Broken Tide | Book 4 | Backflow

by Richardson, Marcus

  Shell casings flew and tinkled off the deck as Jo dismantled the rear end of the yacht in a systematic pattern. One man stepped out of the wheelhouse with a rifle and was cut down in a spray of blood. The open door was all the opportunity Jo needed to fill the interior of the yacht's bridge with supersonic lead.

  The yacht skipper reversed course abruptly and cut hard to port. The maneuver presented the yacht’s vulnerable starboard broadside to the merciless cutter and caught Reese off guard. He was unable to match the maneuver, and Intrepid was likewise turned broadside to the yacht for a few spine-chilling moments. Several men braved the lethal barrage from Jo's machine gun and returned fire, peppering Intrepid's deck with fresh holes and splintered wood.

  Reese swore as he ducked. There was nowhere to go. Hot lead screamed down from above as the men on the upper decks of the now smoking yacht shot down onto Intrepid. Jo's relentless fire was the only thing that saved him from being ripped to pieces, exposed as he was on the wide-open aft end of Intrepid.

  Bullets pinged and sparked off the mast and the metal railing that surrounded Reese in the cockpit. Something bit his hand and he yanked it back from the wheel with a yelp. A quick glance down showed one of the spokes on Intrepid's heavy wooden steering wheel had shattered with a lucky shot from the men sporting AK-47s on the luxury yacht. He ignored the blood that leaked from his hand and gripped the wheel even tighter.

  "We can't hold out much longer!" Reese warned Jo. "One lucky shot through the engine and we’re dead!"

  Jo sent a quick barrage of .50 caliber rounds into the men who'd gathered on the upper decks of the yacht. Where the yacht had once been paneled in white fiberglass, it looked like several cans of red paint had exploded on the upper decks.

  Sweat and blood dripped down into Reese's eyes and he angrily cleared his vision with the back of his uninjured hand as the wheel shuddered and bucked. Intrepid rocked and rolled through the yacht’s wake and churned-up water. Somewhere behind him to starboard, Reese heard Tony's shotgun blast again, a sharp report over the constant tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat from the cutter.

  An explosion rocked Reese back on his heels and if he hadn't had a death grip on the wheel, he was sure he'd have been knocked into the water. The Coast Guard—or Jo, he couldn't tell which—and had scored a direct hit on the yacht’s engine compartment. A scorching fireball mushroomed out and encompassed the luxury cruiser as bits of fiberglass and decking rained down on them all. Thick, black acrid smoke roiled out from the dying yacht and encompassed the naval battlefield.

  At last Jo's machine gun fell silent. The dogged cutter continued to pour fire into the yacht for another few seconds, then even the constant drumming of the twin M2s mounted to the foredeck fell silent. Through the ringing in Reese's ears, he heard the screams of desperate people as they jumped, wounded—and in one case on fire—from the doomed yacht into the Lower Bay.

  The wind shifted and the black smoke that billowed from the yacht rolled right across the water toward them. Reese tried to warn Jo, but the smoke entered his lungs as it swallowed Intrepid and he doubled over, coughing.

  He spun the wheel hard to port, and Intrepid lurched to the left of the yacht and motored its way through the smoke until the breeze shifted again and he could see once more. Reese blinked away tears as he looked around and saw Intrepid was surrounded by the wreckage of the battle—the massive ferry had partially sunk, which lifted the aft end up out of the water at an obscene angle.

  Smoke still poured from the ferry as well, adding to the already muddy atmosphere. Reese froze, unable to process the chaos that surrounded Intrepid. People thrashed in the water and screamed for help, some clung to bits of the ferry, others, either flung into the water by the explosion or those who jumped in to save themselves, tried to clamber back aboard the ferry as it bobbed along semi-submerged.

  Behind him, screams echoed from the fog of smoke belched out by the yacht. Tiberia hovered just on the edge of the smoke as Byron attempted to keep a safe distance. And then, like a Valkyrie that swooped down onto an ancient battlefield, the cutter punched through the wall of acrid smoke and a splash of sea foam, emerging scarred and wounded but still in the fight. Coasties swarmed over the foredeck and continued to man the M2s while others tended to wounded comrades or dragged them below. Still others were already busy with repairs.

  Reese relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders slipped away. They'd survived. He leaned forward over the wheel. “Jo—are you okay?"

  Before she could answer, a loudspeaker blared to life and echoed across the water separating the Coast Guard cutter and Intrepid. "You on the sailboat! Keep your hands above your heads and lower your weapons.”

  Reese looked up from the wheel and a spotlight clicked on and shone directly in his face. "Ah, crap…"

  “Hey, we’re the good guys!” Jo yelled back, but she raised her hands just the same.

  “Step away from the deck gun,” ordered the voice on the loudspeaker as the big white boat approached. They were close enough that Reese could see the wary expressions on the crew’s faces as they shouldered carbines and took aim.

  “We’re on your side,” Reese yelled. “We were just trying to help.”

  “Who are you with?” demanded the loudspeaker.

  Reese looked at Jo. She shrugged. “No one,” he yelled. “We’re just trying to get south.”

  After a long pause, during which Reese imagined a hurried conference aboard the patrol boat, someone different came back on the loudspeaker, a woman. “Maintain your position and prepare to be boarded. We’ll deal with you in a minute.”

  The big engines rumbled, and the patrol boat pulled away to circle back toward the burning yacht. As they turned, Reese caught a glimpse of crew on the aft deck prepping an aluminum hulled cutterboat into the water, manned by a pair of coasties with rifles. It slid through an opening in the stern and dropped into the water as the bigger patrol boat continued toward the yacht.

  As soon as the patrol boat turned, Reese killed the outboard and clambered forward to get to Jo as Intrepid drifted. “How bad is it?”

  She winced at his touch. “It’s pretty bad…but I’ve had worse.”

  Reese hovered over her as she lowered herself to the deck. “What do I do? How do I help?”

  Jo grimaced as she looked at the blood smeared down her leg. “For starters, can you get the first aid kit?”

  “Intrepid, Tiberia—what’s going on over there?”

  Reese scrambled back to the cockpit and snatched the radio from its cradle. “Get over here! Jo’s hurt!” He let the mic dangle from its cord as he ducked through the companionway to get the first aid kit and ignored Byron’s further calls for answers.

  Chapter 4

  Westin House

  Bee’s Landing Subdivision

  Northwest of Charleston, South Carolina

  Darien Flynt kicked a charred brick in the road as he walked up to the half-burned house at the entrance to Bee’s Landing. The Westin house. It had been his shelter, the sanctuary he and his crew had found a little over a week ago when they’d stumbled into the subdivision, desperate for shelter and water.

  He’d found Harriet Spalding there, he’d rescued her there, and started his conquest of the neighborhood there. He snorted. His failed conquest. There was no doubt Cami Lavelle was the one in charge of things now. He’d never get past her—she was too important. Even he had to admit things would fall apart faster than a boosted Bentley if something happened to Lavelle.

  He sighed and looked around. Rubble from the collapsed front of the house had spread across the road. Shell casings absolutely littered the ground, everywhere he looked. Charred boards steamed inside the gutted house, and the odor of smoke and fire lingered in the area. He rubbed his nose and crunched across the debris toward the subdivision entrance.

  “What a freakin’ mess…” he muttered. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the row of fresh-turned dirt along the entrance road. They’d buried nineteen bodies t
he day before. Not only to get rid of the corpses, but to signal a warning to anyone else who might try to attack Bee’s Landing.

  The crude sign planted in the shallow graves was plenty warning. Only one car had come by since the battle and by all accounts, sped away after the driver read the sign and spotted the graves.

  Death to raiders.

  He turned in a circle and surveyed the battlefield. Tire tracks criss-crossed the road and brass casings glittered in the sun. An empty mag for one of the M-4s they’d captured from the raiders caught his eye and he walked over and picked it up. He was turning it over in his hands and idly staring at the polycarbonate magazine when he heard the sound of two pairs of boots picking their way through the rubble.

  “Darien Flynt,” one of the two armed men said as they walked up. Both carried long rifles slung over their shoulders. The shorter guy on the right carried a raider M-4, the taller one on the left carried a bolt action hunting rifle. They grinned as they approached him.

  “The one and only,” Darien replied, wondering if he had time to draw his Desert Eagle and drop them both before one got off a shot. If it came to that.

  “Good to meet you,” the short one said as he drew near. He stuck out a plump hand.

  Darien looked at the sweaty sausages at the end of the man’s arm, then shook hands. “Thanks?”

  “We’re out on patrol—nothing official, mind you,” the taller one said. “Just doing our part, since we didn’t get to help yesterday in all…this,” he added with a queasy look at the debris strewn intersection.

  “Of course,” Darien said flatly.

  “Anyway, we were out and walking around and…”

  Darien cleared his throat. “You wanted to see it?”

  “Well…yeah…”

  “W-we didn’t get to take part yesterday, y’see…” the short one added.

  “Right…” Darien said. “I think you said that.”

  “Did we?” The tall one said. He slapped his head. “Hah! Stupid. Anyway, here we are, out protecting the neighborhood—“

  “And doing a bang-up job,” Darien interjected with a false smile.

  The tall one nodded, “—and who do we see, but the hero of the hour, himself!”

  Darien inclined his head. “I don’t follow…”

  “Well, yeah, everyone’s talking about you,” the short one said as he looked at his taller partner for encouragement. “You’re the one who held them at the north entrance, right?”

  “Well, I was over there, but I didn’t do it all by myself,” Darien said.

  The tall one laughed nervously. For a second, Darien wondered if the fool was going to ask for his autograph. “Of course not…but…well, the folks over on the east side,” he said with a nod of his head toward the newer, more crowded side of the neighborhood, “are really taken with you, if you know what I mean.”

  Darien spread his hands and smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Well,” said the tall one. He licked his lips. “You’re like a celebrity. The ex-con who saved the day!”

  “Uh, I’m no ex-con,” Darien said. “I may be a car thief, but I’m an honest thief.”

  They both laughed. The short one spoke first. “Of course, of course. Listen, we just wanted to say it’s an honor to meet you, and we’re real happy you’re on our side. Thanks—and that’s not just from us, but everyone over on the east side.”

  “Yeah,” said the tall one as he reached out to shake hands. “Thanks. We won’t forget what you and your crew did,” he said, as if he were saying something in slang and it suddenly made him cool to know the meaning of the word.

  “Right…” Darien replied again. He flashed the fake smile again. “Just doing my part.”

  “Hah! That’s awesome,” the short one said as he started to walk away. “You take care now.”

  Darien stood in the neighborhood entrance and watched the two Elmer Fudd’s trundle through the debris and walk down the road toward the other entrance. The one he’d manned the day before when that nightmare of a truck rolled up and tried to break through.

  He turned the M-4 magazine over in his hand again. What he wouldn’t give to have half a chance at stealing that big armored beast. If they ever came back…

  He sighed and turned around to face the remains of the roadblock—the crushed cars a testament to the brute force the raiders had wielded in their attempt to breach the entrance. The first two rows of cars had been sandwiched into the third and the whole pile of crushed metal had solidified into an impenetrable mass. The old man—Price—had come up with that idea. It had saved his bacon over at the other entrance.

  “Me…a hero…” he muttered as he looked at the wreckage leftover from the firefight. “Look ma, I’m a hero!” He laughed. If his ex could see him now. “Probably try and get some more alimony out of me.” He laughed again. Not like that would ever happen. “Sorry, babe, it’s the end of the world, didn’t you hear?”

  Darien walked across the street and picked up a knife—the blade coated in dried blood. He pocketed the magazine and examined the knife. “What else is left out here?” He made a mental note to have Spanner scavenge both entrances later. They couldn’t afford to leave any supplies out in the open for strangers to come along and find.

  As he turned, his foot nudged a cylinder, like a can of spray paint. He looked down and read the label. “Bug bomb?” He reached down and picked up the empty canister. It looked like something heavy had flattened it. “What in the world?”

  Chapter 5

  Price Residence

  Bee’s Landing Subdivision

  Northwest of Charleston, South Carolina

  Cami walked across the side yard and looked at Marty’s house. The bullet holes and charring from the first battle of Bee’s Landing were still raw and fresh. After a moment, she pulled the radio from her hip and brought it to her mouth. "Reaper, you in there? It's me."

  Marty's voice came over the tiny speaker on the radio: "Hold your horses, missy, I’ll be out front in a minute."

  Cami replaced the radio on her belt and adjusted her holster and walked to the front door. The ever-present weight of the Glock on her hip was a constant reminder of the danger they all faced in the new post-tsunami world, and at the same time, a great source of comfort. She stood with her back to the damaged door and scanned the road. Cami would never be unarmed and helpless again—nor would Amber.

  Thinking about her daughter, Cami didn't hear the door open behind her until Marty cleared his throat. She turned around and smiled, but the smile froze on her face. "Marty? Are you okay?"

  The normally unflappable octogenarian looked tired and worn out. His already wrinkled face, weathered from years in the sun and a long career in the military, normally gave him a hard-working, vigorous appearance. The Marty Price who stood before Cami had sallow, pale skin and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. He was slumped over his cane and it appeared he needed the support of the hickory walking stick more than ever.

  Cami stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. "Marty, seriously—“

  "Oh, I'm fine, missy, I'm fine…” Marty said, but there was an underlying weakness in his voice. It didn't have the same strength and vigor, the same half-mocking tone that she'd grown accustomed to since the end of the world.

  "Well, come on in, don't stand there gawking at me…” Marty turned from her and shuffled deeper inside the house. Kirk ran out to sniff at Cami. The stub tail at the back end of the elderly vizsla swung so fast back and forth that his entire butt wobbled.

  Cami knelt and received a face full of slobbery licks while she scratched the loyal hunting dog’s ears and neck and back. "Who's a good boy?" she asked Kirk in a goofy voice reserved for babies. "You are! Yes, you’re a good boy…”

  She patted Kirk on the rump a few times then stood. The retired hunting dog sprinted forward a few steps, circled Marty, then sat and watched his owner head to the kitchen, ears cocked and whimpering just slightly. He turned and look
ed at Cami, and his stump tail swished over the wood floor a few times. Kirk looked back after Marty, then got up and followed him into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the floor.

  "Yeah, you know something's not right…don’t you?”

  Cami had to admit, despite the house being torched by Darien Flynt and his followers during the ill-fated attack the previous week, the house didn't appear that bad. Everything reeked of smoke and wet wood, but the broken windows had been boarded up nicely, and those windows on the rear of the house that hadn’t been broken were left open to allow a breeze to circulate somewhat through the stuffy, wounded house.

  Marty's decor was spartan to say the least—most everything that had been on the walls in the front half of the house where the fighting took place had all been destroyed or fallen and lay in broken heaps on the floor. As Cami walked down the hallway and followed Marty, she paused to investigate old black-and-white pictures from wars and campaigns she could only guess at, and dozens of young men in uniforms posing with weapons and tanks.

  "Marty, are these relatives of yours?"

  Without looking over his shoulder, the old man muttered his response: “Brothers, all of them."

  She paused and stared at a picture of a young man wearing what looked like a World War II officer’s uniform next to a tank. “Who’s this…? By the tank?"

  Marty paused at the end the hallway. He sighed, then coughed, a wet mucusy sound that did not instill confidence in Cami. “My father. World War II. Battle of the Bulge." Marty shook his head, then turned into the opening on his left and disappeared. Kirk paused for a moment, looked at Cami, whimpered once, then followed.