hooker just begging to suck your dick for five dollars. Worth every penny, too.”

  McGillicuddy guffawed and pounded the table. Culann had seldom felt more

  different from another human being than he felt from this man, but he liked him immediately. Culann wondered if perhaps his time in Alaska would transform him into one of the wild characters who surrounded him. He didn’t think, with a belly full of whiskey at least, that such a transformation would be all that bad.

  “Speaking of hookers,” Frank said as an older man with a long, white ponytail slid into the chair next to him.

  “What’d you call me, you little turd?” the man asked with a smile.

  “I didn’t call you nothing, Worner. McGillicuddy was just talking about the hookers in Flint, and I thought you could tell us all about the hookers in Saigon.”

  “Hell, a hooker’s a hooker,” Worner replied. “It doesn’t make any difference where she’s from.”

  “You ever hear such profound wisdom, Culann?” Frank asked.

  Culann shook his head.

  “So you must be the pervert Frank’s been
talking about,” Worner said.

  “That’s me,” Culann said. “I’m the pervert.”

  “Don’t worry about it, buddy. This saloon is chock full of perverts. How you liking it up here?”

  “I have to say it’s been a truly edifying experience so far.”

  “Edifying experience,” McGillicuddy repeated with a chuckle.

  “Not everyone’s an illiterate asshole like you,” Worner said.

  “Look who’s talking. You ever read a book that didn’t have pictures of naked ladies in it?”

  “Hell, I got more books in my cabin than all the rest of you put together.”

  16

  “Boy, that’s something,” Frank chimed in. “You must have, what, two books?”

  Worner threw his arm around Culann’s shoulder. The old man had an antiseptic smell, like harsh cleaning products, though he did not appear to have bathed recently.

  “Ignore these philistines,” Worner said. “They have no respect for wisdom. I’m glad we finally have another educated man out here.”

  “Educated my ass,” Frank said.

  “Didn’t you know I went to college?”

  “You did?”

  “I’ve never been what you’d call civilized,” Worner replied. “I’ve tried to fit in with polite society, but I’m better suited to life up here. That was made quite clear during my one whole semester in college. Those city boys were always laughing at me for dressing wrong or talking wrong or just plain being wrong, and then I’d haul off and slug one of ‘em. I got to be on a first-name-basis with the dean of students. So I popped three or four rich kids in the mouth, but you know what got me booted? Chewing tobacco in class. They didn’t have any signs posted or anything, and I even brought my own can to spit in. I lost my deferment after that and got shipped off to Vietnam.”

  “What did you study?” Frank asked.

  “History. I’ve been interested in it since I was a little kid. My granddad gave me an old Civil War cannonball he’d gotten from his granddad. It’s like a good luck charm. I always bring it with me when I fish.”

  “What were you going to do with a degree in history?” Frank asked.

  “I wanted to be a high school teacher.”

  “Hey, just like Culann here,” Frank said.

  “Is that right?” Worner said. “What do you think, kid? Would I have been better off being a teacher?”

  “It’s not for everyone,” Culann replied.

  “Yeah,” Frank chimed in, “but Worner’s not a pervert, so maybe he’d of been fine.”

  “What do you know?” Worner said. “I’m at least as big a pervert as this kid. You repressed little church mice have no business sitting in this groghouse if you’re so worried about another man’s appetites. Right kid?”

  Culann raised his glass in reply, and they both downed what was left of their beers.

  They stayed at their section of the table well into the evening. Most of the bar’s patrons—which amounted to nearly every man in Pyrite—came over to introduce themselves to Culann at some point; only a couple of them called him a pervert. The rest courteously welcomed him by squeezing his hand, pounding his back and forcing a shot down his throat. A couple of grizzled, old coots in faded overalls sat side by side at the end of the bar the whole day without rising to greet the newcomer.

  17

  “What’s their deal?” Culann asked. “Don’t they like us?”

  “It’s nothing personal,” Frank replied. “This town doesn’t exactly attract social butterflies.”

  Indeed, the two men did not talk to one another or even to Alistair. Each simply raised a finger to the barman when a refilled was needed. He’d hobble over, fill their glasses, and receive a grunt of gratitude for his trouble.

  Nearly every man in Pyrite would be working on the Orthrus. Culann would be the only greenhorn on the voyage, so everyone teased him. This was how he began to appreciate the daunting nature of the challenges ahead of him: the physical strains, the lack of sleep, the horrific smells.

  “First voyage is a real bitch,” McGillicuddy said.

  “It’s not easy being greenhorn,” chimed in Worner.

  “I still remember when I popped my cherry,” Frank said.

  “Yeah,” Gus grunted. “You were even more worthless than you are now.”

  “You really rode my ass, you old prick.”

  “You got off easy,” Worner said. “Gus stabbed McGillicuddy on his first

  voyage.”

  “Bullshit. I didn’t stab him.”

  “What are you talking about?” McGillicuddy said, tilting his head to reveal a thick, white scar along his jaw line. “Look at this.”

  “That’s just a scratch,” Gus said with a smirk.

  “You stuck a gaff in my face.”

  “I was just trying to yank that finger out of your nose so you could get some work done.”

  Culann didn’t know what a gaff was, but he’d been teased enough already for being a shit-for-brains greenhorn, so he didn’t ask. He was astonished to hear these two men joking about what sounded an awful lot like assault with a deadly weapon to him.

  Drunk as Culann was, it was clear that he was dealing with men of a very different sort here. Maybe big, wilderness-loving Frank could fit in with them, but Culann doubted he ever would. No matter how this voyage turned out, he could not imagine himself on either end of a stabbing, much less joking about it later. More importantly, he kept envisioning himself writhing around in agony after one of these wild creatures disemboweled him for a laugh. Perhaps he’d have been better off facing his fate in Schaumburg.

  “Hell, Gus,” Worner said, “these little turds don’t know how easy they had it.

  Remember the Cajun? That guy did not mess around. Two greenhorns died when he was first mate.”

  “Died?” Culann said

  18

  “This ain’t Club Med,” Worner replied, his face suddenly serious. “One kid got tangled up in the nets and drowned. The other one slipped on the deck and cracked his skull.”

  “He didn’t slip,” Gus said. “The Cajun kicked him in the back.”

  “Why?” Culann asked.

  “Because the kid wasn’t pulling his weight,” Gus replied. The old man stared at Culann as he said this, and everyone else got quiet for a moment.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Worner said. “You just do what Gus tells you to do, and you’ll do fine.”

  Then they all drank another shot.

  19

  Part II

  The Voyage of the Orthrus

  20

  Diary of Culann Riordan, Day 3

  I pushed myself too hard today and am paying the price for it now. Winter will be here before I know it—assuming the season’s still change—so I need to be ready. Today I finished a long-overdue inventory of just about everything worthwhile on the island—

  tools, clothing and, most importantly, food. There was a lot of food stashed in the cabins, and I’d let some of it go bad. That was stupid – the dogs are running pretty low. I’ve also noticed that they don’t obey me quite so well when they’re hungry. If I can’t keep the dogs well-fed, they might just decide I’d make a good meal.

  Maybe I’m just getting paranoid – I am high, after all. Don’t judge, it’s just that the only reliable pain reliever on the island is growing behind Worner’s shack. But even that is of limited utility because I need to be able to think clearly to get anything done, so I’ve been waiting until my work is done to smoke. I’m pretty much in constant pain during the day (which could be the middle of the night for all I know), then I have to shove a wheelbarrow all over the island with a broken hand and a broken kneecap. So I overcompensate when I’m done working by smoking too much and then I find myself jumping at shadows, nodding off or eating too much of my limited food supply.

  Sorry if I’m rambling, but the fault really lies with Worner’s impressive horticultural abilities. I’d have never pegged him for a guy with a green t
humb, but you don’t really know anything about anyone, do you? I’m sure none of those guys would have believed in a million years that I’d still be alive. Makes you wonder what kind of surprises they had in them…especially Frank. When push came to shove, Frank was the only person in my life I could count on, and I didn’t really know him at all. And I guess he didn’t really know me either. Hell, I didn’t know me. I suppose I still don’t, which is why I’m writing this, right? No epiphanies yet, but I’ve got plenty of time…or at least I hope I do…

  21

  1

  Culann awoke to a crucifying headache and a mouth that tasted like a litter box.

  His head lay on Frank’s couch, while his body splayed out across the soiled carpet. He was covered with a towel for warmth. He didn’t know whether he’d gotten it himself or Frank had draped it over him. He pushed up to a sitting position, and Alphonse growled from a few feet away before dropping his chin back to the floor and scrunching his eyes shut.

  “You ready?” Frank said from his bedroom doorway.

  “What time is it?”

  Once again, the sky was neither day-blue nor night-black, but Purgatory-white.

  “Time to work.”

  A month at sea stood before them. Culann brushed his teeth and washed his face.

  He considered calling the whole thing off just to get a couple extra hours sleep, but figured Alphonse would probably eat him if they were left alone together.

  “Who’s watching Alphonse while we’re gone?”

  “Marge McGillicuddy – McGillicuddy’s wife – is going to feed him. She’s the resident animal-lover. We all pay her a dollar a day to put out food for the dogs, but they otherwise pretty much run wild when we’re gone.”