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replied. “The pay is good, enough for someone wanting to disappear permanently.” He paused. “Or stay. You seem quite welcome here.”
    Reho returned his gaze to the Atlantic. Emotions that had evaded him for years now bubbled beneath his skin and swelled in his gut. No one was meant to keep so much inside.
    “We are taking our cargo to New Afrika,” Ends said.
    New Afrika. One of the few lands left unaffected by the Blasts. A place filled with communities that he hadn’t heard about or seen merchandise from since he was a kid.
    He didn’t turn around but knew what answer he needed to give. There hadn’t been two choices here. There was only one.
    “I’m Reho.”

Chapter 3
    Reho had imagined the boat differently. As they’d walked to join the other crewman, Ends had described the boat as being capable of reaching Darksteam in New Afrika in ten days. Reho expected that a boat with alien technology would look different than the rusted boats he had grown up around as a kid. If it could do what Ends described, no would expect the tattered vessel to carry 450,000 points worth of what he had referred to as electronic military devices, EMDs. He’d offered no more explanation than that.
    “What’s he doing here?” someone shouted from the boat as Reho and Ends stepped onboard.
    “I told you this was nonnegotiable, Thursday,” Ends replied.
    Thursday was tall with tanned skin and an athletic frame that rippled with muscles. His face was rugged like an alley fighter’s. His eyes were soft blue, but set in an intimidating face, they lost their appeal. His head was shaved, and he wore a thick goatee.
    “We don’t know this guy,” he said. “We just watched him kill three men. Hell, his leg is bleeding. Look at him. He’s wounded. How can we take someone who’s wounded?”
    A woman ascended from inside the ship. “He doesn’t seem to be limping.” She grinned and stood beside Ends.
    Ends’ expression told the others that he’d already made up his mind. “He heals quickly.”
    Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, revealed a face that had seen its share of hard times. It was thin and boney but with hints of beauty. Her lips were full and red, not something he’d expected from someone who could pass as a soldier. Her eyes were bloodshot, and stressed screamed from the bags under her eyes and creases on her forehead. Her glazed expression suggested inebriation.
    She attempted a smile. “I’m Sola,” she said as she offered her hand. “Welcome aboard. If this barrel doesn't sink halfway across the Atlantic, then perhaps you will be of some help in Darksteam.”
    Reho nodded, taking her hand.
    A skinny man appeared from below. He was shorter than the rest, and, in contrast to the others, his eyes were smart, his skin unblemished. His Lakers’ jersey sported the number 33.
    He waved and offered a big smile. “I’m Gibson.”
    Reho nodded.
    He laughed, but his nervousness was apparent. “I guess my parents weren’t fooling me when they told me to eat my greens.” He looked at Ends. “So he’s part of our A-Team now?”
    “Who said you was on this A-Team?” Thursday asked, eyeing Gibson. “I look around and what do I see?” His eyes darted from person to person, as laughter erupted between Sola and Gibson. He targeted each.
    He crossed his arms and shot Ends his most pissed-off-looking face. “Dalton.”
    He unfolded his arms and flexed his biceps. “I’m Chuck Norris . ”
    Sola snickered. He shot both his arms at her like bazookas. “Molly Ringwald.”
    Sola flipped both middle fingers toward him.
    “Whoa, enemy fire!” Thursday said, hiding his face behind his arms.
    “And you?” Thursday said, nodding to Reho. He drummed his fingers across his cheek in an effort to appear deep in thought. “ Hmmm . . .”
    “What about me?” Gibson asked.
    Thursday chuckled and stepped away from the group. “I think it would be better if I didn’t answer that one, dip stick!”
    “This is the