Across the River Styx

By Leigh Dovey

The Pen.

A snowbound, quarantined peninsula, full of infected, lawless survivors left to die.

A place without hope.

So when the government offers inmate Russell Black his freedom, how can he refuse?

All he has to do is assassinate The Pen's bloodthirsty warlord, Jackson Folly.

But as Black and his partner, Sam Powers, begin the hunt for Folly, they trigger a violent chain of events that will change them and The Pen forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leigh Dovey
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224786961

Leigh Dovey

Leigh Dovey is the author of books The Fallow Field and Bad Code, and screenwriter of films Haven, Served Cold and The Fallow Field. He served in the Royal Air Force, worked as a ranch hand in Australia, as a security guard in Canada, and in various roles in the television industry in the UK. He once played an unlikely looking Spanish general in a film about The Spanish Armarda.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Story

The cold half-light of a late October dawn revealed a small, battered fishing trawler chugging north across the glassy waters of the Mackinac Straights, towards the snow crested shoreline of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The vessel farted a steady stream of Grey smoke as it cut through the water, whilst to the east, the blasted remains of the Mackinac Bridge loomed in the distance; its crumbling coastal pillars left standing as a deliberate warning to those foolish enough to try and cross over to The Pen.

Harry Longbau stood at the trawler’s stern swamped in black oil skins, with a chunky woollen hat pulled down over his ruddy features. Harry looked out of place in the fisherman disguise and thought it pointless; surely a forty six year old Jewish newspaper reporter with wire specs and a growing spare tyre would never pass for a local trawlerman? All the Aaron sweaters in the world couldn’t pull that off.

Harry watched the Lower Peninsula’s heavily fortified coastline retreat in the distance behind him. The observation towers, landing pads and gun turrets gradually diminished from view, taking with them his last chance to back out of this madness. He saw red lights pulsing beneath the bellies of Black Hawk helicopters as they thundered through the faraway skies. The presence of all that military hardware, even at a distance, made Harry’s stomach turn and tighten into a knot. He shook out a Regal from its crumpled packet and lit up nervously. He let out a sigh, and with it, a long trail of rising smoke. He then closed his eyes and tried to calm himself inside. He’d only given up (again) a few weeks before agreeing to this assignment, but there was no way he was going to make the crossing without his smokes. He told himself he’d go cold turkey when he got back; if he made it back.

Harry couldn’t suppress the wilder side of his imagination when he wondered what might be waiting for him across the water. Like everyone else in America, he’d been fed a fear-fat diet of outlandish speculation by the media about the state of The Pen for years. The news networks loved the idea of the contaminated island. And because they were denied access to it, they could sell the craziest theories to the public without any chance of ever being contradicted. Harry tried to imagine what the supposed deadly, invisible contagion had left in its wake. His anxious mind conjured a rotting, carrion-strewn landscape populated by demented survivors, all boiling with violence and a murderous resentment for any mainlander stupid enough to set foot on their cursed shores. He ground his cigarette out on the deck with the heel of his boot, as the knot in his stomach tightened again. He still couldn’t believe he was going in; no matter how great his curiosity or the promise of the story, surely this was suicide.

The growing whir of approaching rotor blades pulled Harry’s eyes skyward. An attack helicopter had peeled away from its patrol of the distant shore of The Lower Peninsula and was now thundering towards the trawler.

Harry froze.

He watched the Apache slow and then hover behind the fishing boat. It slowly dipped its nose, lining up wing-mounted Hellfire and Hydra rockets on the trawler’s stern. Harry grimaced and felt the warm flood of his bladder releasing its contents into his oilskins.

I’m going to die, he thought.

The sensation of piss running down his leg roused Harry from his petrified state. He slowly backed away from the stern, then turned and forced himself to walk, not run, to the bridge. He slid open the cabin door and climbed inside to find Stenson at the wheel. The grizzled smuggler was dressed in an orange version of Harry’s oilskins, tied off at the waist to reveal a thick green woollen jumper. Stenson’s craggy, unshaven features were dark and tired. Though his face was creased with old worry lines, right now he seemed calm, nonchalant even. Stenson ignored Harry’s dramatic entrance and craned his neck to look out past the bow.

There’s a helicopter out there behind us, said Harry, in a dry, cracking voice.

I know, replied Stenson. They’ve come for us.

Harry followed the skipper’s eyeline out over the water and spotted a heavily armed patrol boat speeding towards them too. Harry felt the tense knot in his stomach ratchet itself even tighter.

Oh great, said Harry. What the hell are we going to do now?

Nothing, said Stenson. Just take a deep breath, old man, and then keep your mouth shut.

Stenson cut the engines, letting the trawler slow and drift.

Harry watched with dread, as the fifty metre long Cyclone class patrol boat circled them like some huge, Grey shark, its fifty calibre machine guns tracking them. Harry fumbled again for his cigarettes and tried to slow his breathing.

Why had he taken the job? What the hell was he trying to prove?

The patrol craft suddenly broke out of its orbit and pulled alongside. Stenson grabbed Harry’s cigarettes and tossed them away. He stepped out on to the bobbing deck, dragging the frightened journalist with him.

It’s going to be all right, said Stenson. So for God’s sake try and relax.

The two men watched the Cyclone’s engines growl and churn the surrounding waters, as it edged closer to the trawler. Soldiers appeared on the deck of the patrol boat, clad in silver one-piece bio-hazard suits, complete with hoods and full glass faceplates. Some of the silver suited figures carried automatic rifles and raised them to take aim at Stenson and Harry as the boat drifted in. Others cast ropes over the side and tied off against the trawler, locking the two vessels together. The patrol boat bumped against the trawler’s hull and three of the hazmat suited figures hopped aboard to confront them. One soldier aimed his M16 at Stenson’s head, whilst the other covered Harry. The third figure pulled a side arm from his webbing belt holster, but didn’t point it, as he stepped forward and examined Harry carefully. Harry could see the man’s features clearly through the glass faceplate. Cold, Grey eyes studied Harry with suspicion, as the younger man went toe to toe with him.

What are you doing in these waters? asked the soldier.

Harry opened his mouth, but found there were no words, or even sounds, available to his tongue.

We’re just on our way over to Huron, Captain, said Stenson.

The officer turned on his heels to face Stenson, now visibly annoyed.

It’s Lieutenant, Lieutenant Keyton. You know you can’t pass through here, there’s an exclusion zone in force.

There’s a rumour along the coast that the zone’s been relaxed a little, said Stenson. Enough to let the fishing boats pass between the lakes.

Bullshit. Keyton turned to his men. Check her out.

The two other soldiers shouldered their weapons and began searching the trawler. Harry felt an irresistible urge to swallow, but when he tried, his dry tongue and throat wouldn’t oblige. He wondered how the hell there could be so much sweat leaking from his forehead, but not a drop of moisture in his mouth. It was then that he caught sight of Stenson slowly reaching for his back pocket. Harry’s eyes grew wide and flicked back over to the automatic in Keyton’s hand. Keyton was looking the other way at that moment, checking on the progress of his men’s search. Harry’s anxious eyes darted back to Stenson again, expecting to find the river rat had himself, pulled a gun, but instead, the skipper was retrieving a thick, padded brown envelope from his oil skins. Keyton turned and noticed the envelope too. He looked at Stenson and cocked his head to one side.

Sorry Lieutenant, said Stenson. "I guess I forgot these were hazardous waters."

Stenson dropped the stuffed envelope on to the deck and then took a step backwards.

Keyton stared at the envelope. He waved Stenson and Harry further back with his pistol. Both men obeyed, backtracking cautiously. Keyton then slowly advanced and squatted, keeping the gun trained on Stenson, as he picked up the envelope. He opened it and thumbed through the thick wad of used bills stuffed inside. Keyton smirked and rose again. He then turned and stared at Harry suspiciously, though he spoke to Stenson.

Who’s he?

New deckhand, replied Stenson.

Keyton took a step closer to Harry, who was really sweating now; his woollen hat was sodden.

You’re a little old for this kind of work, aren’t you?

Harry glanced at Stenson, his eyes pleading for intervention, then over at the patrol boat’s fifty calibre machine guns, still aimed at them both. He then looked up at the attack helicopter hovering overhead; each wing was bristling with enough weaponry to sink the trawler a dozen times over.

What can I say, replied Harry, shrugging and trying like hell to blunt his native New York accent. We can’t all play at being soldiers for BHO. Some of us have to work for a living.

Stenson winced as Keyton glared at the journalist, but the flare of anger in the officer’s eyes quickly died, replaced by a fake smile pulling at his lips. Keyton started to turn away and then brought his arm out smartly, thrashing his pistol across the side of Harry’s head. Harry moaned and dropped to the deck on his hands and knees. Stenson tensed, but held himself in check, denying his impulse to step forwards and pitch the officer over the side.

Problem? asked Keyton.

No, said Stenson. No problem.

Both men watched Harry stagger to his feet, rubbing his aching head. Satisfied that he had sufficiently made his point, Keyton holstered the automatic and raised his gloved fingers, circling them as he called to his men.

That’s it, pack it up.

The two other soldiers reluctantly stopped ransacking the bridge and returned to their own patrol boat. Keyton followed them, before abruptly turning to face Stenson one last time.

Get your lazy asses back to the mainland, he said. And don’t let me see you out here again. If I do, I’ll sink you, or worse, I’ll drop you on The Pen.

Keyton re-boarded the Cyclone. He stared at Stenson and Harry as it started to pull away.

Harry watched the patrol boat roar and accelerate out towards open water. The Apache left too, lifting high into the Grey sky, then peeling away to the south. Harry felt a wave of relief wash over him him, sapping him of all the adrenalin that had been coursing through his bloodstream. He turned to Stenson and pulled off his hat, wiping a sheen of sweat away from his brow. A large, fresh bruise had already sprouted there against his receding hairline. Stenson shook his head and grinned at him in disbelief.

You OK? he said.

Yeah, said Harry. No thanks to you.

Playing at being soldiers? Stenson said sarcastically. You’re lucky he didn’t blow you out of your boots.

You left me on the spot, said Harry, suddenly embarrassed. I thought you were supposed to be the man with the plan.

Pretend soldiers ... repeated Stenson.

The trawlerman smirked and shook his head, then headed back to the bridge.

Harry heard the vessel’s engines grumble into life and felt it lurch forwards, as water churned and boiled at the stern. Stenson set the them moving in a wide arc to the east. Harry guessed it would look like they were making a slow turn from a distance, even though the route would actually taking them closer to The Pen first. The rocky shoreline was less than a couple of miles away now, and Harry could easily make out the white blanket of early snow that had settled on the trees and ground there. He should have felt happy at scraping through border security relatively unscathed, but his mind was full of doubts again. He rummaged for his second packet of cigarettes, and when he lit up again, he saw that his hand was shaking. He frowned and flexed his grip to bring the trembling arm under control, as he raised the cigarette to his lips. He took a long comforting drag and marched up to the bridge.

Harry stepped inside to find Stenson lazily feeding the wheel through his hands.

Shouldn’t we turn around? asked Harry.

We are, replied Stenson, without looking at him. Sort of. Don’t worry, we’ll be OK, as long as we make it quick.

How do you know? asked Harry.

"Because it was just Keyton. It’s always Keyton."

Harry digested this for a moment before speaking again.

So how often do you smuggle for The Overlord?

Oh...I do a couple of runs a month, replied Stenson. This time he looked Harry square in the eye.

What sort of stuff? asked Harry.

Thing’s you don’t get from the government air drops. Sundries.

Sundries?

You know, cigarettes, ammo, the National Enquirer...sundries.

Harry looked at the smuggler with a puzzled expression. Stenson caught the bemused look and grinned again.

We crate it and weight it, and drag it beneath the boat in a fishing net. Keyton gets his share, and we cut it loose near the coast with a marker, so the Overlord’s men can pick it up. As long as we pay and don’t try and pick anyone up, they look the other way. Everyone’s happy. It’s the same as anywhere else, The Pen runs like a well oiled machine, as long as you apply enough financial grease.

So what makes The Overlord top dog on the peninsula?

Fear...if you knew the stories...

No, said Harry. I mean, how come the BHO patrols let you to bring stuff in for him?

He keeps things in line there, shrugged Stenson. I suppose he’s a man they can do business with.

Like a status quo? suggested Harry. He doesn’t rock the boat.

Yeah, replied Stenson. I guess you could say that.

Harry stared at the approaching shore again.

So why does he want to see me?

Chapter 2

Welcome to The Pen

Harry Longbau watched the advancing shoreline of The Upper Peninsula from the trawler’s bridge. Land was only half a mile away now and closing. He could make out a long stretch of beach sporting snow instead of sand, with a wild, dense forest at its rear. This area of coast was defended by large and jagged rocky outcrops and Harry wondered where they were going to put ashore. He watched Stenson reach down into a stuffed cupboard to the left of the helm and retrieve a small tangle of red triangular rubber and elastic straps. He tossed it to Harry who caught it clumsily with both hands. Harry turned the jumble of rubber and straps over in his hands and examined it. It was face mask with a filter, designed to cover the nose and mouth. Harry stared at it blankly. He was very familiar with the design from photographs and news footage. It was one of those personal protection products snapped up by half of Asia when panic about the first SARS pandemic hit the headlines.

Put it on, said Stenson.

Has it been used? asked Harry warily, as he tugged at the elastic straps.

The filter should be good for a couple of days, replied Stenson. If you stay much longer than that...well, you might as well take it off. By then you’ll be as screwed as the rest of them.

Harry stared at the mask and felt his fear rising again. He wondered if any scoop could be worth these risks.

Why did they have to go and pick me? He thought. And why come for me when I’m too desperate to say no?

He told himself the same line as before: he was the perfect man for the job. As a journalist he had both the experience and the credibility needed to break a story this big. And these days he was on the slide, and that kept you hungry, if you still gave a damn. And Harry told himself that he did still give a damn. Personally, he knew he’d be no great loss to anyone should the worst happen. He had no kids to worry about, just a very ex-wife with a passion for credit cards and fitness instructors. The lack of anything real in his home life was an occupational hazard. It came with the territory, like the twelve hour days, the faded friendships and the ever present bottle of Bushmills he kept in his bottom drawer. He needed this, needed the story. It was what he was, what made him tick. And for a long time now, the story had been eluding him. Harry’s career was slowly sliding into obscurity against the rising tide of bright young things. In the last year or so he’d seen choice stories go to the wrong people who drank with the right people, slept with the right people. Every month he seemed to have a little less column space to fill. It was as if life was gradually ratcheting down on his remaining chances and choices, reclaiming any usefulness he may have once had to offer. Meanwhile his lunch hours were getting longer, his drinking heavier and his waistline larger. Harry knew he was still respected at The New York Times because of his past work, but he also knew deep down that these days he was just a well paid hack. For all the risk involved in this story, he also knew it was probably his last real chance to define his career, or his self, in any way. It was time to either chase this story down, hell for leather, or just sit it out on life’s sidelines and wait for his pension. It was a sobering thought to face so much danger knowing you had no one or nothing to leave behind; that you had drifted through life like a phantom, not having really touched anyone deeply.

So honestly, Stenson, he asked. Why do you think I’m here?

I have no idea, man, the skipper replied. And to tell you the truth, I don’t want to know.

I’m walking into the lion’s den, said Harry. And you know what? I’m so scared, I don’t think I can go through with it.

Stenson stared at Harry for a moment, and then something seemed to give in the smuggler’s hardened features, as his own professional mask slipped away to reveal a glimmer of humanity beneath.

Look, Harry, he said. All I know is no one’s set foot on that place since the disaster, not even the soldiers. Whatever this is, it’s important.

Now you’re really scaring me.

The Overlord’s paying a small fortune to get you inside. He doesn’t want you dying on him, you’re valuable. In fact, you’re the most expensive cargo I’ve ever carried.

Really?

It’s the truth. Harry, look at me. Whatever this is about, The Overlord needs you in one piece.

Harry snorted and straightened, suddenly embarrassed at how easily he could fall to pieces in front of a virtual stranger. The smuggler grinned at him and slapped him on the back.

Besides, said Stenson. "If you don’t show on that beach, It’ll be me that’s in a world of hurt."

Harry let out a nervous laugh. His resolve was back in check for now, but if he was honest with himself, he was still petrified.

Do they know they’re trusting this big secret to an over the hill coward? he thought.

Keep your mask on and stick to canned food, bottled water, stuff from the drops, said Stenson. No one really knows how bad the contamination is these days, but you hear things, bad things...

Stenson cut the engines and stepped out on to the deck followed by Harry. OK, this is where you get off, said Stenson, still smiling.

So how do we do this? said Harry.

You swim, right?

What?

Harry looked out over the water and clusters of fierce looking black rocks, to a thin, snow clad stretch of shoreline and a birch tree forest beyond. The shore was still at least five hundred metres away through the freezing cold waters of The Mackinac Straits. Stenson threw Harry a flaccid lifejacket. The lifejacket had once been bright yellow until someone had used an indelible marker to roughly colour it black. Harry stared back with disbelief.

Take it, said Stenson. The cold gets into your muscles, swimming gets tough.

Are you kidding? asked Harry. It’s freezing. Another month and I could walk across the ice.

I told you, I can’t put ashore, said Stenson. Don’t worry, they’ll be waiting for you. Put your trust in The Overlord.

Harry let out a long sigh and began to pull the life jacket on.

When are you picking me up? he asked.

No idea, said Stenson. I guess he’ll let us both know.

Harry stared down into the freezing cold waters lapping against the trawler. He sat on the edge and carefully swung his legs over the side and prepared to jump. Stenson rested a hand on his trembling shoulder. Harry turned to face him. There was sympathy etched into the smuggler’s tough features, though Harry would have preferred to see the man’s confident, trademark grin instead. Stenson took the face mask from Harry and slipped it on the journalist’s frightened face. Harry suddenly felt as though he was a child again, being straightened and smartened by his parents for the first day of big school.

Good luck, Harry, said Stenson.

Harry nodded back through the mask and eased himself forwards. He felt a thick, heavy fear leak from every joint and muscle. It quickly spread throughout his body like mercury, paralysing him.

Screw it, he thought, and let himself slip over the side, plunging into the icy waters below.

Stenson shook his head in dismay, as he watched the aging reporter howl at the shocking cold and begin flailing towards shore.

* * *

Lieutenant Keyton sat dog-tired and slumped in his command chair on the bridge of his BHO patrol cruiser. He watched without interest, as his pilot navigated the Cyclone back through the straits, towards the southern peninsula defences. Banks of computer and radar displays cast a green tinted glow, illuminating the bridge against the Grey dawn outside. Both Keyton and the pilot had removed their hoods, but still wore their silver hazmat suits. Keyton’s tired eyes glazed over as he watched the horizon gently rise and fall. He rubbed his frazzled features with both hands, yawned and thanked God his shift was nearly over.

An urgent beeping sound woke him from his trance. He stared down at a red pulsing light on the arm of his command chair, then grabbed the headset that hung there. He cleared his throat and slipped the headset on, speaking into the microphone.

Lieutenant Keyton, he answered. Yes Sir...but...yes, immediately Sir.

Keyton sighed. He replaced the headset and sat up straight.

Helmsman, take us around one-eight-zero-degrees.

The Cyclone banked and turned sharply back on itself beneath bleak skies. Once it was realigned on a direct course for Stenson’s trawler it began to pick up speed.

* * *

Harry Longbau waded out of Lake Michigan and dragged himself ashore. His sodden clothes beneath his oilskins were stretched and heavy with freezing water, making it difficult to move. He staggered up the beach, his boots crunching through the snow and scraping against the shingle beneath. He peeled off his black lifejacket and slumped down at the edge of the forest, leaning forwards, breathing heavily through his face mask. After a few moments, he had recovered enough to raise his head and look along the shore. This empty stretch of the Upper Peninsula’s south coast was still a rugged wilderness, and the couple of inches of early snowfall