Chapter 24: The Canal - Part 1
Monday - Day Twelve of the Outbreak
The Central American coast appeared on our third day south—a jagged green line against blue sky. We'd been avoiding it, staying thirty miles offshore, but fuel was running low and the Panama Canal was our only option.
"Going around South America adds three months to the journey," Strand explained during breakfast. "Cape Horn is treacherous even with a full crew and proper navigation equipment. We'd never make it."
"So we go through the Canal," Travis said.
"If they let us."
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Because infrastructure collapses mean power vacuums, and power vacuums get filled by whoever has the most guns." Strand checked the navigation equipment. "The Canal is strategic. Whoever controls it controls passage between oceans. That's valuable."
"Valuable enough to kill for?" Madison asked.
"Everything's valuable enough to kill for now."
We approached the Canal entrance Monday afternoon. The closer we got, the more signs of civilization—or what passed for it—appeared. Makeshift guard towers. Armed patrols on speedboats. And boats, dozens of them, anchored in a massive floating traffic jam.
"Christ," Nick muttered. "It's like the 405 during rush hour."
"Worse," I said. "Traffic jams don't usually have machine guns."
A patrol boat intercepted us three miles out. Four men aboard, military-style fatigues but no insignia. The leader raised a megaphone.
"Halt and prepare for boarding. This is Canal Authority jurisdiction."
"Canal Authority?" Travis frowned. "I thought the government collapsed."
"It did," Strand said. "These are opportunists. Former military, probably. Took over when Command evacuated."
The patrol boat pulled alongside. The leader—a Latino man in his forties with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—climbed aboard with two armed guards.
"I'm Commander Vargas. Canal Authority. You want passage?"
"Yes," Strand said smoothly. "We're heading to the Caribbean. Just passing through."
"Everyone's just passing through. That's fine. We facilitate passage. For a fee."
"What kind of fee?"
Vargas smiled. "Depends on what you've got. Fuel, food, medical supplies. Valuables. Gold, jewelry, anything tradeable."
Strand pulled out his wallet. "Cash?"
"Paper's worthless. We deal in hard goods."
"I have a Rolex. Genuine. Worth twenty thousand in the old world."
Vargas examined it, nodded approvingly. "This'll get you started. But we need more. Bigger boat means bigger toll."
Strand produced his gold cufflinks, a designer watch, three bottles of aged whiskey he'd been hoarding. Vargas's men catalogued everything.
"Good start. We'll need provisions too. Half your food stores."
"Half?" Madison protested. "That'll leave us with barely two weeks of supplies!"
"Then you ration better. Or you don't use the Canal." Vargas's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Your choice."
Daniel moved closer, shotgun held casually. "That seems excessive."
"That seems fair. You want to go around South America? Be my guest. Otherwise, you pay the toll."
Strand looked ready to negotiate further when Vargas's attention shifted. He was looking at Alicia, who'd come topside to see what was happening.
"Who's the girl?"
"My daughter," Madison said immediately. "And she's off limits."
"I'm just asking names. Friendly conversation." But his eyes lingered too long, assessed too thoroughly.
"Alicia," she said flatly. "And I'm eighteen. And armed. And really not interested."
Vargas laughed. "Got fire. I like that. Tell you what—throw in the girl for one night, and your toll is cut in half."
Madison moved between them faster than I'd seen her move. "Touch my daughter and I'll gut you with your own knife."
Vargas's guards raised their weapons. Daniel chambered a round. I appeared at Vargas's flank, Glock held low but ready.
The standoff stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. Everyone calculating whether violence was worth it.
Strand broke the tension. "Commander Vargas. Perhaps we can discuss additional consideration that doesn't involve my passengers."
"Like what?"
"Medical services." Strand gestured to me. "Jax is a trained medical resident. Trauma specialist. I noticed your compound has wounded. We provide medical care, you provide passage."
Vargas considered it. "You a real doctor?"
"Close enough," I said. "I can treat gunshot wounds, infections, set bones. Basic field medicine."
"We've got twelve men needing attention. Some worse than others."
"I'll do what I can."
He studied me, calculating. Then nodded. "Deal. But the girl stays on the boat. Under guard. Insurance."
"No," Madison said.
"Then no passage."
"The girl stays," Strand agreed before Madison could object. "But our people guard her. Your men stay on the dock."
"My men, your boat. If you try to leave, they sink you."
"Fair enough."
Madison grabbed Strand's arm. "You can't agree to this."
"I just did. Jax provides medical care, we get passage. Alicia stays safe on the boat with Daniel and Nick guarding her. Everyone wins."
"Except me," I said. "I'm walking into a hostile military compound alone."
"You'll be fine. You're resourceful." Strand turned back to Vargas. "When do we start?"
"Now. Bring your medical kit. My men will escort you."
[ TIMER: 62:15:44 ]
Sixty-two hours. Two and a half days. Still comfortable, but the countdown was always there.
I gathered my medical supplies—what little we had left after treating Liza and various injuries. Madison pulled me aside before I could leave.
"Don't trust them. They'll use you, then kill you if it's convenient."
"I know."
"Then why are you going?"
"Because we need to get through the Canal, and this is the price." I looked at her. "Besides, medical facilities might have supplies I need. For my condition."
"What condition?"
"The one I keep mentioning and you keep ignoring."
"Jax—"
"I'll be fine. Just keep Alicia safe. If anything happens to her while I'm gone, I'll burn that compound to the ground."
She searched my face. "You mean that."
"Every word."
I climbed into Vargas's patrol boat. Two guards with rifles watched me constantly. We motored toward the Canal compound—a converted shipping facility with concrete walls and guard towers. Easily fifty men visible, plus however many were inside.
This is either going to work or I'm going to die. No middle ground.
Vargas led me through the compound. It was organized chaos—former soldiers maintaining military discipline, but with the edges fraying. Weapons everywhere, food being rationed, tension thick enough to taste.
"Medical bay is here," Vargas said, opening a door. "Twelve patients. Some gunshot wounds, some infections. One guy with a broken leg we couldn't set properly. Do what you can."
Inside, the medical bay was a disaster. Men lying on cots, groaning. The smell of infection and unwashed bodies. No proper sterilization, bandages that hadn't been changed in days.
A woman in nurse's scrubs appeared—late twenties, exhausted. "You're the doctor?"
"Medical resident. Close enough. What's the situation?"
She walked me through each patient. Three gunshot wounds—one treated poorly and now infected. Five cases of minor infections from cuts that weren't cleaned. Two broken bones. One case of what looked like pneumonia. One man who'd been bitten by something—probably a walker, but he'd hidden it.
"Him first," I said, pointing to the bite victim. "Separate room. Now."
"Why?"
"Because if he turns while I'm treating someone else, people die."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. She helped me move him to an isolated room, locked the door.
"How long has he been bitten?"
"Three days. He said it was a dog. But—"
"It wasn't a dog. He's infected. He'll turn within hours."
"Can you cure him?"
"No. But I can make sure he doesn't hurt anyone when he goes."
I treated him anyway—cleaned the wound, administered antibiotics that wouldn't work. Kept him comfortable. He died two hours later. I waited thirty minutes, knife ready. When he reanimated, I put him down quickly.
The nurse—her name was Patricia—watched without flinching. "That was mercy."
"That was necessity."
We moved to the other patients. I worked through them systematically—cleaning wounds, administering what antibiotics we had, setting the broken leg properly. It took six hours. By the end, my hands were covered in other people's blood and my head was pounding from exhaustion.
"You're good at this," Patricia said. "Better than our regular medic."
"Where is he?"
"Dead. Tried to evacuate with Command. Got shot for his trouble."
"And you stayed."
"Someone has to help people. Even if those people are barely better than pirates."
I liked her immediately. "You want off this compound."
"Desperately. But I have nowhere to go."
"You do now. When I leave, you're coming with me."
"Vargas won't allow it."
"Vargas doesn't get a vote."
She looked at me—really looked—and saw something that made her decide. "Okay. When?"
"Soon. Be ready."
Vargas found me as I was washing up. "My men are impressed. You actually knew what you were doing."
"That was the idea."
"So here's the new deal. You stay. Work for Canal Authority. We give you housing, food, protection. You keep my men alive."
"No."
"Wasn't really a question."
"Then let me clarify: I'm leaving. With my boat. With Patricia. You try to stop me, and your medical bay becomes a morgue."
He studied me. "You're bluffing."
"Try me."
We locked eyes. He saw something there—maybe the virus, maybe just determination—that made him recalculate.
"Fine. Take the nurse. But you owe me."
"We paid your toll. We're even."
"For now."
He led me back to the dock. The Abigail sat where we'd left it, Daniel and Nick visible on deck, rifles ready. Alicia waved from below.
I climbed aboard with Patricia behind me. Strand raised an eyebrow.
"New passenger?"
"Medical expertise. We need it."
"One more mouth to feed."
"One more pair of hands to help. Take it or leave it."
He accepted it. Vargas's men cast off our lines. The Abigail motored into the Canal, engines rumbling.
As we passed through the locks, I stood at the stern watching the compound recede. Vargas stood on the dock, watching us go. He raised a hand in mock salute.
I didn't return it.
"Think he'll cause trouble?" Madison asked.
"Probably. But we'll be long gone by then."
We sailed through the Panama Canal, from Pacific to Caribbean, civilization collapsing behind us while we pushed forward into an uncertain future.
[ TIMER: 58:33:12 ]
Less than three days. And counting down.
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