TW // Strong language, violence
“They here yet?” Diego said into the moonlit, empty harbour, which was ample response to his question. He breathed deeply on his cigarette. “Do we know what this load is yet?” This question was less facile and he turned to face Rodríguez with raised eyebrows that became distorted behind the cloud of exhaled smoke.
“Nope. It’s urgent though.” Rodríguez winced against the smoke in faux-irritation; having recently quit, this was a delightful act of sharing from his colleague.
“Urgent?” Diego was looking out to the silver-black water again, wistful, distracted, he didn’t see Rodríguez’s shrug. “Why do we do this?”
“Not this again.” Rodríguez rolled his eyes.
“No, hear me out-”
“-I always hear you out-”
“-it’s a serious question-”
“-but you know the answer.” There was a pause.
“Money.” They said in unison.
“Yeah, I get that, the money’s good. But we’re just taking on someone else’s shit. Why? We have our own.”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“We’ll never be a serious country if we let this carry on.”
“I’m not a reporter. You’re not a politician. If you want this to change, do something about that.”
“Why don’t you talk any more? You just sleep up here, work, work, work.” Diego pointed to Rodríguez’s camp-bed tucked under the desk. “You’ve lost touch.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t entertain these things anymore, you shut me down. You used to listen to me, hell even join in with some stupid chat.”
“At least you know it’s stupid.”
“Yeah, it’s stupid, because what the hell else are we supposed to do? Just stand here in silence and wait for the ship to come in that will dump seven thousands tons of shit in our country.”
“Two thousand.” Rodríguez corrected.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” They stood in silence for several minutes watching two seagulls duck and dive as they fought over a scrap of plastic.
The sky lightened as the sun began to consider its rise in the central distance as the ship came into view. The Buccaneer: a buoyant monolith with a jet-black hull and rows and rows of windows below puffing, heaving cylinders. It made its silent approach, as though planning a surprise attack on the island. But any onlookers would be familiar with its sleek, cutting form and its timely arrival to deliver its unwanted innards for a, not insignificant, price. Diego extinguished his cigarette on the wall and looked to Rodríguez for the reflexive direction. But Rodríguez paused. This did not feel right. He had been unsettled since the urgent call came in, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. The States often had nuclear mishaps, or spillages of substances that they would like to disappear before the media found out, or some things that were suspiciously not-of-this-Earth in appearance (a conspiracy Diego was keen to drag up on their frequent nightshifts together). But something gave him pause and it was only Diego clearing his throat that snapped him from his indecision and clarified that there was little rational cause for his discombobulation. He nodded and Diego lifted a safety screen and turned a key in the wall which set the world alight.
Sirens screeched at the morning and red lights blinked from the top of every visible wall: against the black of the night the flash of red made everything appear aflame and a threat. Two formidable, steel doors slowly forced the harbour water away as they yawned open to accept the North American tanker.
“Mornin’ y’all” The skip said as his bridge came alongside their threadbare viewing shack and the sirens settled down to a silence. The captain was wearing a face mask and fiddling with his Stetson nervously.
“What’s with the mask?” Diego asked, without any hesitation, “you got Covid?”
“No, no. No Covid. Just a precaution.”
“You know that shit is just a common cold now.”
“No Covid. Just a precaution.”
“Precaution against what?” Rodríguez cut in, wary, allowing his partner to get the better of him, much to his own distaste.
“Nothin’ to worry about.” The captain looked behind him at the ship that lulled lightly, a dull groan audible as a leftover from its long journey. “Just health and safety BS, you know what it’s like.”
Diego laughed, “not so much here, man.” He received a smile from the captain and sideways glance from Rodríguez before continuing: “What you got for us this time?” Rodríguez sucked in a breath. This was not standard protocol. The contents of the ship were never disclosed, not to people at their level. Sometimes they could be deduced from the smell that covered the island in the weeks that followed the drop, or the scraps that found themselves for sale in markets (and quickly disappeared by law enforcement), or in any intriguing consistency that might arise in defective, local births. But still he said nothing, he wanted to know the answer as much as Diego did. A silence drifted about between the three men, simmering on the soft, dawn breeze.
“You need to be a careful not to get ahead of yourself, young man.” The voice was calm but there was an underlying anger bustling through the mask. “This arrangement was signed by honchos much bigger than the likes of you. I’d wind that there neck in if I were you.”
Diego’s fists were clenched and Rodríguez eased himself forward to offer some semblance of calm, or to give himself a better starting position should Diego leap the several feet that separated them and the lightly bobbing vessel. “Your path is clear, captain.” Rodríguez stated, gesturing with an arm that positioned itself in front of his colleague as a declarative that his involvement was no longer necessary. The captain tipped his hat and disappeared back into the bridge before the engines thundered into life and the ship eased its way forward between the blinking lights and looming, concrete walls.
“Cabron.” Diego spat under his breath, his eyes following the slow movement of the ship.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You cannot talk to them like that! Do you know what this contract is worth? Do you want to be able to feed your family?” Rodríguez pushed Diego in the chest as he spoke, who bristled but then bowed his head, cowed and ashamed of his rising emotion. “You need to let this go. Yes, it sucks. But this is just how the world works.”
“Sorry.” Diego said, squinting as the sun began its slow rise in the distance.
“Don’t apologise, just don’t be stupid.”
The ship rolled through the harbour doors and then disappeared around a bend in the canal that led past a mountain to the landfill site. Diego smoked and Rodríguez ate a banana while they waited for it to deposit the waste.
Two hours later, The Buccaneer re-appeared around the rock formation, reversing back up the canal to the gate, which Diego opened with a petulant flick of the wrist. The bridge loomed into view again and the captain emerged from within as the engines died down.
“Adios, compadres.” He said, with a thicker American accent than before. “Buena suerte.” A grin made itself visible by the creases at the tops of his cheeks at the limit of his mask and around his eyes. The engines stirred again and the ship picked up speed as it continued its backwards flow out into the harbour.
“‘Good luck’? What does he mean ‘good luck’?” Diego asked Rodríguez, anger and confusion rising. “Hey! Gabacho! What do you mean ‘good luck’? What have you done?” The captain silently grabbed the front of his Stetson and tipped it to the pair as he was swung, slowly, smoothly, from right to left as the gigantic vessel pivoted in the narrow harbour. And then he was gone in a flood of bright sunshine and a plume of diesel that announced their acceleration out into the open water beyond. “What does he mean, ‘good luck’?” Diego asked Rodríguez, he brow furrowed, his voice softened from his overexertion.
“It’ll be nothing, hombre,” Rodríguez crossed himself, “just a dumb gringo.”
“Another urgent drop?” Rodríguez said to nobody, only the bright moon offered any sort of company. His words felt like a violence; the calm that had settled on the island had allowed the ache in his head to grow into the silence, and the words that left his mouth slapped into his jawline and made his brow throb. He had woken with a fever that he had assumed would pass, but it had spread into a full-body ache and now his vision was beginning to blur. He had not had any appetite for food for three days and had barely slept. It was also three days since he had last seen Diego - since that run-in with the Americans - so he assumed he might be suffering with the same thing. Maybe they did have Covid, he wondered, knowing this to be unlikely but finding some comfort in the familiarity of concept. He squinted at his screen to re-read the message for the twelfth time, just to be sure: URGENT DROP FROM USA, CONTENTS CLASSIFIED, ETA MIDNIGHT. What are they up to? This was unheard of. The drops were usually fairly consistent, once a month or so, and never urgent. Now there were two in three days. Something was wrong. They’ve screwed up somewhere, or found something that they shouldn’t. He hated the conspiracy theories that Diego loved to share, but the irregularities made his mind hum with the possibilities (which only exacerbated his headache).
The Buccaneer rounded the south point of the island and moonlight made it appear as though it were made of ice. It soared on the water - a glittering, liquid metal - and cut a steady path through the harbour, towards the entrance to the canal.
The captain emerged, mask-less, from the bridge and tipped his hat. “Hey.” His smile faded and he flicked his chin to the west - a reflex of concern - as he levelled Rodriquez with a frown. “You feeling okay? You look a little... pale.”
“All good, cap’“ Rodríguez replied, squeezing his eyes down to ease the repetition of the American, and the trembling of the distant over-bright world.
“What about him?” The captain flicked his chin in the direction of the rear of the cabin and Rodríguez blinked for a few heartbeats. Initially he thought he might not be the only one with double vision, but then he heard the breathing over his shoulder. It was thick and wet, and laboured. And close. He turned his head, angling his body away from the vile noise, grabbing hold of the cabin wall to not fall from his vertigo. Diego was perched on the rear wall of the cabin, just beyond the desk, hidden in shadow. The whites of his eyes and his bared teeth caught the moonlight and gave him the appearance of a demon. The eyes bore down on Rodríguez with a rage he could almost feel. It was animalistic. A brutal outpouring of hate.
“D’?” He managed with a thin whimper, a clumsy exhalation. His friend and colleague bounded from the wall and landed on all fours on the ground, shoulders hunched and legs coiled under in preparation for the next leap. The naked bulb over his head pulsed with flying insects and highlighted the streaks of blood and clawed gashes and teeth-marks that decorated his entire body. “What happened to y-” The wind was knocked from him as Diego tackled him to the ground. He could smell the stench of death of his friend’s breath and feel the wet heat on his skin. Their eyes locked for a moment and Diego screamed. His mouth crunching open to its zenith, and slightly beyond; his jaw creaking under the exertion. “Diego, man, it’s me!” But there was acknowledgement in those dead eyes and the mouth swung down to clamp itself on his neck. The pain was visceral and his head swam with the fever and the raw agony of the bite. He dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself - along with the clamped Diego - back to the wall of the cabin in short hurried pumps of his legs. He could feel the blood leaving his body as his friend and colleague began to suck with a maniacal force. No, no, no. No! The unforgiving sound of The Buccaneer’s engines thundering into action, blending with the scattered shouts of fear and confusion at what the occupants had just witnessed, filled his ears. Don’t leave me! He wished in silence, pushing with all his might against the wall behind him, so he was able to angle the pair of them up and into the sight of the Americans. One more push. And the two men emerged over the top of the cabin wall, half a second before Diego’s head exploded.
“You okay down there?” The American yelled over from the ship.
Am I okay? Rodríguez wondered for a moment, feeling the odd pulse of blood around his body and the painless glugging of liquid from his neck and down his shoulder and chest. I think so. He got to his feet in a heartbeat and then turned to face the Stetson-wearing captain with a smile. All colour lost the American’s face and he barely had time to raise the shotgun back up to waist height before Rodríguez has launched himself across the expanse that had separated them only moments before. More Americans spilled from the bridge and their futile gunshots did nothing but drown out the screams and the thundering of feet from the residents of the town, who were clambering up the hill to sate an ungodly hunger.