"Hard call, that one," he admitted. "Glad I'm not him." Not that he hadn't had to make horrible decisions and be the bearer of bad news before. Just made him a bit sympathetic.
"And no, it's not an us or them sort of thing," he agreed. "Not yet. Just people preparin' for the worst with what they have. I know I'll not be joining any mutinies just yet." He took a drink of his beer.
"And yes, there's not a damned thing I can find that explains anything we're dealing with save a general 'You're lost in the Bermuda Triangle. You're fucked.' Which isn't cheery or helpful, mind. Ought to post bloody signs at the bloody Keys. 'Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here. Maybe.' Since not everybody who comes this way gets fucked."
Cath was Irish, he believed as strongly in luck as he did in God himself. And luck came in sprees, both ways. He was praying this spot of bad luck didn't last.