Ocean Burning

by Henry Carver

  Chapter 12

  AT THREE IN the morning I forced a chisel into the edge of the water tank and hit it once with a hammer. The plastic gave and the tank sprayed lightly across the tools and the front of my shirt. After a few seconds the spray stopped, replaced by a steady drip. I hid the tools and went back to bed.

  The door to the captain’s state room had a good lock on it, but I didn’t kid myself. Any higher than average persistence and the lock would break. I turned off the light, lay in the darkness, and tried not to think about the door being kicked in by angry men bent on my demise.

  Two sharp bangs on my door woke me. The angle of the light made thin, dust-filled shafts parallel to the floor. I made it perhaps two hours after dawn. The lock popped easily, and I pulled back the door to reveal Carlos’s brown face, lined with concern.

  “We have a problem, Senor Conway.”

  I tried my best to look angry and confused, and followed him up on deck. He led me to the starboard side walkway, to the recess there in the fiberglass bulkhead that housed the water tank. The white, translucent plastic shown through with more light than it should have. A tiny stream from the corner made its way down the bulkhead, across the deck, and through a scupper, one of the narrow holes at deck height designed to let water back out if, for example, a wave crashed over us.

  The scupper had done its job—almost the entire tank of drinking water had drained into the sea.

  “It never rains but it pours, eh?” I said.

  Carlos looked at me quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

  “It means we’re having some very bad luck.”

  He nodded, non-committal, but didn’t seem convinced of the accidental nature of the cracked tank. But then again, his face was calm and unreadable. I reminded myself not to project my own nervousness onto him.

  Over the next ten minutes, everyone got up and gathered at the bow. I didn’t mince words.

  “We’re out of water.”

  “The fuck we are,” Rigger said. “I checked that tank myself not an hour before we left.”

  “And it was full then. But there’s been a leak.”

  “Well, this just keeps getting better and better.” Rigger scratched himself, pulled at his collar.

  “I know it’s not ideal. As I see it, we have exactly one solution: we need to go back to the island and collect water. There’s a stream not far back from the cove.”

  “You can fix the engine now?” Carlos asked.

  “No,” I said, “and you’re right—without the engine we can’t possibly get the Purple back to shore. But we can use the emergency raft. It will inflate itself, and it has a very small outboard motor, enough to push two people around with fair efficiency.”

  “You know there are sharks out there,” Carmen said. I supposed she was trying to seem impartial.

  “There are no sharks that attack boats, even rafts. There only circling us because we’re sitting here, floating in their territory. They don’t know what to make of us, and I suspect the motor may even scare them off. As long as we’re careful, no one will get hurt.”

  “As long as no one ends up in the drink flopping around like a damn seal, that’s what you mean,” Rigger said.

  “Who’s going?” Ben asked.

  “As captain, I’ll be going. But I need another set of hands, so please, everyone take a few minutes to think. I’m hoping for a volunteer.” With that, I threaded my way through them and climbed back to the controls. From up here I could get a good vantage on most parts of the boat. I saw Carmen lead Ben below and decided I didn’t want to think about exactly which of her charms she was using on him down there.

  Staring at the sea, the occasional dark shape slid under my keel. I drank a bit to keep myself sane. The sound of steps came ringing up the ladder, and somehow I could tell just from the sound that it was Ben Hawking. Carmen had been as good as her word. I reminded myself it would all be worth it if we could be together, then made my face neutral before turning around in my chair.

  “I’ll go with you,” Ben said.

  I took another swig from my little bottle and studied him. His arms crossed his chest, and his brow came down so far it nearly covered his eyes. It made his forehead smooth, and I stared at that. Something different emanated from him, a strange kind of energy, and I toyed with the idea that he suspected this trip was a ploy. Not that it made a difference.

  “Good man. We leave in five minutes,” I said, and smiled at him.

  I slid down the ladder, caught Carmen’s eye on my way past. She nodded, and I was reassured. The red button to inflate the raft seemed stiff under my hand, but of course I’d never used it before. It resisted my simple push so I pulled back, made a fist, and gave it a smack.

  The raft belched and hissed and unfurled itself before my eyes. Within seconds it had gone from suitcase-sized to full-sized, just folded in half. The gases squirting into it strained to lift that last half and it expanded until it opened completely. The outside half flopped over the rail and touched the water.

  The raft connected to the bulkhead with a cord so that there was no danger of it floating off. I opened a small recess in the storage space, pulled out the small motor, and attached it securely to the grommets at the raft’s rear. Then I untied the cord, lowered the raft all the way into the water, retied the cord to the rail, and lowered myself down.

  The raft swayed side to side from my weight, and bulged up from the bottom as waves passed underneath it. It had cylindrical gray rubber sides and was a rectangle mostly, but with a pointed, triangular front to help cut through the waves. My grandfather had been in the navy and always referred to these kinds of rafts as Kodiaks.

  It was a small one, though—even smaller than I remembered. Sitting in it now, surrounded by sharks, I was kicking myself. This had been the absolute cheapest one available for purchase, and even then I had shopped around until I found it used.

  “At least I charged the inflater,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What was that?” Hawking stood at the rail, inexplicably wearing a jacket in the tropical heat.

  “I said get down here. What’s with the coat?”

  “For the spray,” he said, and lay on the rail on his belly, turned himself, and lowered his legs down. My hand tightened on a boat bumper, and I tried to keep us stable.

  Ben let go of the rail, balanced himself back and forth, rocking us, then fell onto the small bench seat. He curled into a little ball there. I knew the feeling, that desperate urge to lower your center of gravity any way you could. Carlos and Rigger handed over two cubical, five-gallon water jugs each. They crowded Ben and I to either end of the small raft, with the jugs stacked in the middle. Once filled, I wouldn’t stack the jugs. Another example of the importance of a low center of gravity. It would be a tight fit coming back.

  “Be careful,” Carmen said. She was looking at Ben, but I had a feeling I was the one supposed to hear it.

  The starter cord seemed caught on something, but I decided it must just be stiff from disuse. Hopefully the engine wasn’t in the same condition. I ripped the cord off the crank, hard and fast, and the little two-stoke motor fired right up. It had the combined throttle/steering shaft, and I turned forward again and twisted the handle. Sluggishly, we pulled away. As the raft picked up speed it started to plane out across the waves. It felt a lot more stable, and I gunned the engine.

  Hawking was perched at the very front, facing backwards. He couldn’t see where we were going, but he could watch me, and that’s exactly what he did. I glanced over my shoulder. The Purple dwindled in size behind us. The people on the deck stood thumb-high in the distance. The orange-looking one had to be Carmen.

  We were sitting in a cheap rubber raft, where any disturbance could flip us, skimming over shark-waters. Yet here, of all places, my back was finally protected. The roar of the engine made good white noise and I figured I had time to think, to size up the situation and decide the best thing to do. No one, I thought, would do anyth
ing to rock the boat. No one would be crazy enough.

  I was wrong.

  Chapter 13

  THE PISTOL GLINTED like the waves around us, a strange mixture of shine and darkness. Ben had unzipped his jacket, reached inside, and produced it—a small, silver automatic. I would have felt better if he’d been holding it loosely, professionally, knowing the mere presence of the thing would be threat enough.

  Instead he clutched it, knuckles white, and held it at arm’s length. He pointed it right at my face, and his index finger stroked the trigger. He was shaking. A burning sensation flushed my forehead, right where he was aiming. I could almost feel the bullet going in.

  “Trigger discipline,” I said.

  “What?” he shouted over the motor and the spray.

  “Trigger discipline,” I shouted back. “That means don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Are you ready to shoot me?”

  “I don’t want to. But I don’t see any way around it, either.” He paused, just looking at me. Then he took his finger off the trigger, rested it on the trigger guard. Finally, he said, “Look, I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “You’re up to something, Frank.”

  My main goal was to keep him talking, and to keep him from looking behind him. I made a concerted and difficult effort to look him right in the eye. Using my peripheral vision, I scanned the sea out in front of us.

  We were approaching the edge of the cove at top speed, bumping over waves like speed bumps, dipping crazily. His finger clenched dangerously near the trigger again, and I nearly dove off the boat. It took everything I had to stay still.

  “Maybe we can talk,” I said. “If I didn’t have a gun pointed at me, we could talk.”

  “No more talk.”

  “Come on,” I said. The rocks edging the cove entrance grew another size behind him. “There’s always time for talk.”

  “Cut the engine, or I’ll shoot.”

  “You want to stop here? There’s sharks. Let me get us to the beach, and then you can shoot me if you want.”

  “That’s a trick,” he said. “You’re hoping for your moment, a chance to get the better of me. You’re not going to get it.” His finger swerved towards the sickle-shaped piece of metal that would kill me if it moved. He started to press. The inky black rocks, wet and sharp, jutted from the water not fifty feet behind him. I twisted the throttle again, hoping to eek out some extra juice.

  “I said cut it!” He waved the pistol, gesturing wildly.

  “Can’t do that,” I muttered. He needed to keep talking, just a few more seconds.

  “I know what you did.” His eyes narrowed in disgust. “She told me everything. I’m sorry, Frank, but I don’t see another way.” He pushed the pistol out towards me, barrel first, and his finger moved. The trigger depressed just a terrifying fraction of an inch, and that was enough for me.

  “I’m sorry too,” I said.

  “Wha—”

  I wrenched the steering arm, shoving it away from me just as went between the rocks. The raft took a sickening turn, and for a second I though the boat would flip. Then it evened out. Ben looked behind him, then back to me, his eyes wide in confusion.

  For a moment, everything froze, a perfect tableau. Ben’s look of disbelief. The rocks looming up behind him bigger than I remembered them, like a huge dark hand reaching out to snatch him away. The gun barrel pointed at me heart, the firing pin already on its way home. But even frozen moments must come to an end. Ice shatters. As quickly as it had come the moment disintegrated, and all hell broke loose.

  We hit the rocks. The gun went off, a flash and a roar. The raft’s rubber front gave a crunch and a wheeze, then the back end folded upwards and suddenly I was airborne, sucking my air out of the whistling wind and hoping not to hit the rocks.

  Somehow I must have cleared them, because in a flash I was sucking water instead.

  The blue surrounded me. I tried to swim, but my arms were lead. I made them move, started to paddle, then realized I had no idea which way was up. Air wouldn’t come out of my lungs; there was none left. I shook myself, like a dog drying off, hoped it would work. Sure enough, air trapped in the various pockets of my clothing escaped and the bubbles all traveled in the same direction, heading unerringly for the surface.

  I reoriented myself and followed them up, but it was slow going. I became certain I was headed the wrong direction. Just as the urge to open my mouth and take a breath became overwhelming, the light changed. The deep, dark blue became lighter. Up ahead, I made out ripples of azure blue sky. With everything I had left, I gave one great kick.

  My head burst the surface the lagoon, and I gasped and gasped. As soon as I could think again, I realized that—incredibly—the beach lay only a hundred feet away. I’d like to say I swam, but really I just pulled in the general direction of the shore and let the waves wash me in. What can I say, I’m a hell of a body surfer.

  The beach’s sand was white and hot and blissfully dry. I rolled over in it, exhausted, unable to move. I thought I might lay there forever, just let the sun beat down on me until I soaked up whatever I needed to keep on living.

  I was still there, stretched on on the beach with my eyes closed, when the first blow caught me.

  My eyes opened just in time to make out a great, thick piece of wood blotting out the sun above me. I blinked at it, then watched it whistle through the air and connect with my ribs. I heard something crack and considered the sound almost clinically in the moments before the pain took me. When it did come, it washed over me like one of the waves that had carried me to shore, primal and unrelenting.

  “Shit!” I yelled out, always the poet.

  The wood whistled again. Only one thing seemed a worse prospect than moving: getting hit again. Adrenaline took over. I rolled over three times quickly and bounced to my feet. Something grated ominously in my torso, bone against bone, but I ignored it.

  My fists came up to protect my face, just like my father had taught me as a boy. He’d drink until the sun went down, then challenge me to a fight. I’d hated the man, but he sure as shit knew how to box.

  Hawking stood ten feet away, a thick piece of driftwood resting on his shoulder like a baseball bat. His feet had dug into the sand shoulder-width apart, his knees bent in a slight crouch. I saw two feet, then four for a second. The wood stick blurred as I kept an eye on it, and not from any kind of movement. Rather, it hissed in place, like static on a television.

  I shook my head, tried to clear it.

  Obviously, I must have taken more of a blow than I thought. The incredible thing was that even after a high-speed crash into solid rock, Ben Hawking seemed undamaged.

  “Still time to talk,” I said.

  He took three quick steps forward and swung from the hips. The driftwood came in at chest height. Any higher and I could have ducked it; lower and the angle would have shortened the range and I could have stepped back. As it was, I had no choice. It rocketed towards me. I lowered an elbow to protect my ribs, and took a huge shot across the forearm.

  I grunted, backed two paces.

  He swung again at the other side. I took it across the forearm again.

  Backed two more paces, he swung, and whanged the first forearm again. It felt like it might be broken.

  Two more paces back.

  My only chance, I knew, would be to lull him into a rhythm, and use that to get him on the ropes. I’d been successful so far. He’d taken two steps, swung, done it again, and again. I didn’t think I could take another shot.

  I landed lightly on my second step back, staying on the ball of my foot. Hawking started his two steps forward, the makeshift bat cocked over his shoulder. As he did, I pushed off and rushed him, closing the distance as fast as I could. He read the move and started his swing early.

  Too late.

  I was already inside his swing, catching his arm, getting foot behind his heel, giving him a terrific shove. Over he went, rolling across the sand. I st
omped at him, missing the first time, waiting for him to finish his roll the second and catching him dead in the chest. I felt my heel drive into the soft spot right at the bottom end of the sternum—the solar plexus, the bundle of nerves that control the lungs. He dropped the stick, started gasping. The moment I saw that, I knew I’d won.

  As easy as breathing, that’s the saying.

  The thing about a shot to the solar plexus: your brain still gives its orders (like “breathe!”) but the message gets lost in that bundle of nerves. It is an unnerving experience indeed. I could see the confusion on his face as he tried to suck in air, just as he had since the day he was born, only this time nothing happened. His hands clutched at sand as he tried to pull himself away from me, but the grains just ran through his fingers. He curled into a ball right there in front of me, as harmless as a baby.

  I bent down, wincing, and picked up the piece of driftwood. It measured about three feet, thick and heavy at one end, but tapered down at the other, an ideal handle.

  “Where’d you manage to find this?” I said. “It’s damn near perfect.”

  He just thrashed about on the sand, eyes bugging out, making horrible little sipping noises. Pathetic. Here I had been planning to cave in his skull, but listening to those desperate sounds, it was all I could do not to help the man.

  “Oh, get over it already. I know it feels like you’re dying, but you won’t. The shock to your breathing will wear off. You’ll be up and about in no time.”

  I crouched ten feet off, weighing the club in my hand, waiting. His first real breaths came ragged, but over the course of a few minutes he gathered himself nearly back to normal.

  What to do? Caving in his skull still kept popping up on my mental list of options, but I’d never been one to hit a man while he’s down. My father, if we started our fight too many drinks into the night, had had no such compunctions when I would slip and fall. But that had been his greatest lesson, as I had sworn never to be like the bastard.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Hawking said. His first words were unsteady. They came out gravelly, as though he had laryngitis.