Dead Sea (20 page)

    On the third day, Chief Maxey summoned us all to the flight deck again. Chuck remained in the pilothouse, and Carol and Alicia kept the kids occupied. They'd set up a makeshift classroom in one of the berthing areas. Tran stayed behind in the galley, cleaning up from breakfast. Everyone else onboard mustered on the flight deck after we'd finished eating. We moved slowly, the weight of the dead world bearing down on all our shoulders. Gone was the excitement and enthusiasm we'd had after the last meeting. Only Cliff was still optimistic. It seemed like the worse things got, the more he turned to the Lord. Everyone else was lethargic and depressed. Tony and Mitch needed nicotine. Murphy needed alcohol. The rest of us needed hope. None of them were in supply. We stood around without speaking. There wasn't much to say. We'd survived Baltimore, escaped the zombies and the fires, found sanctuary… and already, three of our number were dead. It felt like it was just a matter of time for the rest of us. There was no safe harbor.

    Like the rest of us, Chief Maxey's mood was sullen. He didn't smile or say good morning. Instead, he got right down to business.

    "I've decided to set course for an oil drilling operation farther out to sea. It's approximately a two day trip from our present location. I've tried raising them on the radio, but have received no response. That means one of three things. Either the platform isn't there anymore, which I very much doubt, or the crew is no longer onboard, which is a possibility. They could have been evacuated."

    "And the third option?" the professor asked.

    "The crew are still onboard but unable to respond because they're dead."

    "Wonderful," Basil said. "Just what we fucking need-more of those things."

    "Regardless, until we reach their location and know for sure, I'm cutting back further on our rations. If we arrive and find that the rig is gone, I'm not sure where to go next. As you all know, the shore party met with disaster and were unable to replenish our supplies. So I want to double our fishing operations. From now until further notice, we'll subsist mainly on what we can pull from the sea."

    Joan raised her hand. "But you said it was only a two day trip. Surely we have enough supplies to last us that long."

    "Yes." The chief nodded. "But we don't know if we'll find supplies there or not, and our own stores won't last us forever. We're getting low, regardless. So we're sticking with fish for the time being. All other rations will be used to supplement only one meal per day. No coffee or tea or anything that will diminish our water supplies. Nick, make sure Tran is clear on this as well."

    "I'll try," Nick said. "I think he understands more English than he speaks."

    The chief nodded again. "I hope that the rest of you will be patient and understanding about this."

    There was some grumbling among us, but in truth, we didn't have much choice. He was right. On the mainland, we'd each done whatever we'd needed to stay alive on our own. Now, we did the same thing as a group. If the human race was to survive, we had to work as a team. Even if we no longer saw the point and even if we no longer believed.

    I couldn't sleep that night. The sheets stuck to me in the heat. Mitch wasn't in his rack and I hadn't seen him since dinner. Malik and Tasha had fallen asleep while reading their comic books. Despite the temperature, they looked cold. Both were curled into balls. I pulled their blankets up over them and turned off the light.

    I stood there in the darkness, debating what to do. I felt wired, nervous. The ship came alive in the silence, groaning and clanging. The engines throbbed and the steam pipes clicked. I decided to take a walk outside. Maybe some fresh air would do me good. I felt guilty about leaving the kids alone, but at the same time, I was restless and didn't want to wake them up if I stayed. I tiptoed out of the berthing compartment and carefully shut the hatch behind me. It banged into place anyway. I cringed, holding my breath, waiting to see if I'd woke the kids. There was no sound from within, so I continued down the passageway.

    According to the chief, a storm was due sometime later in the night or early the next morning. It was certainly dark enough outside. A thick layer of clouds covered the sky, blocking out the moon and stars. There were no lights on the mainland, and none onboard ship, either. Chief Maxey insisted on running without them so we wouldn't attract pirates or raiders. I held my hand up in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. I couldn't see them. The night was black as tar. It was easy enough to imagine that the world no longer existed. In a way, I guess it didn't.

    I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. It had been warm inside the ship, but outside the wind was chilly and brisk. It felt good on my skin. Once I was able to see the railing and deck, I moved up to the signal bridge. A glowing orange ember bloomed in the darkness. A moment later, I smelled cherry tobacco smoke.

    "Is that you, Lamar?" Professor Williams asked.

    "It's me. What's up, Professor? You got pretty good night vision."

    "It's the only biological function that hasn't failed me yet in my old age. Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

    "Yeah," I agreed. "It is."

    I carefully felt my way along the handrail until I'd reached him. Even though my eyes had adjusted, I could barely see him until he puffed on his pipe. Then the soft glow illuminated his features. The professor looked tired.

    "What brings you out tonight?" he asked. "Bad dreams?"

    "No, I don't dream. Just couldn't sleep. Too hot. How about you?"

    The professor chuckled. "I've always enjoyed a good pipe before bed. If I don't get one, I can't sleep worth a damn. But Tony's compartment is right across the passageway from mine. If he smells the tobacco, then he'll want to borrow some, and I'm afraid that my reserves are nearly depleted."

    "We're running out of everything," I said. "Guess we've got to hoard where we can. You know what I'm saying?"

    "Yes," he agreed. "Although it's rather uncivilized, I suppose we do. I love my fellow man, but I love my tobacco more. Smacks of the old world, doesn't it?"

    I shrugged, staring out at the dark water. The horizon was just a shadow. The wind picked up speed and I shivered.

    "What's troubling you, Lamar? It's not like you to be so laconic."

    "I don't know," I said. "Just have a lot on my mind. Ever since… what happened to Tum and Hooper, I just can't seem to get my head together."

    "How so?"

    I paused, gripping the rail tighter. "Well, I mean… what's the point, you know? Growing up, I didn't have a real good life, but I fought to make it better. Same thing as an adult. Lost my job a few months back, but still, I fought hard to make things better again. Fought to survive. And then everything went to shit. Everyone I've met since then is doing the same thing. They're all fighting to survive, even when the odds are against them. My neighbor, Alan-he and I used to talk about it at night, while we watched those things outside. Neither one of us had an answer, but we went on fighting anyway. Didn't matter in the end. We went on a supply run and he got bit. I had to… I had to shoot him before he turned. When we made it to the ship, I thought maybe that would be the end of it for a while. But then Stephanie went. She knew she was dying. She must have. But she never said a word. She was still anxious to help. Eager to hold on. And Turn-even after he'd been exposed, he was fighting it. 1 don't think he was even aware, but he was fighting it just the same. You could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice. Kept saying that he just wanted to rest a minute. Like he'd be okay again if he could just do that."

    The professor nodded. "The human spirit is indeed strong."

    "Sure it is. Survival instinct is a motherfucker. But why? I mean, you saw what happened back in Baltimore. What's the point? Don't you think that maybe we're all just biding our time? The zombies have to outnumber us by now."

    "If they don't, they soon will." '"So then why don't we give up? Seems like it would be easier. I'm fucking tired, Professor. And so are you. Don't bullshit me. I can see it in your eyes. I feel like I just want to give up. So why can't I?"

    "Well, there are a lot of reasons why someone would continue to fight even when there's no chance of success. For some it's an individual choice; an aspect of one's core belief system that says 'I'm going down swinging.' That's especially prevalent in the past few generations, who were exposed to such iconography in cowboy films and Stallone movies. Others may fight because they've been culturally conditioned to never give up, to believe that there is some kind of inherent nobility in raging against an unbeatable foe. I don't know you very well, Lamar, but from what you've told me about yourself and your childhood, and from what I've observed about your character, I'd say that second one applies to you."

    "Yeah, maybe. I guess that's fair. My mother always taught me to be proud and never surrender."

    "I thought as much. And that is a very fine and noble lesson."

    "Doesn't apply to everybody, though."

    "No, it doesn't. Others may be motivated to keep fighting because they simply don't know what else to do."

    "How about you, Professor? What keeps you going?"

    "Me?" He laughed softly. "I think I'm like many others. I think we continue to fight because an element of our collective unconscious demands that we do so. Even at my age."

    "What's a collective unconscious?"

    "The collective unconscious is a theory-one I happen to agree with. Basically, it says that people all over the world share a set of unconscious memories that have been passed down through the generations ever since mankind learned to walk upright. These aren't regular memories like when you remember your high school prom or your first kiss or where you were on the morning of September Eleventh, but rather, unconscious memories that are hardwired into the brains of everyone who's ever lived. They act as a sort of blueprint, influencing human behavior and making people naturally respond to certain situations in certain ways. For example, you can go to any spot on the planet and people with whom you don't share a culture or a language will automatically understand that your smile is a sign of happiness, or a frown, displeasure. These are universal signals. If you are crying, they'll know that you are sad or in pain. Ask yourself, why is that? How can people of different cultures all around the world interpret certain things exactly the same way?"

    "I don't know."

    "Because we've all been hardwired by the collective unconscious to respond to those stimuli that way. Sometimes for good. Sometimes for bad."

    "You mean like these gay-bashers who could never explain to me why they felt the way they did?"

    "That's certainly a valid example," the professor said. "I'm sure you've dealt with individuals who were against homosexuality but didn't understand why. They probably masked their bigotry with religious or moral beliefs, but deep down inside, their collective unconscious told them that homosexuality threatened mankind's ability to procreate. Thus, they were repelled without truly understanding why."

    The professor's pipe went out. Cupping his hand, he tried to relight it, but the breeze was too strong. I placed my hands around it as well. Once he got it going again, he continued.

    "It's not just our responses that are influenced, either. It's also our behaviors. You see, the collective unconscious programs a set of figures into our brains, just like you'd program a computer. Psychologists call these figures, or characters, archetypes.

    They act as role models for human behavior. Some of the most important of these archetypes are the 'king,' the 'trickster,' and the 'warrior.'"

    "You mentioned those before," I said, thinking back to when I'd met him in the ship's galley.

    "I did, indeed. This happens to be a favorite topic of mine. I always enjoyed debating it at social gatherings-I even hosted a party once just so we could discuss it over dinner. Sadly, most of my colleagues are dead now."

    He was silent for a moment, puffing on his pipe. He seemed lost in thought.

    "Its because of these archetypes," he continued, "that everyone shares certain common conceptions about people; for example, in every culture that has ever existed, certain attributes like courage, strength, and fortitude have been attached to the ideal image of the warrior. All human beings, at an unconscious level, know that the figure of the warrior is part of our human makeup, and as such, we recognize the certain attributes that make up the warrior. A soldier on the news. A basketball player in the playoffs. We respond to these. And like it or not, it's our job to either succeed or fail at living up to those attributes. Do you see?"

    "When we first met, you said I was an archetype."

    "You are, indeed. You're living up to those attributes-embarking on a journey of self-discovery. Even as the world falls into ruin, Lamar, you are being reborn. That's a classic story; one that appeals to all mankind. You are the hero."

    "I've got to be honest, Professor. I don't feel like much of a hero right now. I couldn't even shoot the crazy fucker who killed Turn."

    "You may not feel like a hero. And yet, you are. Basically, the hero is a universal archetype that embodies the best and most revered qualities of a culture or society. However, the hero is not simply born. It is never that simple. The hero must be created, forged, if you will, in a fire of turmoil and trials. To do this he must go on a quest, which is what you're doing right now."

    "A quest, huh? So, what am I looking for?"

    "Well, my favorite authority on this subject, Joseph Campbell, referred to the quest as the hero's journey. Different journeys have different treasures at the end. In your case, you are on a quest for self-discovery Campbell believed that, regardless of your culture or time frame, the basic structure of this journey is the same, and thus an archetype. He called it a monomyth. In its most basic form, during his or her quest, the hero experiences a call to adventure. They typically refuse or are hesitant about answering the call. They receive supernatural aid and cross the threshold, undergoing trials and tribulations before returning home bearing gifts or boons for their people."