by Jeff Schanz
He sighed. Sleep wouldn’t be coming for a while. His mind was too active. He lit a candle and started reviewing one of Lia’s boat-building books. He was U.S. Army, not Navy, and didn’t know much about boats, so he’d have to rely on some expert advice from the books. There were some questions that he needed to answer about the state of the hull, so he brought the candle with him to the trawler and thoroughly scanned the craft.
Questions partially answered, he knew what he needed to do overall, but it would require time and some kind of plan. There was nowhere he needed to be and sleep was overrated. He set to work on the plan.
CHAPTER 17
Brandt felt pretty good the next morning. He had a new plan and even got some sleep. The sleep wasn’t long, but it was deep, which had always been enough when he was in the Army. Though he wasn’t really hungry, he figured he’d probably get hungry fast once he started working, so he downed half of a meatball MRE. He didn’t even look before he opened it. He had eaten enough MREs in the Army to know that sometimes it was better not to know what you were eating. Expectations can ruin things.
His first task was to test the hull for leaks, and the best way to do that was to float the boat. The thing would have to be pushed all the way into the water, then Brandt would sit around and see if any water came through the bottom. The scientific method.
The trawler had been sitting on the cave shore for years, and the sand’s grip didn’t want to let go without a struggle, but once the suction was broken, the little boat started to slide pretty easily. The boat wasn’t as heavy as Brandt thought, which would be helpful should he need to patch any leaks. Patching leaks would likely mean he’d have to tip the boat over on its side on the shore, sand it down, and fill cracks. If no leaks came through on this test, then maybe he would be able to skip that and just worry about the mast and rigging.
The boat released from the ground and was suddenly buoyant. It bobbed in the water and floated deeper into the lagoon.
Yes! Of course, it didn’t mean the sonuvabitch wasn’t leaking, but Brandt worried that the thing wouldn’t float at all. But float it did. It looked like the legitimate watercraft that it was supposed to be. Brandt had been optimistic before, but now he had good reason. The damned thing floats! Small victories. Now for leaks.
He waded out to the boat and hopped on board. Realizing that his wet clothes might drip everywhere, complicating the distinction between puddles from leaks and puddles from him, he stripped down to his boxers. He wasn’t embarrassed about his body. The opposite. He was in great shape and was proud of his six-pack. He had once paraded around shirtless at a party just to get the interest of drunk, shallow women. That particular night, he was only interested in getting laid, and the stunt worked exactly as he had hoped. But today’s strip-down was just practical. The only worry he had was if Lia happened by, she’d get an eyeful, and likely might faint from embarrassment. Then again, maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed. Well, innocent or not, she’ll get a show if she drops by for a visit.
Water was squeezed from his shirt and he dried himself with it, then he sat down in the boat and waited. The target time was at least ten minutes. He didn’t want to be premature about this experiment. Having no watch, it was a guess that time might be up when he decided to have a look. He opened a hatch on the deck and peered into the bilge area. The deck ran the whole rear half of the boat, which was the half of the hull that had still been in the water all the years that it had been in the cave. So far, there were no leaks. He wasn’t expecting to find any there. The water had kept the hull from being eaten away by bacteria, or bugs, or whatever it was that ate through things like wood. So far, so good.
He went into the cabin area. It was less a cabin and more of a covered forward area that could be used for either storage or sleeping. Judging by the dense clutter he struggled to clean out, the last crew of this craft probably preferred the storage option better. But Brandt had already cleaned out everything from the cabin, and it was nothing more than bare wood. The little hatch that opened to the hold or forward bilge area was stuck, and Brandt had to pry it loose. He lowered a candle down there and saw what he was expecting to see. Hoping not to see – but expecting: Several good sized puddles of water. There were also a bunch of areas with just droplets of water that looked like air bubbles, and some areas that just barely glistened like they were thinking about leaking. But even if he wanted to risk it and leave the droplet areas alone, the puddles were enough on their own to indicate what would happen if he went to sea for several hours. Strangely, they were all on the side of the boat that had been exposed to the air. To make sure, he watched them a few minutes longer and the puddles were indeed getting larger. There was no getting around the fact that he needed to go to stage two.
He expected stage two to be the hardest and it lived up to expectations. After he re-grounded the boat, he needed to tip her over. The divot in the shoreline where the boat had been sitting before was perfect to sit her back in, but he needed to lean the boat over to get to the whole side of the hull that was leaking. He didn’t have a great plan for that. A plan yes, just not a great one. He needed leverage. A dockyard might have things like pulleys, a fulcrum, a crane, etc. Brandt had some rope, some climbing ratchets, and his legs. An exactly one “Brandt-power” engine. It would have to do.
In the end, he was able to shove and shimmy the boat in its sandy seat, then tug it with ropes and climbing ratchets until the thing rolled onto its side. Brandt had pushed his muscles to the brink completing the task and needed a good rest. He decided since he was already essentially naked, he’d go for a swim and just float on his back in the lagoon. The cold water was an excellent remedy for his sore muscles, and he felt refreshed. If Lia came by now, she would still get a show, but the show would be much smaller since cold water does things to certain areas of a man.
Feeling better, and not quite ready to re-don his clothes, he did two things. First, he set out an old trap he had removed from the trawler. It might have been a crab or lobster trap, he wasn’t sure, but it could be closed from the top which was what mattered. He placed that near the shore in the lagoon and submerged it within a few inches of the top. Then he took his net out to the beach. This time he took more care to perfect his cast, and also tried a few new areas. All told, he caught seven fish. He carried those back to the submerged trap and dropped the live fish inside. They splashed and flopped, then calmed down, and finally settled into that hovering, wiggle thing that fish do to stay in one spot. Perfect. Now he could kill and eat a fresh fish at his leisure, and wouldn't need to go fishing every time he was hungry and wasn't in the mood for an MRE. Speaking of which, he was hungry enough to finish the second half of the meatball stuff he had started that morning. He drank most of what was left of his water and made a mental note to fill up at Lia's water reservoir. A dry pair of jeans and blue t-shirt from the dead mercenaries' getaway clothing bag replaced is old wet clothes.
With the boat on its side, and the diagnosis complete, the next task was to find the materials he needed to fix the leaks. The last time he was in the woodworking shed he noticed a few things he thought he could use, and the book gave him a few more ideas. There were some two-by-fours to prop the boat up and keep it from rolling back over and crushing him. He had also seen a sanding block. There were some cans of industrial lacquer, which he thought he could use to fill in the smaller cracks, and some cans of tar he thought he should coat the inside of the bilge with. That wasn’t in the book. He wasn’t sure that would be something normal boat people would do, but it sounded like a good idea. And there were cans of paint, which would put the final layer over the hull to prevent leaking. It would be great if the paint was heavy-duty marine paint, but it was probably just house paint. The items in the shed had all been brought over for the construction of the house, whenever that had happened.
Brandt began a constitutional to scout for boats, or any suspicious looking craft, when he got to the upper surface of
the island. He stood on a northwestern cliff and watched the only thing he saw on the ocean: A distant little sport-fishing boat. He could barely make out the boat's shape even with binoculars, so there was no way he could see who was aboard, or vice versa. But it looked harmless. He spent ten minutes scouting, then got on with his day.
Brandt walked across the island’s open area on his way to the woodworking shed, whistling some tune he had forgotten the name of. He glanced over at the house and wondered how Lia’s experiments were going. He hadn’t seen her since she had left the previous evening. She might be napping now since it was midday and the sun was at its brightest. Or she might be somewhere on her mountain. He didn’t recall the times she said she normally went up there. Or perhaps she was slinking around the barn watching him. She always seemed to be somewhere that she could watch him. Stalker. He didn’t mind, but he did think it was funny. Maybe if he had been alone on this island for years and years he’d hover around a new visitor too.
He finished whistling his tune and he was trying to decide what song to do next when he had an idea. It was a silly but wicked idea. He thought about how Lia, the little minx, had eavesdropped on him before when he was singing with abandon. Since he was the island's only entertainment, well… why not put on a show?
In high school, he had been a part of a homecoming skit that featured mimicry of famous music artists. Some people sang like their vocal heroes, while others just danced. Brandt did a dance routine of Michael Jackson’s famous stage performance of “Billie Jean” that included the moonwalk. Brandt had studied the routine and had always been athletic and limber. He carried it off well, could even moonwalk, and more than a few girls were so impressed that he got his choice of homecoming dates. He still remembered the routine, although he was rusty. Surveying his position, he was in the middle of the open area of the island with nothing around. The ground was only a little uneven, mostly flat. It was like a giant grass and dirt stage. He grinned like a demon.
To the air, he said, “Alright, Lia. You like to watch me? Here ya go. It’s showtime!”
He struck the opening pose. Left leg forward, on tiptoe. Scrunch down, right hand holding a pretend hat on his head. He took a cleansing breath, trying to remember the moves. The heavy beats thumped in his head. Switch to left hand on belt, right hand out. Hip thrust up, down, up, down. “Hoo hoo, hoo hoo. Hoo hoo, hoo hoo.” Kick, slap knee, twist, switch direction, repeat knee, twist, cross foot, hands flared, cross feet, cross again, toss imaginary hat. Foot wiggle and glide, comb hair. Feet wiggle, flare, wiggle, flare.
He sang, “She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene. I said, don’t mind, but what do you mean, ‘I am the one who will dance on the floor in the round?’ She said, I am the one who will dance on the floor in the round.”
Right leg up, twist, down, pant pull, back to foot wiggle, flare. Repeat.
“She told me her name was Billie Jean, as she caused a scene. Then every head turned with eyes that dreamed of being the one who will dance on the floor in the round.”
The whole routine came back to him as he went. Throw kick, spin, hand flare, hip thrust. He thought he may just stop there and call it a day for teasing Lia’s voyeurism, wherever she was. But he couldn’t help it. It was only supposed to be a joke, but he was having fun remembering. Triple spin, tiptoe pose, strut, foot flare. Then he got to the moonwalk. It had been a while. The first step was mangled, but the second one touched right. He scraped across the uneven ground in a decent impersonation of the King of Pop’s infamous dance move. He finished feet wide, right hand up. A little more Freddie Mercury than Michael Jackson. Whatever.
He looked up toward the mountain, then glanced over at the barn. Lia wasn’t visible, but she was probably hiding somewhere, the little sneak. He held out an imaginary mic and dropped it.
He spent the rest of the day sanding down the offending area of the hull. The hull got a thick dose of lacquer, the hope being that the lacquer would soak into the wood and fill the tinier cracks. The more obvious holes got a mixture of sandy tar and lacquer over top. He would re-sand that down later, and then paint it. The paint situation was a stroke of luck. Strangely, there had been some heavy duty marine paint in the shed. Apparently, Viktor had the house-building crew use marine paint on the upper floor exterior to best guard against the moisture and storms out here. There were several cans of white marine paint, and some grey trim marine paint. Brandt chose the grey, figuring he would leave as much extra exterior paint as possible in case Lia or Viktor needed to recoat the upper floor.
He couldn’t paint until the lacquering was dry, which would take a while, so he had time on his hands to wait. He took some time to clean and sand down the wheelhouse, albeit sideways, until he became weary of the task. It was late afternoon and both Lia and her dad would soon be able to move around easier in the coming darkness.
Lia had mentioned before that she hadn’t had fish in a while, and since he had decided to cook himself some, he made two. He downed his a little faster than he’d prefer since he had done a good job seasoning and cooking the fish, robbing his taste buds the chance to savor it, but he was too hungry.
He had found a long extendable wooden ladder in the shed and placed that at the cliff that led to and from the beach, so now he could get up and down easier. A little harder carrying food in one hand, but he managed. Carrying Lia’s fish dinner, Brandt walked back to the house.
Lia was upstairs in a room he hadn’t seen yet. It was decked it out in medical equipment atop wooden tables. When he entered the house, he had called to her, but she didn’t bother to come out and greet him, rather just called down that he should come up if he wished. Busy. He presented the fish plate on his forearm like he was a waiter at a snobby restaurant.
“Your dinner, madam,” he said with a silly head bow.
She glanced up and gave him a quizzical look.
“You said you hadn’t had fish in a while,” he said.
She managed a wan smile. “Oh. Thank you.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “That’s very sweet.”
She was in the same dress she had been in the previous day. Her hair was piled up now, strands out of place, and her usually pressed dress was wrinkled and creased. Although she was always pale, she looked worn down. He hadn’t seen her like this yet. She had a microscope in front of her and several stacks of Petri dishes around her.
She yawned and then looked around the room. “What time is it?”
“After sundown. I figured you and your father would be up and at ‘em.”
She nodded. “I never went to sleep. I’ve been at this for a while.”
“Sorry.”
He placed the fish on the table behind her. She made no attempt to turn around and sample it yet. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and blinked rapidly, then placed her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “Forgive me, I’m not good company right now. I’m very frustrated with my work.”
“It’s ok,” he said. “I’m done with mine until tomorrow. I figured I’d check on you and see how you were coming. What’s the matter?”
Lia sighed and rubbed her temples again. “I’m not sure. I feel like throwing things against the wall.” Her gaze was far away and her expression distant and disturbing. Whatever was bothering her had her in its grip. Her eyes closed for a brief moment, she tensed, then gritted her teeth in a sudden growl. Seeming to surprise herself, she looked up with apologetic eyes. “See, I’m not exactly myself at the moment.”
Brandt had the notion that maybe she was asking to be left alone. And if that was the case, he’d oblige, but he knew sometimes frustrated people needed an ear, too. He’d try that first.
“Listen, sweetie, if you want to be alone, I’ll let you be. But if you need a sympathetic ear, I’m right here. Shoot.”
Lia’s eyes broadened then squeezed narrower, trying to decide. She stared blankly at her lap.
Brandt smiled and stood up. “It’s alright.
I’ll check back tomorrow. You need some peace.”
She said quickly, “No – stay. Please.”
He sat back down.
“I think all my samples are corrupted,” she said.
“All the blood you took yesterday?”
She nodded. “I don’t know how, but the same problem is in every sample. There are elements of my afflicted blood in the cells. It’s not exactly the same, like it’s a hybrid, but I think the new blood somehow got corrupted by mine, and there’s been a reaction.”
“Ok. Can the reaction be used to your benefit somehow?”
“To a degree. But I really needed a control, and the reaction complicates things. And since I don’t have the control, I can’t gauge the reaction well. So, I’m guessing. And guessing is bad science. In short, I can’t do what I needed to do.”
“What about the blood your father used the other night?”
“That’s a hybrid of my own blood and whatever little my father can bring back from his travels. It won’t function as a control.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gently patted her knee. She didn’t react. She just stared blankly at her Petri dishes.
“I’ve been checking and double-checking everything since the other night,” she said. “I didn’t think I had worked through the day, but I guess I did. I’m still going to try a few more things, but I think I might have to dismiss everything since last night.”