Chapter 23: The Weight
The Robinson family stayed in the salon that night, cramped and uncomfortable but alive. Helen couldn't stop crying quietly. George kept thanking people until Travis gently suggested he rest.
I stood watch at the bow, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion. The timer reset had eased the physical symptoms, but something else lingered—a residue of guilt I couldn't quite process.
The pirate deserved it. He was going to kill us, take the boat, probably rape and murder everyone aboard. He deserved what he got.
But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were different. The pirate's face kept surfacing in my memory—young, terrified, begging. Not the face of a hardened killer. Just a kid who'd made bad choices and run out of second chances.
"You're thinking too loud."
Strand appeared beside me with two glasses of whiskey. He handed me one without asking if I wanted it.
"Didn't realize thinking made noise."
"It does when you're beating yourself up." He sipped his whiskey. "The pirates. You're wondering if they deserved it."
"I know they deserved it."
"Knowing and believing are different." He swirled the liquid in his glass. "I've killed three people in my life. Two of them deserved it. The third... I tell myself he did. But I'm not sure I believe it anymore."
"What did he do?"
"He was going to talk. About business dealings that would have destroyed everything I'd built." Strand's voice was flat. "So I made sure he couldn't talk. Simple as that."
"Murder."
"Survival." He met my eyes. "We're the same, you and I. We see the world as a series of calculations. X plus Y equals survival or death. We choose survival, even when it costs us pieces of our soul."
"And what happens when there's no soul left?"
"Then we become the thing we're fighting against. Hopefully, we die before that happens."
He finished his whiskey and left. I stood alone with mine, untouched. Down in the salon, I could hear the Robinson boys crying, mother trying to comfort them with lies about safety and tomorrow.
Nick found me at dawn. His eyes were red, no sleep in them.
"I need to talk. About yesterday."
We moved to the stern, away from everyone else. The sun was just breaking the horizon, painting everything gold and red.
"The pirate," Nick said. "The one I shot. Did you see his face?"
"Yeah."
"He looked scared. Not angry, not violent. Just scared."
"They all look scared when they're dying."
"Does that make it okay? Killing scared people?"
"Depends on why they're scared. If they're scared because they got caught doing something evil, then yeah. It's okay."
"And if they're just scared because the world ended?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
"You've killed before," Nick continued. "I can tell. The way you moved yesterday. That wasn't your first time."
Calvin. Matt. The looter. The pirate locked in the trawler. Gloria's bite victims probably turned and infected others. How many deaths carry my fingerprints?
"No. It wasn't."
"How do you live with it?"
"I tell myself they were bad people who would have hurt innocent people. Sometimes that's even true."
"And when it's not?"
"Then I carry it. Like everything else."
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the water. "My whole life, I've been trying to escape. Heroin, pills, whatever would make me forget. And now the whole world's ended, and I can't escape anymore. I have to face everything sober."
"Is that better or worse?"
"I don't know yet." He looked at me. "You're carrying something too. I can see it. Something you can't tell anyone."
The timer. The infection. Patient Zero. The fact that I'm the source of the apocalypse they're trying to survive.
"Everyone's carrying something."
"Yeah. But yours is heavier than most." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes—stolen from the pirates, probably—and lit one. "When you're ready to put it down, tell someone. Anyone. Don't let it crush you."
"Advice from a recovering addict?"
"Advice from someone who knows what secrets do to people."
He left me with that. I stood at the stern, watching our wake stretch back toward the horizon.
Around nine AM, Strand called everyone topside. He stood at the helm, the Robinson family gathered nervously nearby.
"We're approaching a coastal town," he announced. "Half-burned, mostly abandoned. But there's a dock, and signs of recent habitation. This is where our guests disembark."
George stepped forward. "Can't we stay? Just a few more days? Until we figure out where to go?"
"No."
"But my wife, my children—we have nowhere—"
"Then you find somewhere. This boat has finite resources and limited space. You've had two days to recover. That's more than most people get."
"You're just going to abandon us?" Helen's voice cracked. "Leave us to die?"
"I'm giving you a fighting chance. That's more generous than I needed to be."
Travis moved between them. "Strand, they're a family. We can't just—"
"We can and we are. My boat, my rules. I warned you all from the beginning."
Madison pulled Travis aside, whispered something. He looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded reluctantly.
I gathered the supplies we'd taken from the pirates—a rifle, ammunition, canned food, water. Handed them to George.
"How to use the rifle: safety here, chamber here, aim down the sights. Don't fire unless you're sure of the target. Conserve ammunition."
George took the rifle with shaking hands. "Will we make it?"
I looked at him—soft hands, teacher's mannerisms, no survival instincts visible. His family clustered behind him, equally unprepared.
"If you're smart and lucky. Be both."
We pulled up to the dock. The town beyond was a graveyard—burned buildings, abandoned cars, no movement visible. But no walkers either, which was something.
The Robinson family gathered their minimal belongings. The boys clung to their mother. George shouldered the rifle like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Thank you," he said one last time. "For everything."
"Don't thank me. Just survive."
They walked down the gangplank onto the dock. Stood there for a moment, looking lost. Then George took his wife's hand, gestured to his sons, and they started walking toward the town.
We watched them disappear between buildings. Strand restarted the engines without ceremony. The Abigail pulled away from the dock.
"Think they'll make it?" Nick asked quietly.
"No," Strand said.
"Maybe," Madison said.
"Does it matter?" Alicia asked. "We gave them a chance. That's all anyone can do."
We sailed away. I stayed at the stern, watching the town recede. Somewhere in there, a family was trying to survive with minimal supplies and no experience. Their odds were terrible.
But they were alive. For now. That counted for something.
[ TIMER: 68:22:17 ]
Alicia found me there an hour later. She seemed to have a talent for finding me when I was processing difficult things.
"You gave them the rifle."
"We had extras."
"And the food. And showed the father how to shoot."
"Basic survival preparation."
"That was kind."
"That was practical. They needed resources to have any chance at all."
She leaned on the railing beside me. "Is there anything you do that isn't calculated?"
I looked at her. Really looked. At the way the sun caught her hair, the intelligence in her eyes, the strength in her jaw. At the person I'd been protecting since the first day of the outbreak.
"I'm talking to you right now."
She blinked. "What?"
"You asked if I do anything that isn't calculated. This. Right now. Talking to you. I don't have a strategic reason. I just... want to."
She studied my face, searching for something. "You're terrible at this."
"At what?"
"Being human. You calculate survival, plan escapes, kill threats. But actual human interaction? You're awful."
"Yeah. I know."
"It's kind of endearing."
"I'm not trying to be endearing."
"I know. That's what makes it work."
We stood in silence for a while. The ocean rolled beneath us, endless and indifferent.
"The pirate Nick shot," Alicia said eventually. "Nick's having a hard time with it."
"He told me."
"Did you help?"
"I tried. Not sure it worked."
"He looks up to you. More than he looks up to Travis, even. You know that?"
"I know."
"Don't let him down. He's been let down enough."
"I'll try not to."
She touched my arm briefly—gratitude or connection or something else—then walked away. I stayed at the stern, feeling the weight of everyone's expectations pressing down.
Daniel appeared next. He seemed to be making the rounds.
"The pirate on the trawler," he said without preamble. "The fifth one. You said he jumped overboard."
"Yeah."
"I counted four bodies on the trawler deck. Three on our boat. That's seven. But there were five men on that crew."
"One swam away. The ocean probably got him."
"Perhaps." Daniel's eyes were knowing. "Or perhaps you handled him differently. Below deck, where no one could see."
We looked at each other. He knew. Or suspected strongly enough that it was the same thing.
"If hypothetically someone had done something like that," I said carefully, "it would have been necessary. To protect the group."
"Hypothetically, I would agree." He pulled out Griselda's rosary, let it dangle between his fingers. "In El Salvador, I did many things I am not proud of. Things that were necessary. Things that kept my family alive. I do not judge you for doing the same."
"But?"
"But be careful. Necessity is a slope. The more you walk it, the steeper it becomes. Eventually, everything seems necessary."
He left me with that warning.
I stood alone at the stern, counting the hours until I'd have to walk that slope again.
[ TIMER: 66:47:23 ]
Less than three days. And no targets in sight.
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