by Joe Nobody
As the group trekked toward the marina, one man switched on a flashlight. This drew a harsh reaction from some of the others, “What are you trying to do? Warn all the boaters we’re coming?”
Wyatt caught a glimpse of a short-lived beam of light. He nudged Mike, who had been scouring the marina’s landscape in the other direction. “I think we have company on the way. I just saw a flashlight turn on over there.”
Mike scanned where Wyatt indicated, but couldn’t see anything. He whispered, “What do you think we should do?”
Wyatt kept his gaze in the general direction where he’d seen the light. He motioned Mike to follow, and they scurried behind a parked car. The moon was providing just enough illumination to outline the gang of looters as they rounded the corner of the marina’s property. Wyatt’s heart was racing in his chest, and he could hear a ringing in his ears. The back of his knees felt wet, and he noticed his hands were shaking. Just go away, he thought, just go away, and leave us alone.
There was little doubt in Wyatt’s mind who the men were or what they were after. As the group approached, he heard a rustling of cloth and looked down to see Mike had drawn his pistol. Wyatt shook his head “No,” but didn’t think Mike noticed the signal. He was busy peeking over the trunk of their cover, inspecting the advancing raiders.
Wyatt waited until the group progressed to within 150 feet of their position and stood up. As he rose up from behind the car, he chambered a round in the shotgun. The noise was unmistakable - the last sound anyone sneaking onto a property with ill intent wants to hear. Everyone froze.
Wyatt flinched when his own voice projected at a much higher pitch than normal. “Good evening. Could I be of assistance to you gentlemen?”
A nervous voice answered, “We are…uh…we’re on our way to get some food. Do you have a problem with that?”
Wyatt found his resolve, responding in a calmer tone. “Well, friend, that depends on where you plan on finding this food. If you’re just passing through, I have no problem at all. If you’re planning to shop on any of these boats, then we have an issue.”
Wyatt’s remark caused the men he was facing to begin whispering among themselves. Clearly, they hadn’t anticipated meeting any resistance, or if they had mapped out a course of action, it wasn’t something they seemed eager to implement. The longer their discussion went on, the more confident Wyatt felt.
Mike was standing right behind him, and that bothered Wyatt more at the moment than the approaching group of looters. Wyatt knew that their standing adjacent to each other was a poor tactical position, opening them up to more danger. He motioned for Mike to move away just a little, to put some space between them. His co-sentry did move, but not nearly far enough to be fully effective. Wyatt let it go, the man seemingly uncomfortable putting too much distance between them.
After what seemed like a full minute of conversation, another voice rang out from the crowd. “You don’t own all these boats, buddy. We have just as much right to anything on them as you do. We won’t bother any that have people onboard.”
“How’s that going to work? Wyatt asked. “Ding, dong. Avon calling? You don’t have any way of knowing which boats are empty. People aren’t going to answer their door when they look out and see a bunch of armed strangers standing around.”
“We’ll figure it out,” was the terse response.
Wyatt had anticipated the tactic. “Now let me ask you something, partner. Let’s say a big group of men strolled over to your neighborhood and started breaking in unoccupied homes. Wouldn’t you and your friends have a problem with that?”
Again there was much whispering and discussion, but of a shorter duration than before. The same voice answered back, more pointed this time. “There’s a difference between a man’s home and a boat. Unless someone lives on his boat, it’s a toy…not a residence. Like I said, we’ll leave any occupied boat alone.”
Wyatt decided to bluff his way through. “We don’t look at it that way. These boats are owned by our friends and neighbors. We all look out for each other because any one of these owners might show up tomorrow. Didn’t you see the fires burning in Houston? These boats may be the only shelter some of our friends have left.”
That rebuttal caused even more hushed conversation. While the shadows of the night limited the view, Wyatt thought for sure one or two of the group walked away. Good, he thought, divide and conquer.
While the invaders were discussing his logic among themselves, Wyatt turned to Mike and whispered, “If they start to move forward, fire the first shot into the air. That will bring help and serve to warn them. If your pistol doesn’t go off, I’ll do it.” Mike nodded nervously and moved a little closer to Wyatt, only to be shooed away…again.
The same voice rang out once more. “I don’t think you’re willing to kill another man over the slim chance someone might show up and might need their boat.”
Wyatt thought the fellow had a good point there. He was trying to think up some macho, bravado-laced answer when the looter’s voice continued, “Besides, if you don’t let us gather up some food, you’ll be killing people anyway. We’ve all got family that is hungry and starting to get sick. Little kids and old people, too. Someone’s going to die. Do you want all that blood on your hands?”
Mike grunted, “Bull hockey.”
The interloper’s words got to Wyatt. He fully understood what the guy was saying, and his mind started drifting off, wondering how he suddenly was in this position. No one had elected him mayor of Marinaville. He didn’t want the job. His momentary introspection was interrupted by the urgency in Mike’s voice. “Something’s happening. Somebody’s moving over there.”
Wyatt’s head snapped up, and he could see Mike was correct. It looked like three or four of the looters were splitting off. They’re trying to get around us, he thought. What’s the term? They’re trying to flank us. Wyatt turned to Mike and said, “Fire a shot in the air. This is getting out of hand, and we need help.”
Even in the darkness, Wyatt could see the pitiful look on Mike’s face. There was a hesitation for a moment. Wyatt thought the man wasn’t going to do it, but then he pointed the small pistol in the air and pulled the trigger. Click.
Mike looked helplessly at the gun and then muttered, “Oh, crap.” He racked the slide, sending a round into the chamber and tried again. Boom!
The discharge echoed across the water surrounding the marina and caused both men to jump. Not only were their ears ringing, but the flash from the small handgun’s muzzle left white streaks in their vision. Crap, thought Wyatt, now I am deaf and blind.
Nothing happened for what seemed like several seconds. Wyatt was peeking over the hood of the car, trying to get his vision back so he could check on the gang of looters. Mike was shaking his head, trying to get the ringing out of his ears.
Evidently, one of the trespassers didn’t understand it was a warning shot and fired back. Wyatt saw the cloud of white light silhouette the shooter and immediately heard the bullet impact the sheet metal he was hiding behind. Everything became a blur after that.
Wyatt popped over the hood of the car, firing and pumping the shotgun.
Wham!…shszit…Wham!…shszit…Wham! Mike was absolutely frozen by the escalation, having trouble commanding his limbs to move. Finally, the message got through. Without looking over the trunk, he extended his arm and blindly fired two shots in the general direction of the threat.
The muzzle flash from the shotgun had really screwed up Wyatt’s night vision. The effect of the blood racing through his veins was negligible, given the bells that were ringing in his ears. He kept rising and ducking behind his cover, head pivoting left and right, stretching to see anything in the darkness. He kept expecting a surge of dozens of furious looters, charging at any moment.
Wyatt sensed, more than heard, movement over his shoulder. His first reaction was to spin the scattergun around, sure one of the attackers had gotten behind him. “Coming in! Coming in!” David’s voice
yelling registered in his mind before his muzzle was pointed at his son.
David sprinted, bent at the waist, the assault rifle cradled in his arms. Using the side of the car to break his forward momentum, he took a few deep breaths and then scrutinized the patch of land past the hood of the car. Once, twice, three times he raised his head, each time exposing himself a little longer, scanning back and forth.
“What are you shooting at?” the United States Army officer asked of his father.
Morgan and Sage were scrambling around Boxer’s cabin, preparing medical supplies. They pulled out the large shipboard medical kit from its storage area. Morgan had always insisted on having a first class inventory onboard. She was verifying the contents while Sage searched for the spare pillowcases to use as bandages. Both women were reacting to the shots, both now doubly concerned after David had charged off the boat to help his father.
Fear filled Sage’s voice, “Do you think they’re okay, mom? What are we going to do if they’re hurt?”
Morgan rubbed her daughter’s head and reassured, “I’m sure they’ll be fine, sweetie. Nothing we can do about it right now except get ready - just in case. Besides, this is good practice. Your brother’s an army officer; he’ll take good care of your father.”
Sage calmed down a little, but then her eyes got big again. She blurted, “What if those men come on the boat with guns? What are we going to do?”
The mother inside of Morgan wanted to console her frightened child, but the nurse took over. “Sage, stop that. Calm yourself, and help me find the tape. If someone is wounded, we are going to need bandages and lots of tape. Look in that drawer over there.” As soon as her daughter turned her back, Morgan went to the galley silverware drawer and pulled out the biggest knife she could find. She held it for a moment and then strategically placed it on the counter – just in case.
Every light on every occupied boat in the marina was on. David could hear snips of conversation as anxious, frightened neighbors asked what was going on. With the background lighting now illuminating the marina, David made out three more men reluctantly moving to reinforce Marinaville’s guard. He finally got their attention, waving them to a nearby pickup truck, so everyone wouldn’t be bunched up in the same place.
The next ten minutes were tense, but after a few scrambles toward the looter’s last known location, it became clear that all of the invaders had retreated. A flashlight beam located a spent cartridge, evidence of the shot fired at Wyatt.
Mike was shaking so badly he couldn’t light his own cigarette, and Wyatt wasn’t much better. Both men shuffled around, initially burning off the adrenaline rush. Before long, they had to keep moving in order to cope with the crash. Incomplete, rushed sentences poured out of their mouths while nervous feet paced pointlessly from one spot to another.
David organized the relief watchmen and then convinced his father to return to Boxer. On the way, they attempted to put everyone as ease. Responding to anxious questions, the answers all started sounding the same. “We’re all okay,” or “Everyone is safe, get some sleep,” and a lot of “No one was hurt,” was spread around Marinaville. Despite their reassurances, Wyatt didn’t think anyone would get much rest that night.
David called out when his father and he reached the stern of Boxer. “Mom, we’re coming aboard…everything’s fine.” Morgan exhaled with relief, Sage immediately moving to open the sliding glass door. Wyatt was pale, immediately taking a seat while giving Morgan a look of “You wouldn’t believe what I just went through.”
“Do you want a cup of coffee, Wyatt?” she asked.
Wyatt nodded his head, but then confessed, “What I want is a stiff belt of bourbon, but coffee will do. Thanks.”
Sage longed for details, but her brother waved her off, mouthing, “Later.” The warm light of the cabin, combined with the company of his family, finally helped Wyatt relax a bit.
By the time Morgan positioned the steaming cup of instant java in front of him, Wyatt’s hands had almost stopped trembling. He managed to take a sip without spilling any of the hot liquid – a major accomplishment. All of a sudden, he felt the need to talk and started recounting the night’s events. He couldn’t stop himself; the story just began pouring out of him.
When he finished, Morgan’s reaction surprised him. “Those poor people,” she said, “Can you imagine how desperate they must be to have tried that?”
Sage jumped right in, vocalizing what Wyatt and David were thinking. “Those poor people? Mom, what are you saying? Dad and David almost got killed, and you’re worried about ‘those poor people’?”
Morgan shook her head, indicating everyone misunderstood. “They’re people just like us, Sage. If we weren’t so lucky, if we didn’t have this boat, your brother and father might have been on the other side. Being desperate doesn’t make them evil. Your father did the right thing. I’m just upset it came to that.”
Everyone was silent for a moment, digesting Morgan’s words. David was the first to speak, “You’re right mom, being desperate doesn’t make people evil, but it does make them dangerous.”
Wyatt eyed his son. “Yes, and I’ve got a feeling it’s going to get a whole lot more dangerous around here from now on.”
Morgan started to add something else, but Wyatt caught her eye. She followed his gaze to the kitchen, where the large blade was sitting out on the counter. Quietly, almost under his breath, he reiterated, “Desperation does funny things to people – doesn’t it?”
The morning after the shootout, an impromptu gathering began forming in the parking lot, most of the boaters exhausted from a lack of sleep. Clearly not an organized event, the attendees consisted of the same core of Marinaville’s citizens, but this time small clusters of roving socialites joined in. Most of the residents showed up with the limited firearms available to them, many glancing at the rooflines of the neighboring subdivision as if massed hordes of barbarians were preparing to invade.
Boxer’s occupants were some of the last to join the “festivities,” and when Wyatt mounted the ramp leading to the parking lot, a hush fell over the crowd. Conscious of the abrupt silence, Wyatt glanced around and inquired, “What? Did I say something wrong?”
The joke was flat, but managed to break the ice somewhat. One of Morgan’s friends, a kind soul named Marion, owned the vessel Tilley’s Girl with her husband Jim. Showing her typical grace, the woman approached, first touching Morgan’s shoulder while addressing Wyatt. “Are you guys doing okay?”
“We’re fine, thank you for asking.” Wyatt replied.
Everyone continued to stare, as if waiting for guidance. Marion continued, “Wyatt, what are we going to do? Jim and I couldn’t get back to sleep last night…I don’t think anyone did. What are we going to do, Wyatt?”
The first thought that went through Wyatt’s mind was “Who elected me boss?” These people didn’t realize his previous leadership had cost a lot of people their jobs. He threw a helpless expression at Morgan who reassured him with a smile. David seemed to sense his father’s hesitation, moving closer to his father’s side.
“I don’t know what going to happen folks.” Wyatt said at a slightly raised volume. “I’m as surprised as anyone how quickly this has gotten out of hand.”
Everyone began talking at once, many of the responses aimed at Wyatt. He let it go for almost two minutes, politely nodding here and there; responding only when someone’s tone of voice made it clear the speaker wanted his attention. It was all too much for his sleep-deprived brain, causing him to become frustrated. He held up his hands and shouted, “Please…please…one at a time…please!”
An uncomfortable hush fell over the group. Wyatt waited a moment and said, “Why don’t we go in order of pier number, and everyone can speak their piece?”
There then ensued some confusion over where to start. Boxer was on pier two, so it was decided to start there. Great, thought Wyatt, just great.
“My instinct is to run away.” Wyatt’s blunt opening r
aising more than one eyebrow. “I’m not sure how to do that, but honestly that’s what I’m feeling this morning. We are maintaining a reasonable existence here, but it won’t last. Eventually, our food and fuel is going to run out, and we will end up like those people over there.” Wyatt’s arm swept in a semi-circle, indicating the neighborhoods surrounding three sides of the marina.
He continued, “I don’t see any way we can defend ourselves. There just aren’t enough of us to maintain a vigilant watch and keep up with the work required around here. Those men last night were chased off with a few shots. The next time it will take more than that. The next time, they might decide to shoot first. It’s only logical to assume that as time goes on, they and others like them, will become more desperate…more willing to take risks…more aggressive.”
Wyatt surveyed the faces in the crowd, realizing they were hanging on his every word. Most of the expressions conveyed agreement with Wyatt’s position, one man even flashing a thumbs-up sign of endorsement. Despite the strong opening, Wyatt was out of gas. Uncertain of what to say next, he decided to go with his gut. Now comes the bad part, he thought.
“I don’t have the answer. I wish I did, but right now, I’m just as concerned as all of you. Last night, all I wanted to do was fire up Boxer’s engines, untie the ropes, and head out of here. The problem with that course of action is we don’t have anywhere to go. Every marina around here is going to have the same problem – maybe worse. We can’t all just untie and go float around Galveston Bay for the rest of our lives.” He hesitated, the brain fog now consuming him. “That’s about all I’ve got to say.”
Several conversations broke out at once. Wyatt listened to the hum of the crowd, noticing the little excerpts that made it through here and there, things like “He’s right,” and “What are we going to do?”