back. He had been shot several times in the head, leaving him largely unrecognizable. Travis stared, awestruck, at this brutal carnage. An anxious hail from above brought him around, and he quickly worked his way out of the ship. He found himself gulping drafts of fresh air as he reached the deck and the sun.
“What’s happened? What’s going on?” shouted Jan.
Travis glanced over at the sensei. The look on Travis’ face was enough. The Japanese turned to the rest of them, his voice no longer soft now, but commanding. “You will all stay here, no noise. Wait!” Without another word, he turned and leaped over to the other boat. There was something so absolute about him that everybody did exactly as he said—even Jan.
Travis showed his companion the grisly discovery. When they got back up on deck, the sensei turned to Travis. “Your feelings were well founded. Violence like this smacks of no concern for authority, or no concern with retaliation by authority.”
“Yeah,” Travis said. “It all adds up to ’watch your ass’ from now on. Let’s get back to the boat. There’s nothing we can do here.”
As he turned toward the rail, he noticed that the VHF antenna on the sinking boat was still intact and bolted to the deck. “Carlos,” he shouted, “get over here with a wrench and get this antenna.”
“Aye, aye Jefe ,” Carlos called as he went below for his toolbox. In minutes, he had the antenna and cable off and reattached to the fittings on their boat. Carlos’ work on the other craft had been expedited by the sight of all the blood in the cockpit. He said nothing, but his hands were still shaking when he finished.
CHAPTER 7
As soon as the installation of the new antenna was completed, they were underway again. While they sailed, Carlos repaired the wiring to the VHF radio, then called them all below. Everyone gathered around as Travis turned on the radio and ran through the channels one by one. It appeared to be functioning correctly—there would be silence on some channels and static on others, but as they came to the end of the channel cycle, there was still no voice from the outside world. He ran through the cycle again, broadcasting himself periodically, with no better luck than the first time.
“Well, we may have to get closer to the mainland. This radio has line-of-sight limitations and is only good up to about fifty miles,” Travis said as he ran the dial one last time. He was about to give up when, faintly in the background, behind the static, he heard a voice.
“Hey! Wait!” urged Christina as she heard it, too. “There’s someone out there, someone talking!”
Travis adjusted the squelch, tuned in the channel as best he could, and turned up the volume. Behind the light static a man was speaking in a sonorous, rolling, southern baritone attributed to Bible-belt preachers. They began to listen, and the room grew quiet as they were drawn into the sermon, and delivered of the newest revelations.
“This here’s the Reverend Jimmy Johnson, bringing ya regional news, spiritual reflection, and ecological insight. I’m a broadcastin’ from the shrimp boat Jesus’ Love , settin’ here in the waters over not-so-beautiful downtown Miami, a-lookin’ at the crapped-out skyscraper skeletons all around me. Jesus is comin’, you miserable sinners, and He’s pissed. The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children. Ain’t it the truth! Oil spills, ozone holes, and acid rains didn’t even slow ya down in your mad, mindless rush into the technicolored dawn of the new age, did it? Well, how do you like it now, you fluorocarbon flaunting assholes? Where are your petrol-guzzling, gas-belchin’ dinosaurs of transportation now? At the bottom of the friggin’ ocean, that’s where! How do you like them malathion-treated apples, you tight-tied, tight-assed, money grubbin’ sons of bitches? Huh? Huh?
“I been a-shrimpin’ from Florida to Louisiana and preachin’ everywhere I
“What’s happened? What’s going on?” shouted Jan.
Travis glanced over at the sensei. The look on Travis’ face was enough. The Japanese turned to the rest of them, his voice no longer soft now, but commanding. “You will all stay here, no noise. Wait!” Without another word, he turned and leaped over to the other boat. There was something so absolute about him that everybody did exactly as he said—even Jan.
Travis showed his companion the grisly discovery. When they got back up on deck, the sensei turned to Travis. “Your feelings were well founded. Violence like this smacks of no concern for authority, or no concern with retaliation by authority.”
“Yeah,” Travis said. “It all adds up to ’watch your ass’ from now on. Let’s get back to the boat. There’s nothing we can do here.”
As he turned toward the rail, he noticed that the VHF antenna on the sinking boat was still intact and bolted to the deck. “Carlos,” he shouted, “get over here with a wrench and get this antenna.”
“Aye, aye Jefe ,” Carlos called as he went below for his toolbox. In minutes, he had the antenna and cable off and reattached to the fittings on their boat. Carlos’ work on the other craft had been expedited by the sight of all the blood in the cockpit. He said nothing, but his hands were still shaking when he finished.
CHAPTER 7
As soon as the installation of the new antenna was completed, they were underway again. While they sailed, Carlos repaired the wiring to the VHF radio, then called them all below. Everyone gathered around as Travis turned on the radio and ran through the channels one by one. It appeared to be functioning correctly—there would be silence on some channels and static on others, but as they came to the end of the channel cycle, there was still no voice from the outside world. He ran through the cycle again, broadcasting himself periodically, with no better luck than the first time.
“Well, we may have to get closer to the mainland. This radio has line-of-sight limitations and is only good up to about fifty miles,” Travis said as he ran the dial one last time. He was about to give up when, faintly in the background, behind the static, he heard a voice.
“Hey! Wait!” urged Christina as she heard it, too. “There’s someone out there, someone talking!”
Travis adjusted the squelch, tuned in the channel as best he could, and turned up the volume. Behind the light static a man was speaking in a sonorous, rolling, southern baritone attributed to Bible-belt preachers. They began to listen, and the room grew quiet as they were drawn into the sermon, and delivered of the newest revelations.
“This here’s the Reverend Jimmy Johnson, bringing ya regional news, spiritual reflection, and ecological insight. I’m a broadcastin’ from the shrimp boat Jesus’ Love , settin’ here in the waters over not-so-beautiful downtown Miami, a-lookin’ at the crapped-out skyscraper skeletons all around me. Jesus is comin’, you miserable sinners, and He’s pissed. The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children. Ain’t it the truth! Oil spills, ozone holes, and acid rains didn’t even slow ya down in your mad, mindless rush into the technicolored dawn of the new age, did it? Well, how do you like it now, you fluorocarbon flaunting assholes? Where are your petrol-guzzling, gas-belchin’ dinosaurs of transportation now? At the bottom of the friggin’ ocean, that’s where! How do you like them malathion-treated apples, you tight-tied, tight-assed, money grubbin’ sons of bitches? Huh? Huh?
“I been a-shrimpin’ from Florida to Louisiana and preachin’ everywhere I
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