Without warning

Julianne shook her head, trailing a regretful look back over the retreating vista of the Juan Fernandez Archipelago, the trio of islands located some four hundred miles west of the Chilean city of Valparaiso. ‘No, save your fire, Fifi. We’ll need it soon. And those guys are no real threat.’

Behind the tiny, bobbing armada of trawlers, the soaring peaks of the main landmass, Robinson Crusoe Island, knifed into a slate-grey sky above the village of San Juan Bautista. The lonely settlement, the only one anywhere in the archipelago, clung to the water’s edge at the mouth of a steep valley that funnelled bitter winds down into Cumberland Bay. The uppermost reaches of the jagged volcanic mountains were lost inside a mass of scudding clouds. The gale roaring down on them had teeth and blew stinging salt spray into her face, but in spite of all that, it had been a great port in which to lay up and recover from the mad dash away from Acapulco and down the coast. Even more importantly, it had been about as far removed from the rest of the world as you could be, without pulling on your thermal knickers for a trip to the Antarctic. That had been the deal clincher after the Middle East went up. None of her passengers or crew had objected to the change in course. None of them wanted to be anywhere near a big city that might disappear inside a mushroom cloud.

Robinson Crusoe Island, a solitary fleck of volcanic rock in the vastness of the southern oceans, seemed a perfect bolthole. Too bad it hadn’t worked out a little longer.

As the boat built up to its maximum speed, the muted pop of gunfire from astern was lost in the roar of the wind. Jules and Fifi remained on the flying bridge for the moment, wrapped in oilskin coats, taking in the view as they hastily exited Cumberland Bay.

‘I can’t believe they narked us out,’ said Fifi sadly ‘After they gave us those lobsters and everything!’

Jules shrugged. ‘Lobsters they have an abundance of, Fifi. But diesel, food, medicine – those they’re running out of fast. Shah said the boat from Valparaiso hasn’t been for two months. I don’t think it’ll be coming again.’

‘So what, dropping a dime on us to the fucking syndicates is their idea of self-help?’

The Englishwoman lifted her hands in a gesture of resigned acceptance. ‘What are they gonna do, Fi? We weren’t part of the tribe. We’re just a big shiny boat full of stuff they need and can’t get anymore. These people are doomed and our time with them was up. Get over it, hon.’

Fifi looked like she wanted to argue, but eventually just deflated.

As much as San Juan Bautista had been an excellent place to sit out Armageddon, truth be told, it also creeped Jules out. It probably would’ve creeped her out even before the end of the world. It was a small, wind-ravaged speck of burnt rock out in the middle of a howling ocean. She found the villagers strange and remote, and San Juan itself was shrouded in a forgotten air that she was certain predated the recent catastrophe.

As Mr Lee took them out into the exposed waters again, the yacht began to pitch and roll on the much rougher swell. The bow climbed larger and larger waves, each time smashing down into the dark trough on the other side with an enormous boom. Jules took another look off to starboard at the wreath of funereal clouds gathering around the highest of the island’s summits before motioning to Fifi to follow her inside.

Lee was at the helm in the gleaming bridge, joyfully directing the other crew members present – Dietmar, the German navigator they’d picked up in Acapulco, along with Rhino Ross, who was chewing the stub of a much-abused cigar. Apart from a bag of clothes, his personal luggage consisted entirely of foul-smelling stogies, which he insisted on smoking at all times, right down to the nub. The smell reminded Jules of her father’s library, so she indulged the old Coast Guard chief, over the protests of her passengers who objected to his ‘second-hand carcinogens’. And after all, there was plenty of room on board to escape the smoke.

‘How’s it looking, Rhino?’ asked Jules, as she shook off the spray and slid the hatch closed behind her.

‘Excellent. Just excellent, if you’re in the market for an old-fashioned ass-kicking today. Two boats. The lead vessel is making about eleven knots, pulling away from the other one, which is topping out at about eight.’

‘Any idea how big or how many of these hoodlums we might be dealing with?’ she said, without any hope of a positive answer.

The Rhino puffed on his cigar, firing up the embers right under his nose. He shook his head. He was about fifty years old, and his face was a bright-red relief map of broken blood vessels and sun-spots. ‘Sorry, Skip. They’re not in visual range. I wouldn’t have seen them until they were on us if we’d been anchored any further inside the bay. The mountains were blocking the return.’