by William Oday
This was more like a three foot long open fissure.
And as she watched, dark blue seawater poured into the wound.
38
How long before it filled with water and dragged her and the boat under?
Had she escaped the island only to drown in the sea?
Emily gritted her teeth and spat a curse at the world.
It was a cold thing that forever sought to suck the life out of her. There was only one way to respond.
To fight.
To die if that’s what happened. But not before leaving every last ounce of blood and sweat on the battlefield first.
She nodded to herself, an unspoken agreement between the split and sometimes adversarial sides in her brain. The doer and the thinker.
For now, both were in agreement.
Fight!
And that meant plugging this gash in the boat.
An idea occurred to her. A hint from the observation before. The boat had tilted further when she let off the throttle.
Of course! Going slower had dropped the back end deeper into the water. Going faster brought the back end and kept the tear at or above the waterline.
It was a theory, nothing more.
But it felt right in her gut, and when seconds could be the difference between life and death, hunches mattered as much as evidence gathered in a lab. Probably more.
Emily raced back into the cabin and slammed the throttle forward. The engines roared and the boat lurched forward. She wasn’t positive, but it did seem to level some.
She spun toward the stairwell at the back of the cabin and vaulted down to the deck below. Her boots splashed into a foot of water. She passed a small room of cramped bunkbeds, then an equally small galley and dining table, and ended up in the engine room at the back of the boat. Two enormous diesel engines sat on raised platforms, both pushing out a bass thrum that echoed in her chest.
There!
In the far corner, water gushed in through the tear in the hull. She plodded over through the incoming current. The smooth hull of the boat opened into a wide wound.
It was bigger than it looked from above.
More than three feet long. Ten inches across at the widest point. Water swirled by her calves as it rushed to fill the rest of the boat.
What could patch that?
An idea came.
Desperate and probably destined to fail.
But it was something!
She hurried back to the sleeping quarters and grabbed the lifejackets she’d seen on the way through. She looped six of them over her arm.
She was headed back through the galley when another idea came.
It could help.
She grabbed a bar stool bolted to the floor and yanked it to the side.
It didn’t budge.
She braced herself on the table and reared back and let loose a side kick. Something cracked. She kicked again and again as hard as she could.
The pole holding the stool to the floor broke free and fell over with a splash into the rising water.
She dragged her haul down the short corridor and into the engine room.
The water churned around her knees.
If this didn’t work, and work fast, the struggle would be over.
She fought through the incoming current and noticed the water level had climbed above the breach.
She dropped everything but a single life jacket, and thrust it under the water. The hole was easy to find because the current shoved her hand away with as much force as she pushed it forward. She pushed harder and the life jacket closed against the hull.
Water shot up into her face, blinding and choking her before the current ripped the life jacket out of her hand and swept it away below the surface.
Emily wiped her eyes clear, biting her lower lip, frantic with the knowledge that she was losing.
Another idea.
Yes! Maybe!
She scooped up the remaining life jackets and began looping their straps over and through each other, tying them off when they ran out of length. In a couple of minutes, she had a fairly well knotted together glob of life jackets.
Not anything you’d want to wear, but maybe an adequate dressing for this wound.
She tied the bunch to the flat seat of the barstool and then lifted the whole assemblage by the pole.
The water was now up to her thighs.
She drove the pole down into the water toward the gaping hole, almost like a ragged q-tip at a bleeding ear canal.
She leaned into it through the resistance of the current. At the same time, she pivoted the base of the pole pinning it against the engine platform. Another shove down on the front end and it held.
The strength of the current trying to knock her down ebbed away.
She felt under the water around the edges of the makeshift dressing.
Water was still coming in, but not blasting in like before.
She found the base of the pole and kicked it to straighten the angle and increase the pressure exerted against the hole.
She felt around the tear.
It worked!
Small streams came in here and there, but they were like the sprays of a garden hose instead of the firehose of seconds ago.
She paused and waited, not letting a smile come near her face or heart.
The fix could break loose any second.
She waited.
It didn’t.
It held.
And she noticed the water level was no longer rising.
Emily pushed through the water, retracing the route to the vertical stairs leading up to the cabin. She hauled herself up and took a second to survey the situation.
The boat cut through the ocean like a water-logged arrow. At once both powerful and direct, but also dragging lower and slower than its design.
Hopefully this thing had some kind of bilge system that automatically drained water away.
But she’d rejected hope as a plan long ago.
She needed to lighten the boat. To get it to sit higher in the water because once she let off the throttle or it ran out of gas, who knew how well the fix would work.
A pungent scent in the air caught her attention.
Fuel.
She glanced at the fuel tank and gulped.
The needle pointed at just above the three-quarter mark. There was no way she’d gone through that much already.
The tank must’ve been punctured on the rocks.
And here she was again.
Right where life always seemed to put her.
With a choice between fighting or giving up.
Between living or dying.
Emily snarled and bared her teeth.
With her, it was never a choice.
39
BOB took a seat on the worn couch and picked at the thread-bare cushion. Flo had taken care of him on this couch just two days ago.
And now she was gone.
The madness that was Charlie Bog had swept into town and swept her away in one fell swoop.
If Bob had a bank account with a million dollars, he’d withdraw it all in ones. And then shove each bill down Charlie’s throat until the bastard was crapping change. And then he’d keep stuffing more in until he was blue in the face and his eyes went dull.
What kind of lunatic bombed a police station?
The dangerous kind, that’s what.
The kind that didn’t abide by the same rules as everybody else.
The door to Rome’s bedroom opened. A hollow voice echoed out from behind a black helmet. “What do you think?”
Bob stared at the figure standing in the hall.
What did he think?
How about that maybe this kid was crazier than Charlie, for starters?
Rome wore a full set of black tactical gear with what appeared to be a bulletproof vest along with plates that covered his waist, arms and legs. In hands covered by black gloves, he carried a semi-automatic shotgun. The clear visor showing his eyes was the only evi
dence that he wasn’t some futuristic robot killing machine.
The black armored figure would’ve made even the bravest man pause to consider.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“I told you. I’m going to kill the man that murdered my mother. I could use your help. But I’m going either way.”
Bob pushed up off the couch, feeling every second of his sixty years. “I thought you meant later. Like eventually some day.”
“I meant now.”
“I thought you needed more ammo?”
Rome shrugged. “That bag of weed was going to get me more guns and bullets, maybe a grenade if I was lucky.” He lifted the shotgun.”But I still have this and enough shells to make it interesting.”
Bob raised his hands in supplication. “I get it. I do. I want him dead, too. But we just escaped this morning. Shouldn’t we take a few days to come up with a plan and maybe recruit some help?”
The dark helmet shook from side to side. “I’m not waiting. Before today ends, one of us is going to end up dead. And I’m gonna do my best to make sure it’s him.”
“You do remember that the brewery is crawling with armed men all loyal to him? You’ll never get near him before they shoot you down.”
Rome knocked on the bulletproof vest. “I’m covered with kevlar plates. They’ll have to get a lucky shot at my neck or underarm to take me down.”
“Where did you get all this stuff?”
“You’d be surprised what you can buy online and get delivered to your door. Well, before, I mean.”
Bob wasn’t surprised. He’d bought plenty of things online and had them delivered to his door. Some of those things would make a call girl call it a night.
One had, in fact.
That delicious Asian treat he’d ordered like food off of a menu from OrientalOrgasms. She’d arrived at his door looking like a real professional. Like she’d seen it all before. That was until he brought out the strap-on he’d purchased online the week before.
He hadn’t expected her to actually use it. The thing was a monster and glowed in the dark. It was supposed to be a joke.
But her lack of English and his lack of caring had ended with her slapping him across the face and then running out of his posh West Hollywood home, swearing at him in a language that he’d never positively identified, and yet one that was unquestionably suited for passionate cursing.
So, yeah. He knew there was a whole world of weird that could be ordered online and delivered to your doorstep.
Used to be, anyway.
There was no online anymore.
No internet. No hard-working hookers a few clicks and a credit charge away.
The world had taken a hard right turn for the worse.
Bob shook his head. “I’m not surprised. Where’d you get the shotgun?”
Rome shrugged. “Had a client that ran short on cash. Offered this instead and I accepted.”
“How much weed did you sell?”
“Enough.”
“Then why did you and your mother still live in this dump?”
The black-clad figure took an imposing step toward him, making Bob shrink back into the couch. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I get it. You’re an idiot. You can’t help it.”
Bob wouldn’t have put it quite like that. He might’ve said he was jaded or prone to being negative or too sarcastic for his own good. But yeah, once you boiled it down, it was basically true.
“I was about to buy us a house. Had the money saved up and just had to find the perfect one. But, that doesn’t matter anymore. She’s dead. There’s only one thing matters now. Killing the man that murdered her.”
“Look, kid,” Bob said, “I’m with you. I’ll help however I can, but we can’t just walk through the front door. They’ll fill us full of bullets before we get ten feet.”
“Maybe you. Not me.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve got some crazy super soldier gear there, but a good plan will get you further than the best gear in the world.”
“What are you, Napoleon Bonaparte?”
Bob smiled. “You may not have known this, but I was an assistant producer on the A Team for several years.”
“The what?”
Bob shook his head in disbelief. “The A Team! Hannibal, Face, Murdock, and B.A. Baracus! The A Team!”
Rome didn’t respond.
“You know, Mr. T with the mohawk!”
“Mr. Who? Like the letter T or tee like a golf tee?”
Bob pinched his eyes shut. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I helped the writers every now and then come up with a good plan for how the A Team would attack a stronghold. Okay, so I didn’t really help. Whatever. I listened to them come up with ideas.”
Rome headed for the front door. “I’m leaving.”
Bob grabbed his massive arm and hauled him back. “What I’m saying is that I have a plan. A plan that has a chance of ending with Charlie Bog dead and you alive.”
Rome shrugged. “I don’t care if I live.”
“Fine. It’ll still give you a better chance to kill Charlie.”
Rome returned to the kitchen table and sat down. “I’m listening.”
“The key is occupying the higher ground.” He dug out the car key he’d found earlier wedged down into the cushions of the couch. The one he’d been holding onto in the event Rome decided to kick him out. He held it up.
“Is that the key to the Pinto Bean?”
“Yep.”
40
Bob stood at the top of the steep hill looking down at the back side of the brewery. He nodded. “Yep, this’ll do it,” he said as he engaged the emergency break to keep the Pinto Bean from plunging off the side of the road. The faded brown junker rattled and sputtered but didn’t cut off.
A helmet-less Rome sucked in a breath of air and wiped his forehead. He slung sweat onto the pavement. “It’s a thousand degrees inside this gear.”
Bob nodded. “Want to take it off?”
“What’s the plan again?”
Bob pointed down at the gang’s headquarters. “We’re going to crash this car through the back door. Take them by surprise.”
Rome squinted at the building below. “Are you sure this is gonna work? It sounds like a stupid A-Team plan. I thought you said those guys always came up with awesome plans and battle buses and diversions and stuff?”
“I had almost no time to come up with this because somebody couldn’t wait to get themselves shot! The A Team always had like a week or something to prepare.”
“This plan sucks. The Bean just has lap belts. We’ll probably die when we hit the building.”
“It’s better than trying to get through that wall of buses they have parked out front. Blast our way through! That’s your stupid plan in a nutshell.”
“It was blasting and dodging.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “It was suicide. They would’ve shot us to pieces before we made it to the front door!”
Rome shook his head. “Well, this is no A Team plan. That’s all I’m saying.”
Bob gritted his teeth to keep his mouth shut. He longed to tell the kid where his head was and how nice it would be for him to pull it out and take a look around.
Teenagers could be so infuriating.
Instead, he took a slow breath. His relationship with Rome was already tenuous at best. A total breakdown wasn’t going to help either of them.
Bob looked up at the dull glow in the sky that hinted at the location of the afternoon sun. He shrugged. “There’s a chance we might die on impact. Sure. I remember that big scandal about Ford Pintos bursting in flames after a collision.”
“Bursting into flames?”
“Yeah, it was when they got hit in the back, or front, or something. I don’t remember.”
Rome’s eyes went wide. “Well, that would be a really helpful thing to remember right now! We’re about to use this thing as a battering ram!”
Bob wanted to f
lick the kid in the forehead. “I don’t remember! Google Consumer Reports or ask Ralph Nader!”
“Ralph Nader? Who’s that? What are you talking about?”
So infuriating.
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter. The point is that you want to kill Charlie. I happen to agree though I doubt we’re the best people for the job. But I owe your mother. And we’ll get the revenge she deserves, or I’ll die with you trying—”
“Are you trying to do a pre-game pep talk?”
“What?”
“You know, trying to inspire us and all that.”
“What if I was?”
“Then I’d tell you it sucks.”
“Shut up and let’s do this.”
Rome popped the hatch of the car and finished getting ready.
Bob pulled out a metal flask of vodka and spun off the cap. He drew in a slow breath. His insides twisted as the memories of the episode washed over him. It had started with a full bottle of vodka.
But this time was different. If he died this time, there was meaning in it. He was fighting for something that mattered. It would be a hero’s death.
Not a coward’s.
He brought the flask to his lips and tipped it up.
Clean fire washed over his tongue and singed down his throat. He swallowed and felt the warmth settle in his stomach. Another drink quickly followed.
If he was going to die, he’d rather do it with a good buzz.
He took a couple more drinks and forced himself to screw the cap back on. A buzz was fine. Preferred even to calm the nerves. But stumbling drunk wasn’t going to help.
The reality was that he’d probably die in the next few minutes. The kid had youth and a nearly impenetrable set of body armor on his side.
Bob had old age, a weak ticker and two denim coats on. Nothing that suggested a good chance for survival.
And that was okay.
He looked up at the dull haze that blanketed the sky.
Florence, I assume you’re up there somewhere. If heaven exists, you were the type it was made for. I’ll help your son as much as I can. If he’s lucky, he might survive.
“You praying to God?” Rome said as he slapped Bob’s shoulder.
Bob looked over and again was impressed with Rome’s gear. The kid was terrifying. A futuristic super soldier. Kevlar plates covering his abdomen, arms, and legs. He’d switched the visor to a dark tint that hid his eyes.