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nothing to do with Algiers. Let those wastes of oxygen have their sewer had been the senator's phrase. But Dean knew that the senator's words were meant for him, not the man himself who it was rumored had taken it upon himself to clean up Algiers. The real problem was no one wanted to help him. Even murderers for hire need to believe that there is no truly chosen anything and that playing field is ultimately level, like a pinball machine, tilted toward the only certainty known to man, but of course open to the occasionally beneficial bump from whomever is currently supposed to be manning the flippers. Setting foot in Algiers it became impossible to ignore the very troubling idea that not everyone believed the world to be a level field and there are in fact far more dangerous desires than wealth.a breed of people that had become referred to as Ivers, something not quite human anymore, something that acted on pure ideas without reason or compassion. And most terrifying of all, without doubt. From the outside it was easy to dismiss them, a testament to one of histories fundamental lessons -- those the really believe they are the chosen ones are invariably never chosen when it actually comes choosing time. Or, in the case of Algiers, they simply tell themselves that, despite the seeming apocalypse it must not be choosing time yet and set about once again to purge the world around them of the things they hate. Yet those who actually passed through Algiers came to a much creepier conclusion, that something here had begun to run amok, something which it do well not to ignore. But most did, tThe truck wound its way through the crumbled overpasses and down the makeshift ramp toward Algiers which had, like the lower wards, become something less than human. Since the sealing off, Algiers had become a haven for religious extremists convinced that it was up to them to purge the elements of the city that it did not need. Behind the weedy sidewalks, shattered brick stoops and crumbling houses lay a people that neither the protectorate nor the ruling gangs of the city wanted anything to do with. And so Algiers existed as a DMZ, no law, no power and no hope. Most, like Sil and Dean passed through only when the had to.When they rounded the corner at Liedft St Dean reached forward and retrieved the .44 Sil kept in the glovebox. Sil took off his shirt and spread it over Dahlia's sleeping head, hiding her from view to anyone outside the truck. It wasn't long before they encountered a crowd gathered in the street, a bakers dozen of men standing in a circle around what, as they drew up slowly alongside in the truck was revealed as a dead and well-rotted black corpse that someone was currently dousing with gasoline while another kicked at the ribcage causing gas and intestinal ooze to bubble out a puncture wound in the side. One of the men turned to yell something at the truck. Dean cocked the gun. Let it go, Sil whispered. I could get at least four before they get to us, Dean brought the gun up near the bottom edge of the window, but Sil punched it and swerved around the crowd, which for the most part, seemed content enough with their current project not to bother with the truck.Dean released the trigger and put the gun back in the glove box.TK description of the inside of the boat.TK description of the half eaten bodies.Segue to scene at the bar several days later when Sil meets Dean and get him to help recover the entire boat, which they do under the cover of darkness, bringing it up the river and hiding it until later when the move it to the half submerged warehouse on the river where it is when we meet sil.Also tell about Sil and Dean, Sil getting dean involved with the muling and Dean searching for parts, making contacts, etc. also hint at lazlo as the shadowy hand behind what Sil and Dean are able to accomplish. Also hint at Dean getting Sil deeper into smuggling, cargo from the south, cigarettes, marijuana, weapons etc.Sil slipped into the The Library via the back door, fairly sprinting down the stairs to the basement.jesus man, you smell awful. Dean was sitting on the couch, cigarette between his lips, arm draped over a woman Sil knew as either Betty or Jen, but he was forever forgetting which was her real name and which was her stage name.Sil sniffed at his shirt. Yeah, swamps, you know... hey, could we talk?Betty rolled her eyes, but got up off the couch after planting a kiss on Dean's face let herself out.She's still here?I told you, she had nowhere else to go.She does know that there's like war happening out there?She does. Dean leaned forward, so what's up.I found something. A boat.A boat? You already have a boat. No, this is like, a real boat. At least fifty feet long, double masted...you found it?Well, it's in a mangrove, shipwrecked. Half sunk actually.And...Well, I think it could be a way out this insanity.Really? You know how to sail?Of course. Well, sort of. Never anything this big...How big?I had a fourteen footer when I was kid. Sil stared at the floor sheepishly.So you don't really know how to sail this boat you found.Well the principle is the same, just a bit different rigging. Sil grabbed a cigarette off the table.I thought you quit.Earlier today I was nearly attacked by a gator and heaved said gators lunch, a half eaten human torso out of a boat and buried it in the reeds.Jesus. Dean threw Sil his lighter. So what do we do?That's just it, I don't know. If we could bump out the water and get her out from under the trees I could probably tow her back here.And then what.Fix her.Where?I think she would fit in the warehouse. Maybe not the main mast, but we'd have to rebuild that anyway...How long would it take you think?Depends on how bad a shape she's in. She's aluminum hulled so finding scraps shouldn't be to hard. Probably needs a new engine... What we need is Scratch.What?It's a nickname. He used to work with me, salty dog cliche. He used to skipper tugs, but he had an accident, was in coma, no workman's comp, took to heroin for the pain. He hired me six months ago. You think he's still alive?He's the only person I know that more likely than you to survive.Where?Well that's the question isn't it? Last time I saw him was about ten seconds before I got blown off the dock...Twenty minutes later they were skimming through the receding waters, headed for St Tammey's parish to an address Sil thought he might remember. put her hand on Sil's shoulder and stopped him to hand over a small bag.Mail. Get it to Cutter, he'll take care of the rest.He stepped forward to inspect its contents -- Mayhaws, dark red and pooling downward toward the trunk, yellow flecked bellies upturned. Still a worthwhile harvest though he made a silent decision not to return to this catch for a couple of weeks, the season was winding down. He leaned over and pulled the cord off a cleat hitch nailed to the tree, letting the tarp fall into the bow and a cascade of berries pitched the skiff forward.Once the pile settled he used the poll to knock the last handful of mayhaws gathered up tight around the trunk, the stubborn ones still resisting the inevitable march toward boiling, the pressure of turning into something they were not. He turned toward the stern and watched the The mayhaws gathered he hooked the tarp back up on the cleat, lufted it gently to make sure that it was in place, ready to catch another week's worth. he delicately wanlked back the length the skiff, tilting the boat toward the stern and causing the crapapple-like objects to begin rolling back, distributing the weight evenly through the boat. Satisfied he moved forward again and sat down on the single plank the ran amidships, though you could hardly say an eight-foot craft really had a nidships, and sat down to roll a cigarette.Then he turned and eased the boat back down the channel, slower now, the bow heavy with Mayhaws and threatening to duck under even the still water of the side channel. Back out on the river the mist was already swirling, a limp water-wrought breeze was playing it off the banks, mixing in wood smoke from the occasional clapboard shacks that poked out of the trees, and out onto the faster middle water where smoke and humid mist because one and lay over the river like a wool blanket as if wrapping up the evening in swaddling clothes and laying it down for the night.By the time he pulled the skiff up on the bank near the boat ramp and back the truck down to the water line it nearly dark. He slide the tailgate down and lifted the bow up on the truckbed, Mayhaws scatter down the tilted slope to the stern. He walked back around and picked up a two by four which he used to lever up the stern and slide the boat, mayhaws and all into the back of the truck. Exhausted and pouring sweta from his brow he settled in behind the wheel and cranked the engine over. The sky in the rearview mirror was already bending from crimson to purple. Ahead the night began to settle in.By the time he pulled off the highway in his own truck, the renecks down the way had two goat skins hanging on deer antlers to dry and the clear beginnings of a fire with red meat already on skewers dripping blood on the trampled yellow grass. Sill was just thinking, I gotta get our of here, which about what he most always thought pulling into the long dirt driveway leading up to the sad tarnished, airstream trailer he currently called home when he noticed there was a strange car in the drive, blocking his path. He pulled the truck up close, nearly touching the bumper and killed the engine. He leaned over to the passengers side and popped the glove box to grab the .45 he kept stashed there when he noticed the out-of-state plates and decided against the gun.
stepping aside to let a string of men, chained together with neck irons, their hand bound in front of them, walked on past him. Their were twelve prisoners. The line stopped when the soldier barked a command. The men were dirty, their faces spoke of hunger and exhaustion. Several were bandaged, their hands and feet wrapped in guaze. Only a couple wore shoes, and their pants were stained dark with piss and shit. One man looked up and Sil saw his eyes scan the sky above. There was something in his eyes, a kind of thin cloudiness that Sil recognized from the war. Defeat. The man had given up, no longer cared. Whatever happened now was simply another, however painful, small step toward the relief of death.
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