Free Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors? by Michael Green

lives had been cut tragically short. As Jane and Jessica, helped by the children, gathered coconuts they kept an eye open for plumes of smoke. There were none. No one on Moorea had survived the pandemic.
    The skeletons preyed on Jane and Jessica’s minds and they did not complain when Mark announced, as soon as the repairs were complete, that it was time to move on.
     
    They picked their way nervously through the Society Islands and held to the west of the Tuamotu group and to the east of the HawaiianIslands before finally swinging northeast towards California.
    It was more than three months since they had left Gulf Harbour. As they headed towards the west coast of America everyone was bored. The breeze had at last swung to the west, but had dropped to a mere whisper. The yacht wallowed in the slop, the boom jerking against the preventer, the sails slamming from side to side. At the helm Zach did his best to keep the sails full, but despite his efforts
AWOL
made less than one knot.
    Jessica and Fergus tried to rest in their bunks. Jane stood in the galley attempting to maintain her balance as she prepared lunch. Mark and Nicole read in the cockpit. The three youngest children, Audrey, Gina and Tommy, endeavoured to amuse themselves.
    Misty watched out of the corner of his eye as Tommy started twiddling the knobs on the radio set. The boy had seen Mark test the equipment before the voyage and had been intrigued by the strange hissing and whining sounds. The radio suddenly spluttered to life.
    ‘… Look Hank, you’ll have to do better than that …’ The younger children were taken aback by the strange accent. They had never heard an American drawl before.
    The cabin momentarily darkened as Mark scrambled down the companionway.
    ‘What would you accept then, Brad?’ asked another voice.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Tommy said as he reached for the dials. ‘Don’t touch the knobs!’ Mark yelled. But it was too late. The little boy, frightened he was in trouble for playing with the equipment, moved several dials in a frantic attempt to turn the radio off.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again as he stepped back.
    ‘It’s all right,’ Mark assured him. ‘You’ve done well, very well.’
    The tiny area that housed
AWOL
’s communication and navigation centre was quickly crammed with bodies. Jessica, Fergus and Jane squeezed in beside Mark as Zach and Nicole peered down from the cockpit. Everyone was talking at once.
    ‘Keep quiet!’ Mark shouted as he feverishly turned the dials. He could get nothing. ‘Which ones did you touch?’ he asked Tommy gently.
    ‘That one and that one,’ Tommy said, pointing out the dials.
    ‘And that one,’ Gina added, pointing to a third.
    Again Mark tuned the dials. There was a squawk, then a crackle and finally a very faint voice. With infinite care Mark worked the knob clockwise and anti-clockwise as the conversation drifted in and out.
    ‘… So all you’re offering us is one of the Chat girls for three days?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Which one, Brad?’
    ‘Which one d’yer want?’
    ‘The one with the big tits of course.’
    ‘Could be difficult, Julie’s our most popular …’
    The voices faded and Mark carefully tuned the set again.
    ‘… last time you loaned us a Chat she ran away.’
    ‘They’ve been tagged now.’
    ‘We’d expect five days for the amount of heroin we’re offering. I’ll have to run it past the other guys. We’ll let you know tomorrow.’
    ‘Talk to you tomorrow then.’
    Mark could barely contain his excitement. He lifted the microphone and pressed the transmit button, but before he could speak Fergus reached over and switched off the radio.
    ‘What the hell?’ Mark said angrily, reaching for the switch.
    Fergus grabbed Mark’s arm and then manoeuvred himself between the radio and the older man. ‘They said Chats.’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘My nickname at school was Chats.’
    ‘I don’t see the problem. My brother was called Chats too. Half the