by LeRoy Clary
“Meaning?” Sue asked with a sly glance in my direction.
He sighed. “Any flu survivor with access to a boat, and that means tens of thousands in Puget Sound, already headed for the upper San Juan Islands, or is about to. Even up to Canada. Too many people from Everett, Tacoma, Seattle, and smaller cities in between have boats. Those who survived and anticipated the lawlessness on land have headed for boats. I watched a dozen go past us yesterday.”
I must have revealed my disbelief in my expression. He pointed out to the main channel. I looked out the window and saw four boats moving with the others. There were two sailboats, a large fishing boat, and a small yacht. All going north in a small group.
Steve continued, “Those are the smart ones. It was like that all day. We heard a few gunshots, but think they were from the mainland. No boats returned except for you.”
Sue asked, “Then how do you know anything happened?”
He pointed to the radio. He cocked his head to hear the low voices. His hand went to the volume and turned it. Almost immediately, a voice demanded, “Shut down your engine or we’ll sink you.”
“Who are you?” a very scared female voice answered.
“The new owners of your boat and everything in it.” A series of gunshots sounded before the microphone clicked off.
Another voice, the same woman, now in near panic, said, “We don’t have any spare supplies. Just leave us alone or help me with my husband. You shot him.”
Nobody answered that plea.
Steve turned the knob down. “It was like that all day, yesterday. I assume a few boats made it past them. Others joined their navy, one way or another.”
Sue turned to the four boats that were passing us by. “We have to warn them.”
Steve reached for the microphone. He repeatedly asked for them to respond. He tried the other radio without success.
“We can get their attention by shooting in the air,” Sue said.
Steve shook his head. “They’ll just put more distance between us and them if we do that. Go faster.”
“We have to do something,” she insisted.
He handed her the microphone. “Keep trying to reach them. Turn the dial a single click at a time and wait for them to respond.” He turned the volume back up.
“Who is that out there? Answer me!” He was asking about Steve trying to warn the other boats. It was the voice of one of the people on the blockade.
Sue lifted the microphone and said slowly and with correct diction so it would not be misunderstood, “Go to hell.”
She shrugged and said to us, “We need to figure out how to warn other boats.”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know how.”
“You mentioned another way to the islands,” I said. “I’ve looked at the GPS and at the paper maps we have. That place ahead is a natural choke-point and there’s no other way. We’re not leaving the boat to travel on land, even if we have to remain around here and hide for a month.”
He smiled. “If there was another way, would you consider discussing going with you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I saw how you treated your last partner.”
“His hostage is more like it. You checked the magazine of the gun you took from me?”
I did. It was empty.
Steve continued, “He gave me the gun for show. To surrender to you. He never knew about the other one.”
“Why didn’t you kill him earlier?” Sue asked.
“He came aboard yesterday. In a little motorboat when he ran out of gas. Had his gun on me before I knew anything. My fault. I should have been more careful—like you were. I thought about killing him, but I’m not a cold-blooded killer. Not until today. I couldn’t let him shoot Bill and I didn’t know you were inside with that shotgun.”
“Tell me about another way up north,” I ordered. “If there is one.”
He reached for a rolled map and spread it on the desk in front of him. His finger pointed. “Deception Pass.”
Instead of traveling north as we had been doing, on the west side of Whidbey Island, his finger moved along the east side of Whidbey Island and retraced our route around the southern tip all the way to Everett where we’d stolen the Truant. His intent was clear. Go back the way we came and from there, continue north to a tiny place on the map where he now pointed. As I examined it, there was an opening at the top of the island that took us right to the San Juans, and we’d miss the blockade of boats ahead.
“Two days?” Steve said, guessing at the time to retrace our route and sail around. “Maybe three.”
I had my answer and since he had shared it with us before we made any promises, we could ignore his request to join us and sail away. With the information he’d provided, we could go on by ourselves. I looked at him, hard. He knew he’d given away his hole card, his ace. We didn’t need him anymore.
Or perhaps we did. I had no illusions about my lack of sailing abilities and scant knowledge of the most basic mechanics of the boat. My place in the world was in a dim basement with my computer screen in front of me. I ate delivered pizza, slurped soda by the can, and avoided interaction with people when possible. Now I’d been thrust into making life and death decisions for two of us—and perhaps three.
I was lost deep in thought, when Steve said, “Cap? How about it?”
I realized he was looking at me, then his eyes shifted to the radar screen and a startled expression made me look too. A boat from the north was coming directly at us. We rushed to the deck. A half-mile away, a large boat, what I’d call a cabin cruiser, was motoring our way, thirty feet long, with two decks above the main one. Men moved about.
“Weapons?” Steve asked as he lifted my rifle without asking.
“Five shells in that. It’s all we have. Sue has a pocket full of shotgun shells.”
His eyes went to my nine-millimeter.
“Three full magazines and more shells in my coat pocket. Sue has one, too. And the one that belonged to Micky.”
“Can you hit what you aim at?” he demanded sharply.
“Only if it’s thirty or forty feet away.”
His hand went to the starter button for the engine. “Go pull up the anchor.”
The engine grumbled to life as I used the electric winch to retrieve the anchor. I heard him talking to Sue. As the anchor lifted, the boat swung around in the wind and current. Steve fired the shotgun. He waited several seconds, and as I leaped to his side, he fired again. The shot splashed the water half-way between the other boat and us.
The boat continued racing at us without pause.
“So much for warning shots. Okay, Bill, you get inside and steer from inside there where it’s safer. Stay low. Just get us out into the main channel. Sue, fill the empties for me as fast as you can.”
The boat was about two football field lengths from us, and winks of light came from their guns as they began firing. Their boat dipped and dived in the rougher water of the main channel as it plunged ahead. We were relatively steady.
Steve was prone on the rear deck, my rifle in his hands. He fired. Worked the bolt and fired again. The boat swerved to one side, then came back on course. He’d either hit the person steering or scared him. Steve fired again. And again.
I steered the Truant for the center of the channel, which was to our left, full throttle. The boat surged and I saw through the front windows that Steve had set the jib. Our boat steadied as it cut through the chop with the narrow bow and increased in speed.
The other boat was faster but remained about a football-field length behind after Steve emptied my rifle into the area where the driver steers from. After Steve’s shooting, they were probably talking and making plans or being cautious. But he was out of rifle shells.
More random shots came our way.
Steve fired twelve shots from a nine-millimeter in half that many seconds. I saw glass and fiberglass erupt like little bombs all along the main deck of the hull. He ejected the magazine and slammed another home. He em
ptied it also in a few seconds, and there were only a few returning shots as the people took cover. I imagined everyone aboard ducking because he’d placed bullets all along the main deck, then the deck above.
Steve inserted the third clip and in a measured way, fired about a shot every two seconds, taking time to aim. I saw the splashes where they hit, right at the place where the hull met the water. He centered a dozen shots in an area a couple of feet wide, all right at the waterline. Pieces of fiberglass ripped and tore loose as the boat powered ahead. A ragged piece a foot wide came free on three sides and flapped against the water.
Sue handed him another full magazine. He continued shooting at the waterline, in the same place, on the right side of the boat, where the bow was widest. Sue handed him another mag as a flurry of bullets were suddenly fired at us. He fired the next rounds higher, at the main deck again, although I couldn’t see anybody for him to aim at.
He didn’t quit. She put the shotgun in his hands, and he fired at the upper decks, racked a new shell in place and fired again. At number five, he handed it back to Sue to reload, and he concentrated firing his pistol at the same place of the hull where a jagged hole grew.
I couldn’t take my eyes away. The cabin cruiser started leaning slightly to the right side, then more. It slowed and abruptly shut the engines off. We sailed away, and I reached for the binoculars. The boat already tilted farther to one side. It was almost ready to roll over and sink. People were in the water swimming for shore. The movement of our boat changed again. The engine stopped.
I ran up the four steps and found the mail sail had been extended. We were flying over the water. Steve had shut the motor down because we didn’t need it.
Steve was leaning over the side, almost his whole body lying on the side of the hull, on what should have been the steep sides of the boat but with it leaning, the sides were almost horizontal. He was looking at where we’d been hit. Sue had hold of his ankles. He called out, “Not too bad,” he decided. “A little patchwork and we’ll be fine, even if it looks ugly. The bilge pumps will handle it.”
“That’s all the damage we took?” I asked.
He rushed into the cabin with me at his heels. In the storeroom, he located a can of plastic patch repair and pried the top off. He squeezed a tube of clear liquid into it and stirred. Outside again, he ordered me to keep the boat on course and Sue held his ankles again. He scooped a palm-full of goop and slapped it on the hull, then repeated the process three more times.
He washed his hands while standing on the wooden step on the stern and it occurred to me how easily I could push him off and sail onward. I shouted, “Won’t the water wash that stuff off?”
“It’s made for patching fiberglass, even underwater.”
That made me feel better.
“We need to inspect the entire boat.” He said and started on his own. I didn’t know what to look for but pretended. I found a hole in the jib. He declared it was ripstop material so nothing to worry about for now. He didn’t mention when we should worry.
When we returned to the steering compartment again, Steve told me it was called the helm or cockpit. More of the damn sailor-talk. A steering wheel is a steering wheel. He had adjusted the sails and we were moving quickly. He said, “Sue, get on that radio and warn other boats.”
“I don’t know how. Nobody answered last time.”
“Take the wheel, Cap. Just keep her on this course.”
I took it and he showed Sue how to change channels and how to talk on the marine radio. “Warn them about the blockade at Fort Casey, the shooting and taking all boats.”
“What’s the right way to say it?” she asked.
“Just say it your way, Over and over. Every channel. People will ask questions. Try to answer but tell them people from the blockade chased us and tried to sink us. Do not under any circumstances tell them where we’re going.”
“Because they might try to go there too?” she asked.
“No. This is like talking on a community phone. Ten, twenty, or a hundred boats may hear you. Some of them will be those behind us. Good people. However, I expect the blockade to send at least one more boat after us when they find we sank that one, and the one they will send will be better armed and maybe have a steel hull.”
“Oh.” She started talking into the microphones, first one, then the other, one held in each fist.
I heard a person on a boat respond and ask her a few questions. She answered, but I was too busy to listen. They would heed our warnings or face the blockade. Their choice.
Steve returned to me, took the helm and said, “Listen, I’ve done a quick inventory and we’re in trouble.”
“Why?”
“We need ammunition and better guns that have range and power. Our propane is low and there’s not an extra tank on board. Our fuel is okay, and we’ll conserve it by using the sails. We also need bottled water and more food.”
“We have cases of water and there is dried food in containers.”
“I saw that. The problem is that you’re thinking about getting away and not thinking long term, Cap. Is that water and food we have on board going to last through spring?”
I turned the wheel slightly. His lecture and criticism were unwelcome when we should be celebrating a victory and our close call. More than one close call. We might have sailed directly into their trap, unaware if not for him.
My mood settled as his words sank in, and he had the wisdom to allow me to remain within myself as he went to check on Sue. When he returned, I apologized. “Tell me what we need to do.”
“About an hour from here, there’s a small settlement I spotted a couple of days ago. Five isolated houses in a cluster on the waterfront. I went ashore there, just long enough to make sure there were no people. It’s out of the way and in those houses will be things we need.”
“Going ashore is dangerous.”
“So is starving or swimming. We took a few rounds in the hull and the pumps are barely keeping up.”
I must have looked confused. He pointed to the rear of the boat. Water was shooting out like a garden hose with plenty of pressure. “Is that coming from inside our boat?”
“Yup.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Hope the batteries are fully charged. They’re going to need all the power they have with two pumps like that going full bore.”
“Two?” I asked dumbly.
He pointed to the other side, where another stream of water shot out in the opposite direction.
“We’re sinking?”
“The patches I made are holding, but there are other holes, probably on the other side of the hull where I couldn’t reach.” He nodded and pointed to a small jut of land off to our right. “Head for there.”
“Then what?”
He held up packets of thick, pink viscous liquid. “More emergency patches from your storeroom. We’ll break the seal between the chemicals, it’ll heat up, and glop the stuff on the hull. It’ll harden quickly, even in the water.”
I kept the boat on the course he’d indicated while he ran back inside and returned with two lifejackets. I said, “The holes are underwater? Right now?”
“That’s why we’re sinking,” he said with a hollow laugh.
“How are we going to apply the patches?”
“We’re going swimming,” he said as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard in days—and perhaps it was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When we reached the little sheltered jut of land, I went forward and set the anchor while Steve slipped over the side. I had my lifejacket on and ran back to follow him into the water. Sue was wearing one too, although we were only a few hundred feet from shore, and she was not going in with us to make repairs.
The water was cold. So cold my fingers refused to bend, and my legs had difficulty kicking. I held the packets of repair patches while Steve squeezed the material inside the tubes back and forth to mix them. This time, he wore rubber gloves and pou
red the thick, yellow concoction into his palm and his hand went underwater, where his other hand had located a bullet hole.
We moved forward a foot, and his probing hand found another. We repeated the procedure six times. Then, we both inspected the waterline and below, feeling the smooth hull while trying to find another hole. The accumulated growth on the hull was limited due to the reddish paint, Steve explained. In checking a second time, he was not satisfied with one patch we’d made and placed another over the top of it.
The cold water had numbed us. I shivered, and my fingers refused to grip the ladder built into the rear of the boat. Steve pushed my butt upward while Sue pulled me up. Then we both pulled Steve out of the water and into the cockpit., where we both lay like beached fish panting for breath.
Sue placed blankets over each of us, and we remained there in the late afternoon sun, trying to warm ourselves and take normal breaths.
Steve sat up slightly and tilted his head. “Hear that?”
“What?” I asked, listening carefully.
“Nothing.” He smiled. “No more water pumps.”
I looked over the side and he was right. The water that had been squirting out of each side of the boat was missing. The patches had worked, and the pumps had emptied the hull of water. He said, “It would be nice to take a nap here in the sun, but we haven’t got time.”
“What now?” I asked, feeling that if it had to do with entering the water again, I’d just shoot myself and get it over with.
He said, “We still have enough daylight to reach those houses I told you about. If we’re going to reach Deception Pass in two days, we better get on it, Cap.”
“How far to the houses?” Sue asked.
“I want to get there well before dark. I don’t think I can find them after dark,” Steve said. He ordered me to pull up the anchor while he started the engine and backed us out into deeper water before unfurling the jib. “An hour, maybe two.”
We’d have to talk about him calling me “Cap” and then ordering me around. That was backward. If I was the captain, I should have a say in things. I thought those thoughts while bringing the anchor on board as he told me to do.