Broken Tide | Book 4 | Backflow

by Richardson, Marcus

  There was a body in her front yard, and the front door was wide open.

  Cami sprinted forward, heedless of the fact that she should check her surroundings for threats. If someone had been hurt and left in her front yard, the attacker might still be around. She didn't care. Nothing in the world mattered at that moment except finding out if the person in the front yard was her daughter or not. Cami threw herself forward as fast as she possibly could run and tripped in the grass just before the body. She landed on her chest and the wind left her lungs, as she coughed, sputtered, and crawled on hands and knees to get to whoever it was that lay in her front yard.

  "No, no…please, no…” she wheezed, coughing as she reached the body in the tall grass. Her head slumped when she realized it wasn't Amber. “Thank God…” she muttered. It was a man, a skinny man with pale limbs. As she got back to her feet, still trying to catch her breath, she noticed the needle marks and scabs down his arms. Using one foot she flipped the body over, and saw three bullet holes in the chest, blossoms of red spread out over the T-shirt he wore.

  Cami pulled up her pistol with both hands, trembling slightly, and aimed at the front door. She moved quickly across the yard on legs that felt more like rubber than muscle and bone and reached the front porch.

  "Hello? Anybody in there?" she called out. "Amber!" She threw herself against the doorframe just to the left of the open front door. "Anybody? It's Cami!"

  "Cami!" Gary called from inside the house. "Get in here—I need help!"

  His voice sounded tight and high. Not his usual baritone, full of confidence. He sounded scared.

  Cami stepped in and made sure to present the smallest target possible while she kept her weapon out in front, the way Marty had instructed her after the tsunami hit. She kept her finger off the trigger, but both hands wrapped around the pistol. She leaned forward as she went, prepared to take the pistol’s kick if she had to pull the trigger.

  On the front room floor, she found a small splatter of bright red blood, and Marty slumped over on his side. A black pistol lay just out of reach of his outstretched hand, and several empty shell casings lay on the floor nearby. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. She rushed forward and took a knee, put her back toward the wall, and kept the pistol aimed out into the rest of the house as she reached down and touched his neck.

  "I'm okay…” the old man groaned. "It's all my fault…I’m so sorry…I’m sorry, missy…couldn't stop them…”

  It was only at that moment that Cami heard the hysterical shrieking coming from further in the house. She left Marty and moved cautiously into the hallway that led to the kitchen.

  "It's okay, they're gone," Gary yelled. "I need help with Elizabeth.”

  Cami moved quickly into the kitchen. On the floor by the overturned kitchen table, Elizabeth lay sprawled out, unconscious. Her dress had been torn, and her face already puffed and swollen, like someone had taken a baseball bat to it. Both eyes were closed, one already dark with the makings of a wicked shiner. Her left arm was peppered with cuts and scrapes and fresh blood, but none of it looked serious.

  “What do I do?” Gary asked as he knelt at his wife’s head. His hands hovered over her cheeks, as if he were afraid to touch her. “Lizzy…”

  "Is she breathing?" Cami asked. “Check her pulse," she said in a detached, neutral voice. “Is the house clear?”

  “Y-yes,” Gary said. “I should’ve been here…I should’ve seen…”

  Something was very wrong in the house—Cami hadn't seen Amber, and after something like this…whatever had happened…Amber would be the first one to be screaming for Cami.

  "Where is everybody?" Cami heard herself ask.

  “The boys are upstairs…they’re okay. Mia’s out back with Harriet."

  Gary looked up at her with haunted eyes. "It happened so fast that…we didn’t—I didn’t…Mitch took off after them…”

  “Where's my daughter?" Cami whispered, her voice trembling.

  Gary closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I tried—I was in Marty’s house getting supplies for him…Mitch chased—"

  “Where is my daughter!" Cami shrieked. The muscles of her body all went rigid at once, and her hands tightened around the gun. It was still pointed in a safe direction toward the floor, but at that moment, Cami forgot she even held it.

  Gary flinched at the volume of her shout. "They took her,” he replied.

  Somewhere, in some small part of her mind, Cami heard the sound of her pistol as it hit the kitchen floor. Her body felt heavy, as if her legs and arms were made of lead. She could no longer keep herself upright. Gravity pulled her to the floor, and she yielded. She stumbled back, and as she hit the wall, a picture fell off and the glass shattered with a crash next to her. Uncaring, Cami slid to the floor.

  "What?" she breathed, as she stared at the busted open kitchen cabinet directly across from her.

  Gary left Elizabeth’s side and rushed to Cami, in a blur of movement that looked to her like something out of a dream. He was there in front of her, but whatever words he spoke came out as a mumbled garble. She blinked at how wide his eyes were. He called her name once, then twice, and snapped his fingers in slow motion in front of her face. He disappeared for a second, then blurred back into view. She felt wetness roll down her face.

  While she had been playing the hero and trying to save the neighborhood—-trying to save an empty house from burning down—someone broke into her own house and stole her baby. They took Amber away from her.

  The last piece of her family was gone.

  In the distance, Harriet wailed and screamed, her voice like a siren. Cami ignored it all. Nothing else mattered. Reese was gone. Amber was gone. The tsunami had washed over the world and taken everything from her.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Chapter 14

  Sailing Vessel Intrepid

  Southeast of Atlantic City, New Jersey

  The relative warmth of the water was a surprise to Reese as he stepped off the port bow—it was chilly, but not cold—and it still numbed his injured knee. He glanced down and saw a puff of blood dissipate before the wound clotted. Reese swore and released a few bubbles, but ignored the pain. It was time to get to work.

  Tiberia’s white hull hung in front of him like a ghost cloud. He used the line he’d tied around his waist to pull himself closer as Tiberia drifted from him even in the few seconds that he’d dropped into the water. A roller went overhead, and the bow dipped down into the water so he could see exactly where the hole was.

  As the bow bobbed up, he held onto the line and it pulled him back to the surface. He took a deep breath, then dove back under. Reese pulled the ungainly scrap of sailcloth with him, and struggled against the buoyancy of the football tucked under his arm, but he managed to get himself adjusted just right and planted his feet against the hull. Standing against the hull, he wrapped the line around his waist tight enough to hold him in position if he squeezed it between his legs.

  With both hands free, Reese stuffed the sail over the hull, and held it tight as the seawater threatened to pull it right out of his hand. He placed the tip of the football in the opening, then shoved, and the water pressure sucked it home. He hovered in place, and waited for the hull to puncture the football, but it held fast. He pulled the line and burst to the surface, gasping for air.

  Just to make sure the patch held, Reese went back down and checked one more time. He put his hand on the ball and tugged a few times, but the football was stuck fast, and the edge of the sail moved like a wispy cloth in the current. The only thing left to do was climb back aboard and see if the patch held from the inside. He went back to the surface, then swam along the boat until he got to the stern ladder and pulled himself up over the transom.

  Dripping wet, Reese untied the line around his waist, lifted the starboard bench and pulled out a towel. He dried himself, then looked across to Intrepid. "How you doing?"

  Jo waved dismissively in response. "Fine and dandy, for a fat
old lady who's got a bum leg, I suppose."

  Reese snorted, and went down into Tiberia’s galley, dripping water as he moved. "Is it holding?" he asked as soon as he ducked under the hooded entrance to the companionway.

  Byron sat knee-deep in water, up by what used to be the main v-berth. One of the wooden benches that the National Guard had installed floated in the water and he pushed it aside and laughed. "I wouldn't believe it if I didn’t see with my own eyes, but this Frankenstein patch is holding."

  Reese sat down in the galley seat, and looked at his feet, shin deep in water. Tony, red-faced and sweating, scooped up yet another bucket, and splashed over to the ladder to begin the long process of climbing up to the cockpit and emptying it over the side.

  “What’d you do to your leg?” he asked.

  Reese glanced at his knee. “Oh, I forgot about that. Bashed my knee against a cleat up there when I was checking out the hole. It’s no big deal. Just a scratch.”

  "That slowed the intake considerably! Nicely done," Byron added from the darkened bow as he poked around with a flashlight.

  Reese rested his head against the cabin wall and sighed. Around him, all manner of cooking implements floated in the water, or half submerged, bumped into things. It was a complete disaster area, but Libby did her best to pick up as she moved through the cabin.

  She held a box under one arm and plucked a spatula out of the water, shook it off with disdain, then dropped it in the box which she placed on the chart table. “I apologize, Reese—we’re a bit messy at the moment," she muttered, clearly flustered at the unsightly mess that surrounded them.

  Reese laughed. "And I apologize that we didn't take the time to repair the hole when we had the chance back in New York," he said with a nod toward Byron. "I would’ve saved myself the trouble of having to take a cold bath if we’d just parked and taken a day to get things fixed."

  Byron laughed from the bow. "Well, now that we've got this in place, I can use the hull repair kit to fill in the gaps. It's not ideal, and we’ll have to figure out a way to strap that ball in from the outside to keep it from popping loose, but we should be able to at least prevent the hull from leaking anymore from this spot…”

  Reese tightened the towel around his shoulders. “The problem is going to be how do we keep the ball in place?" His eye was drawn to a small net that hung from hooks in the roof that held three oranges. It swung back and forth like a hammock as the boat rocked, always holding its cargo steady, relative to the horizon. He nodded toward the oranges in the net. “How big is that?”

  Byron scratched his head and stood from the water. “Probably not big enough to cover that football…”

  "This old thing?” Libby asked as she grabbed the oranges. "I only made it to hold a couple of oranges at a time. Just to give us some fresh fruit when we’re on the boat."

  Reese blinked. “You made that?"

  "Sure, I made it," Libby said with an air of affronted dignity. "You don't think I can’t contribute something to this boat?"

  "No, I just—“

  "I think what Reese is trying to ask you dear, is if you could make one for the football?"

  Libby smiled. "Well, of course I can," she said to Reese. "It shouldn't be that hard. I can just set up like I do my crochet."

  Reese grinned. "Excellent! I'll go rustle up some cordage." He got up and sloshed through the water on the floor to the ladder. "How long you think it might take?"

  Libby pursed her lips and thought, then shrugged. "Maybe five...ten minutes?"

  Reese nodded. "I'll be right back." He turned and scrambled up the ladder to the deck. Tiberia’s stern was still tilted up, but the angle wasn't as steep as it was when he’d come aboard. He let the towel drop from his shoulders and the sun warmed his skin as he opened the bench seats and inspected the piles of ropes and spare parts Byron had collected.

  "Whatcha doin’ over there?" Jo called.

  "Looking for some rope…”

  "You’re on a sailboat, seems to me there should be rope all over the place…”

  Reese looked up and frowned. "Very funny. I'm looking for a particular size of rope. I need something that's not as thick as all the lines we've got holding things up or pulling sails.” He frowned and opened the next bench cover.

  “What size?” asked Jo.

  Reese sighed. "I don't know, the thickness of a pencil? Maybe a little thicker?" He stood and looked at Jo across the gap of water. "I used a football and a piece of sailcloth to plug a hole in the bow…but if that ball pops loose, the boat’s gonna flood again. So we have to find a way to tie the ball to the boat. Libby can make a little net that's gonna slip over the edge of the football, and then I'll swim under the boat and lash it in place with a thicker line."

  "Gotcha," Jo replied. She nodded. "Sounds like a good plan. I'm glad I'm not the one who has to go getting in that water. Looks cold."

  Reese snorted, then went back to his search. ”It’s like 80, Jo.”

  “Yeah, well, if it ain’t a hot tub, I ain’t gettin’ in.”

  A few minutes later, frustrated in his search, he slammed the bench seat down and moved to the other side. “We’re on a sailboat, surrounded by ropes and pulleys…and I can't find anything that’ll work…this is ridiculous.”

  Something light smacked him in the back. Reese flinched, expecting a seagull to slap him in the face with its wings, then turned and noticed a bundle of paracord had dropped to the deck at his feet. He picked it up out of a puddle of seawater and turned it over. "Where'd you get this?" he called to Jo.

  "Found it in the medic kit, Petty Officer Gellar gave us this morning. Will it work?”

  Reese grinned broadly. "I think this is gonna be perfect."

  He helped Tony throw one more bucket of water overboard, then went back down into the cabin. He handed Libby the para cord. "Can you work with this?"

  "Oh, absolutely,” she said with a smile as she turned the neat bundle of parachute cord over in her hands. “Hang on, this won't take but a minute."

  "Reese!" Byron called from the darkened bow. "It's wiggling loose!" He struggled for a moment and splashed in the water. "It’s starting to leak...unh...I can't hold it from this end...”

  Libby looked up from the cord at Reese. "I'll go out and hold it." He looked at Libby. "Just hurry, please."

  "Reese, you don't need to be out there, just wait a minute, it won't take me..."

  "It's getting worse," Byron warned as he struggled to hold the patch in place.

  "We don't have time to wait, Libby," Reese said as he turned and sloshed his way toward the stairs. "If the ball pops loose, we might never catch it again. We've got to keep it in place!"

  Reese clambered up the stairs and slipped halfway up, bumping his injured knee on the teak wood step. He swore under his breath and continued up to the main deck.

  “Dude, you’re bleeding,” Tony said as he moved to the railing with a full bucket of water.

  Reese grunted. “Ain’t got time to bleed. Besides, it’s not much.” He grabbed the rope that he’d tied to the bow, quickly lashed it around his waist again and moved along the deck toward the bow.

  Tony popped up on the deck and dumped another bucket overboard. "How’s she doing?" Reese asked.

  “Aunt Libby’s moving as fast as she can," Tony called back. He disappeared back below.

  "Here we go again," Reese said. He stepped over the railing and dropped into the water.

  He braced himself this time for the water, and the shock wasn't nearly as bad as the first time. The football was visibly loose in the socket directly in front of him. He pulled the line tight and came close to the hull, then pounded the ball with his fist to push it back into the hole.

  It tried to pop out immediately, so he kept hitting it until the ball was pushed as snug as he could make it. Running out of air, he left the ball in place and hauled himself to the surface. Down astern, Tony dumped another bucket of water overboard. "She's almost done!"

  “Great
!” Reese called out.

  "I'll bring it right up!"

  Reese spit out a mouthful of saltwater. "Hey, grab me a bundle of line while you're at it! I'll need to lash it through the net and then bring it under the hull to the other side."

  "You got it!" Tony said before he disappeared back below.

  Reese took a deep breath and dove back under the water, only to find the ball had almost worked itself loose again. He continued to grunt and push, shoving the ball with all the force he could muster while underwater.

  His own buoyancy kept him from exerting enough pressure to force the ball into the hole once and for all, and the ball itself resisted his movements by wanting to pop to the surface. It was a no-win situation—by the time his breath ran out, the water's chilly temperature sapped his strength.

  He broke the surface again and sputtered for air. Above him, Tony leaned over the deck and handed down the braided net, which looked remarkably like a spiderweb about a foot across.

  "Great, this is perfect!" Reese called up. He wiped the water out of his face with his free hand, then took the end of a multicolored line Tony handed him. "Now I just have to loop this around here," Reese said as he fed the line through the holes Libby had left in the netting to secure it to the hull. "It's a lot easier to do this when you're not floating in the water, I'll tell you that much," Reese muttered.

  "Okay, I think I get it," Tony said. "I got the other end of the line up here and it's tied off at this cleat by the mast."

  Reese pulled the line through the netting and grinned. "I'll go secure this in place. When you feel me pull on the line, let it play out. If you can, walk around to the other side. I know the bow wants to go under the water, but we gotta get this rope wrapped around the front end, or we’re never going to be able to tighten it against the hole."

  "Don't worry about that,” Tony said, bracing himself against the pitch of the deck. “I'll get it pulled tight."