-- Greg --

Walking, thought Greg, had started out pleasant enough. It had been nice to get on dry land. It had been nice to get out of the cramped cockpit of the SpaceChopper. It had been nice to be alive.

Kilometers later, he really wished he had a car. A truck. Some form of transportation other than his two feet.

One, he did not have the footwear for a long trip. Two, his legs were sore. Ankles. Sore. Calves. Sore. Knees Sore. Hamstrings. Sore. Ass. In pain.

Three, he wanted to hurry somewhere with a shower. The grime of baked-on ocean salt and falling ash was beyond uncomfortable.

Gull woke up, and, startled, tried to fly away. The bird spread its wings and sprang off Greg's shoulder.

Now, Greg considered himself a solid man, decent in muscle mass for his age, decent in build for any age, but Gull was also large. For a bird. The damned creature pushed just hard enough to set him off-balance. That, and the sudden flutter of wings, sent him sprawling.

He tumbled, rolled on the road's pavement, and settled to a stop on his back. He rested there as a cloud of ash settled from where he'd stirred it up. His lungs were probably going to hate him in the coming years.

Lying there, he considered his aches old and new, and began to laugh. "You damned, stupid. Hah! Squawker."

Gull, on the other hand, managed little in the way of flight. The bird fell, not with any discernable style, and hopped along the gray-powdered pavement looking bewildered.

Greg watched while still lying on his back. "Well I hope you accomplished what you set out to do. Yeesh. Gonna knock us both out."

The bird made a chirrup of sound and tucked its legs beneath its belly. It settled on the road and eyed its savior.

"Right. I'm talking to a bird." Greg sat up and rubbed his hip where he'd rolled.

Faint enough to be imagined, he heard the whirr of tires on the road. He looked up the two-lane highway. Something was kicking up a moving cloud of ash that billowed and mushroomed into a kilometer-long tail.

After a few moments, the vehicle in question emerged into view. It was a lime-green truck heading Greg's way. It was one of those nearly-nonsense vehicles that looked more for fun than business. It had no doors, was devoid of fenders or a windshield, and it was decked out in goggle-eyed lights on a raised rollbar. Nubby tires were the reason for its loud whirring approach.

Greg stood up as the vehicle got closer. He was sure the driver had seen him already, but there was no sense in risking being run over. He walked over to Gull, stooped, and attempted to scoop up the bird.

It made a feeble attempt to get away, so he did his best to dance it toward the side of the road. Feathers on the back of its neck puffed up in what looked like irritation.

"Sorry bud, I've decided to keep you safe or something."

The truck's driver honked their horn as they pulled up. Hardly pausing to let it stop, a young man slid from the driver's seat and turned to grab something from behind the seat.

He was a dark-skinned stranger wearing bright blue shorts, a neon green shirt, and a backward-facing blue ballcap. The thing from behind the seat was a hunting rifle.

Greg supposed he was really the stranger in their situation. He raised his hands toward the sky. "Look, I don't-"

"Where did you come from? The island's closed," said the man.

"What?"

"Island's closed. Get back in your boat and go away."

"I didn't-"

The man propped the rifle on one hip. "Look, maybe you didn't get the word, but the flood being gone doesn't mean we are safe. This weather means you tourists need to head on home." He gestured toward the sky. He kicked a toe through the layers of ash covering the ground. "You want to poison yourself or what?"

"Uh, I'm not a tourist. I kinda just... Washed up."

"Washed up? The man squinted. Were you on a ship?" Some of the stiffness eased from his shoulders. "Was there a wreck?"

"Well, not really? Jeesh, this is gonna sound crazy." Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm Gregory Baker, the guy doing, uh, that did, a jump from the moon." He spat out the words, quickly, for fear of being interrupted. Or shot. "I'm really not a tourist."

"Jump from the moon?" The local glanced toward the seagull as if just now noticing its presence. "Uh." He shook his head with eyebrows arcing high and a grin that was mostly bemused.

"I know, hard to take, right? But, do you think I could get a ride? Somewhere where I could make a phone call?"

The man dropped the rifle barrel toward the ground. Then, he shrugged the sling and let the weapon swing onto his back. "Well, perhaps I will regret this, but I don't suppose you would make up such a crazy story. I am Zhivargo Rolle, member of the Caicos Police and chief officer on this island. Come on then, I can't have some random man wandering the Queen's Highway."

"Queen's Highway? Where am I?" Greg, stubbornly, crouched in another attempt to pick up Gull. This time, the bird seemed too exhausted to resist.

"San Salvador Island," said Zhivargo. His face was screwed up in a mix of disgust and amusement. "Why do you have a seagull?"

"Ah, good, I thought so." Greg was happy that he'd estimated his position properly. It made him feel a little less like everything had gone wrong. "And uh, this is Gull, I guess? It landed on the SpaceChopper while I was drifting over here."

"SpaceChopper?" Zhivargo shouldered the rifle back behind his seat and climbed into the truck. "You really came from the moon?"

Greg climbed into the passenger seat while keeping a hand on Gull's talons. "Yeah, wild, right? I know it must sound insane."

"Yes, it does." The other man started the vehicle with a silent turn of the key. Its wheels hummed as they took off in the same direction Zhivargo had come from. "But not so much. I have a sister that joined the colony. But please, tell me your story. I'm interested to know how your moon trip landed you on my island."

"Well, I'm happy to share. But I gotta know what the hell happened down here. Have I landed in the apocalypse?"

"We will share our stores, then. We have some time until Cockburn Town."

#

"Moon-man! Really!? You're telling me that you flew all the way down here watching shit hit the fan?" The speaker was an older man with pale skin and a feathery mop of white hair. He laughed with a roar of amusement that filled the small bar.

They had stopped at the bar for food and so the police chief could check in. He had met with a brown-skinned woman in a t-shirt, beach shorts, and hiking boots. She also had a pistol on her hip. She had nodded to some quiet instructions and taken off to complete Zhivargo's patrol.

They were in a one-roomed building that had just enough room for the bar, a pool table, and seating for a dozen people. It was comfy enough, if you didn't mind the smell of old spilled alcohol.

Greg's newest fan continued with another laugh. "Well shit, man, if your luck ain't fucked then I don't know who's is. You best not do anything risky for a while." He took a swig of his beer.

Greg winced. "I guess I can't argue there. Despite all our planning, that stunt turned out to have pretty bad timing."

Zhivargo clucked his tongue. "Calm down now, Jeremy. Go back to your table and give the man some space."

"Haha! Space!" Jeremy tapped his temple with another barking laugh. "I see what you did there! I do! But hell, man, you've had enough space too, right? You just spent some god-awful number of weeks up there! Shee-it!"

"Well, it wasn't all bad." Greg made his best smile, and fortunately he had practice with smiling for an audience. It helped make it look authentic no matter the situation. "Sometimes a bit of quiet is nice, and it was certainly safer up there than here from what I'm hearing."

"Now go on, please." Zhivargo stood up and tugged on Jeremy's shoulder to lead the man back toward a booth with three onlookers. "Enjoy the rest of your evening in peace. I will buy you another round, okay?"

"All of us?" Asked one of Jeremy's friends. An older woman, cute and probably around fifty, winked at Greg from around Zhivargo's side. "You know you can come party with us if you need to find your earth legs."

Greg chuckled. "Well I appreciate the offer, but I really have to get to a phone. Gotta check in with about a hundred people that were responsible for me."

"Woop, well then there's more to your shit luck!" Jeremy called across the room from his seat. "Phone lines went tits up after the flood, and half the world seems up their ass to help out ol' Mexico right now."

Zhivargo, on his way to the bar, turned to give an expressive shrug for Greg's benefit. He paused at the bartender with a gesture toward Jeremy's table.

One of Jeremy's friends, another gray-haired man, but this one without a shirt, seemed to think Mexico was a suddenly great topic. He took up a rant about people helping themselves, something about recipes for more refugees, and began mixing in something about climate change.

Luckily, the rest of the group seemed engaged in the discussion. Their attention turned away from Greg.

Greg slouched down in his chair and let out a long breath. He'd been sucking air with the shallow unease of worry, and he needed to get himself relaxed. For someone that had spent years entertaining other people, he still wasn't so great at interacting with them.

At that moment, all he wanted to do was go out into the bar's storage shed to check on gull. The bird was probably fine, but it would be quieter out there. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

Zhivargo announced that he was sitting back down with a sigh. "We have a dozen left over from the island's club, not far down the road, that could not evacuate. It was safer to bring them here, near the station and airport."

Greg nodded. He kept his eyes closed and rolled his head from left to right. "Ah, makes sense. Still waiting on the next run?"

"No flights have come back for days, so yes. We're hoping they'll return within the week, but over radio we are warned that we are not priority. Andros was already hit by heavy storms before the surge, so there is cleanup to take of there."

"Oh, jeez. Talk about bad timing. Did the whole world go to shit during my little stunt?"

"Unfortunately, you were not the most exciting thing happening between our worlds." Zhivargo sighed. "But here we are, still alive at least. That means I can still go home to my family, and you can still go home to yours."

Greg opened his eyes at that. He raised his head to meet Zhivargo's eyes. "Married?"

The other man nodded. "Yes, happily now for eighteen years." He grinned. "And not so happily taking care of two terrible children that I miss greatly."

That made Greg smile. "Yeah, I can imagine. I hope you get back to them soon. They on Andros?"

Zhivargo shook his head. "New Providence, which is a blessing. The big island sheltered them from most of the damage. Though they still get to see this wonderful false snow we've been gifted."

"Yeah, something else, right? That must be some volcano, shooting out ash all the way over here."

"Hey, Moon Man!" called Jeremy. "You were in space. Can you really see the Great Wall of China up there?"

Greg pushed to his feet, chair scraping back. He put his best smile back on his face. "Oh? Uh, yeah, yeah! But only if you take binoculars." He nodded to the police chief. "You said you have a working radio? Any chance I can use that?"

The police chief nodded and got to his feet. "A good idea. Hopefully you got enough to eat?"

"Yeah, my guts gonna hate me for all the fat after the space food, but damned if I didn't miss a good cheeseburger."

#

San Salvador Island was, astronomically speaking, a speck. It was roughly 25 kilometers long and 10k wide. At 250 people, it had a permanent population that was less than most large offices. Its primary industry was tourism, and on San Salvador that was mostly through the local Club Med. They didn't own the island, not outright, but you wouldn't be mistaken to think they acted like they did.

It's main highway, The Queen's Road, circled the island in a scenic route that led nowhere. It had an international airport, but any airport that accepts planes from another country is considered international. Most of the flights in were to visit Club Med or some resort destination package with a cabin on the beach.

It was probably a lovely vacation destination. It was far from anything that would be intrusive to a person's attempts at relaxation. Yet, it was far from anything, and it had little in the way for resources for outsiders.

Greg probably would've been better off floating for a little longer, but the ocean currents hadn't really offered much of a choice. The Antilles Current was fickle and could've sent him to the United States or into the Gulf of Mexico. But it had split the difference and sent him drifting right in the middle.

So, he had some traveling to do. He really hoped he could at least contact someone. Barring that, he hoped he could catch the next flight to one of the bigger islands.

Greg followed Zhivargo from the bar after picking up Gull. The bird seemed slightly more alert, but still didn't seem wary enough to fly or otherwise escape. He'd left it a few small fish from a live bait tank across the street, and the minnows were gone. That seemed promising.

"Why do you have that bird?" Zhivargo seemed more perplexed each time he looked at the seagull. He shook his head and led them away from the bar toward a trail in the forest. "Is it your pet?"

"Uh, not really. I just, don't want it to die." Greg followed, stepping carefully, because he was still using his temporary footwear. He hated asking for replacements as the police officer had already given so much. The food had been overwhelmingly good.

"But, it is a wild animal. Many have been dying through this whole storm. Through this whole eruption." Zhivargo glanced over his shoulder. "Many, animals and people, will continue to die."

Greg sighed. "Yeah, you're not wrong there." He reached up, absently, and stroked a knuckle along Gull's side. The bird startled a bit, but at least it didn't jump away.

"I will never understand rescuing a creature when human lives are at stake. But, I have to say, I am curious what will happen with this creature. I've never seen one on a person's shoulder that was not trying to steal food."

Greg jogged along behind Zhivargo up a short flight of metal stairs. "Yeah, well, me neither. Trust me, I feel pretty stupid for carrying this thing around."

The police chief stopped at a windowless metal door. He chuckled and nodded toward Greg. "You do look pretty stupid. And with that jumpsuit? Like some space pirate. A NASA space pirate, except you have a seagull instead of a parrot."

Greg laughed at that image. "Well, that's something I'll remember forever now. Thanks."

Turning back to the door, Zhivargo pushed it open and waved at a woman and two men sitting inside. "Hello! Did you get Salamishah's report?"

The young woman stood and raised a hand toward Greg. "Indeed we did! Gregory Baker! I'm sorry to meet you in this way."

Greg smirked and shook her hand. "Yeah, feeling about the same right now. Were you following the jump?"

One of the two other men jumped up. "That's the man you found!?" He waved both arms toward Greg. "That is the Flying Ghost! You told Salamishah it was some random white man crashed at sea!"

"Well, he is some random white man, just one that you happen to know," agreed Zhivargo. He waved his hand dismissively. "Please, give him space, Christina. Chigozie. We need to use the radio."

Greg waved sheepishly. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Just trying to get in touch with someone at NASA, or someone who can talk to them."

"I'm sure they're worried sick! We all lost contact with your chopper after it passed the space station."

"Christina! Please. You can talk with him after we are done. I would like to get out a message before nightfall. We don't know who will be listening after dark other than emergency personnel."

"Aren't we all emergency personnel now?" The third man, who hadn't gotten to his feet, and actually in a full uniform, sighed. "Go on, children, psh. Stars in your eyes for no reason."

"Sure, Marlon. Don't try and play it too cool. You were listening to the broadcast with us."

"Would you all just go?" grumbled Zhivargo. "Go check on the airport, and the docks. Make sure the moorings are tight, and that the hangars are secure."

"Oh, uh, yes. Right away, sir." The three managed some gradual uniformity in their response before hurrying out the door.

Except for Marlon. He paused on the stairway landing and spun around. "Uh, why do you have a seagull on your shoulder?"

Zhivargo and Greg exchanged a glance. Greg shrugged and ran his knuckle along Gull's wing. "I'm a space pirate."