Mike cleared his throat. “We’re going to make it, Stu. That was a good plan. We should make it.”
“Sure,” Stu answered, matching Mike’s lie with one of his own, and smiling as he did. The smile came easily for him since he had been courting death for days, and now it looked like the Grim Reaper was ready to show his bone face. Stu would try to get to shore—the survival instinct was too well ingrained within him to not try—but, like Mike, he knew his chances were slim to none, and no ritual was going to make a difference.
The roar of the crashing waves soon drowned out the possibilities for any more niceties, which was just fine with Stu. He was afraid one of them would bring up Jillybean and that was the last name he wanted to hear.
“Jillybean,” he scoffed. “It’s the stupidest name I ever heard.” Just then a fine spray washed over them. Despite the cold, it was soothing and was a great relief from the stinging sleet which had been pelting them from behind. Stu grinned into the spray, thinking that there was no reason to look back, anyway. If he lived, he didn’t think he would ever look back again.
The spray was coming off the looming rocks. Stu gazed up at them and had plenty of time to study their coming deaths. In a strange way, time and space began to compress. It almost seemed as though the waves were stacking up on each other, building higher the nearer they got to shore. The one they were riding in was a beast. It was so huge that Stu felt like the ocean was gearing up to try and kill them one last time—and it was going to put everything it had into it.
The top of the wave began to show white on either side of the Captain Jack. It was time. The wave had crossed an immense ocean all the way from the edge of Japan and was about to hurl itself against the rocks just so it could kill Stu Currans. It’s a damned kamikaze, he thought to himself with a grin. The idea was insane, but it made him laugh.
Grinning, he yelled, “Everyone ready?” Although he was all of seven feet from Mike the yell was necessary. The THROOM of the waves was earsplitting.
They were as ready as they were ever going to be and yet there came a dreadfully long pause as the wave heaved up, its crest a pure white mantle over an alien green color. Then they hit the point of no return. The receding water was undercutting the incoming wave and now they were hurtling down at breakneck speed.
Stu screamed for Mike to drop the anchor, but he had already done so, knowing on some level that because the boat was upside down, the anchor wouldn’t fall as quickly as they needed it to. The metal links were blurring away, letting out a high shriek that turned to a bubbly whine moments later as the boat went all the way under the water.
It was a strange feeling. They had become part of the wave.
In the span of seconds, the water at the back of the boat went from three inches deep, lapping at their ankles, to waist deep and getting higher as it felt like the boat was sinking to the middle of the enormous wave. Stu sucked in a breath and gripped the torn hull for all he was worth though it really wasn’t needed. He was part of the wave. Its momentum was his momentum. He could have let go and he wouldn’t have gone anywhere.
Then the wave began to topple as the base of it hit the shore. Suddenly the blunt and broken bow of the Captain Jack speared out of the water in mid-curl. All Stu could think was that he was riding a forty-foot surfboard straight to hell. Half a million gallons of water and that one flimsy boat were aimed at what looked like a jagged set of black teeth. All along the base of the cliff were slick spires of rock that would turn the boat to kindling—only just then the anchor bit into rock.
For an endless moment, the Captain Jack hung in the air with the huge wave behind it as the chain went taut with a deep DOOOOOM sound. The great unstoppable surge slammed through and around them with a tumultuous crash. The rear third of the boat tore away, while the bow and main section landed square on the spires of rock and disintegrated as the wave pounded home in an explosion of noise and white water.
The rear third of the boat was spared that initial explosion, but then the casing holding the anchor winch gave way and the last of the Captain Jack was sucked into the maelstrom. Stu was spun and twisted, as he was plunged under the mad, swirling water. Up and down switched places seven or eight times in a matter of seconds before he found himself caught up in the stern railing like a tuna in a net.
Stu and the railing were slammed into the rocky bottom of the shore with such force that the metal bent around his leg, as tight as a vice. Even worse, it was pinned under the rocks almost at the base of one of the spires. He was twenty feet below the raging surface and trapped. No matter how hard he pulled, the railing wouldn’t budge. As he was trying to twist his leg, he was suddenly thrown back by a near invisible force. The water from the last wave was rushing back out to sea.
With the tiniest glimmer of hope that the receding water would drop low enough for him to break the surface and be able to get a new breath, he looked back up through the green water and saw rising above him what looked like a looming grey mountain complete with snowy peaks. It was another wave and was just as big as the last.
He ducked down and threw his hands over his head. As utterly useless as this action was, he could do little else. The main weight of the wave hit just past the spires with such force that it felt like Stu’s eardrums would burst. Once more he was sent spinning, still with the railing on his leg. For a brief second, he broke the surface, took a half-breath before he was sucked under again and battered. His right arm was smashed, there was a searing pain in his trapped leg and his entire body was bent backwards against what he thought could be nothing else except another body.
As soft as it was, he knew it had to be Jenn’s and Stu did everything he could to turn around to get to her. It was not Jenn, it was the long beige cushion from the bench that once sat behind the wheel of the Captain Jack. The cushion, which was filled with millions of tiny trapped air bubbles began to wriggle toward the surface.
In desperation, Stu grabbed it with both arms in a bear hug and was pulled upward along with it. It acted like a life preserver—but only barely. He and the long cushion took turns bouncing off unforgiving rocks before they finally broke the surface practically in the shadow of the cliff.
He was being hurtled toward it but now saw that the cliff face was actually set further back than he had expected and that the waves weren’t quite reaching it. It must be low tide, he thought to himself as he slid through waist-deep water. There was a brief lull and then the water started rushing around him again, pulling him back towards the deadly spires. Still gripping the cushion with all his might, he fought the pull, knowing that the next wave would land squarely on top of him if he got sucked back.
He dug into the rocks and sand with both feet, slowing his momentum so that when the next wave came, it broke well in front of him. A moment of relief was all he had before the surge of water sent him flying back toward thew cliff where he pinballed from rock to rock, the cushion taking the brunt of the damage until he slammed right against the cliff itself. For a few seconds, he was crushed against the rock, unable to move—then the water receded.
He fell back into a few feet of foamy water and gazed blearily around him, certain that he would find himself alone, but Jenn and Mike were about forty yards away clinging to a blue plastic container. Mike’s face and head were bleeding and he seemed only partially aware of where he was.
Jenn was a little better off and when the water receded around her, she tried to drag the container along with Mike draped over it.
Stu thought he must have hit his head at least once in all the fury, because his thoughts were coming to him slowly out of a dim haze and when the next wave came, he foolishly placed the cushion between him and it. The water was heavy, but it couldn’t hurt him compared to being slammed into the cliff face. It felt like a hundred stubby knives were stabbing into his back at once.
Jenn and Mike, riding the blue container slid close. She had swallowed or breathed in a few gallons of seawater by her reckoning and she fairly s
loshed as she struggled to pull Mike behind one of the larger rocks near the cliff. It offered some respite from further battering, but not from the cold wind which was howling along the shore.
She huddled down next to Mike as Stu slogged over still grimacing in pain and still carting the cushion. “We lived,” he stated without much enthusiasm.
“For now,” she answered with even less.
“Yeah,” he agreed. In his view, things had only marginally improved. The cold was so intense that he didn’t think they could last another fifteen minutes in it and, as far as he could tell, they still had an impossible cliff to scale. This wasn’t like the twenty-foot affair at the north end of Alcatraz with its handholds and soft fall to a sandy beach. This cliff had to be fifty-feet high, it was covered in slime and the wind was like nothing Stu had ever felt. And they were without shoes.
After the next wave swept around the rock, drenching them, Stu chanced a look around and saw that the cliff wasn’t as monolithic as he had at first assumed. Not a hundred yards away, a large section of it had been so undercut by the erosion of the waves that the face of it had fallen into the ocean.
“There’s a way up,” he said to Jenn as he bent and picked up Mike. Every muscle and bone in Stu’s body cried out in pain. He ignored it and slung Mike across his shoulder. He waited until after the next wave and then struggled with his burden to the next rock, thirty feet further on. Jenn should have beaten him there, however she was hauling the box along.
He was about to bark at her to leave the thing when he saw there was a placard taped to the clear plastic lid: Knitting Supplies. It was written once again in Jillybean’s neat hand.
“Where did that come from?” As far as he knew, Jillybean didn’t knit and even if she did why would she put a box of knitting supplies on their doomed ship? No, this had to be filled with other sorts of supplies; food and ammo, Stu hoped.
“The boat,” Jenn said, gazing down at the box with a glassy stare. “It was somewhere in one of the cabins, I guess. There was at least one more. I saw it just as we went under. It must have sank.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe they were there the entire time.”
Neither could Stu. For all he knew, Jillybean might have packed an inflatable raft on board the Captain Jack and he had been too caught up in his own pathetic hurt feelings to even look.
Furious at himself, he plunged through the surf, fell twice, but finally made it to where the cliff had fallen. He set Mike down above the water line. “I’ll haul the box up. While I’m gone take a look at him.”
She gave him only a cursory look over. He was conscious but concussed; bruised and bleeding, but not terribly so. He would not die from these wounds unless there was internal bleeding, something she couldn’t check for right there either way. No, what would kill him was the cold—something she wouldn’t allow, not while she had any warmth left in her body.
Mike had saved her when they had plunged into the water. He had used his body to shield hers from the many rocks and he had thrust her into the air rather than breathe himself. Keeping him warm was the least she could do. She wrapped herself around him, shielding him from the cold, letting the sleet wash over her.
It sapped her strength and she was nearly as out of it as Mike by the time Stu came back. The Hillman said nothing. He picked up Mike once again, heaved him onto his shoulder and trudged through the maze of rock and sand. Now that they were on land, Stu gained strength with every step. He carried Mike to the top of the cliff and then beyond.
From the heights they could see towns, both north and south of them. Each was a few miles distant and even Stu did not relish carrying Mike that far. Nearer to them was a lone homestead that had a magnificent view of the Pacific. Stu squished along with toes gone so numb that he couldn’t bend them by the time they reached the house.
It had been ransacked of course, but there were still clothes and blankets and even a stockpile of firewood. What they didn’t have was any way to start the fire. Jenn and Stu both glanced at the plastic box. It was very much like a thirty-gallon Tupperware container. When Stu popped it open they saw, sitting on top, was one of the white and gold flags that first Jillybean, then Jenn had used as their royal banner.
Sitting primly on that, as if it hadn’t just been through a harrowing life or death shipwreck, was a note which Jenn read to the others:
“Jenn,
I apologize for the manner of your escape. I’m afraid time was against me and I was unable to formulate a better plan in the spur of the moment. To reduce the effects of the concoction you drank please administer Atropine and Diazepam as soon as possible…”
Jenn didn’t wait to finish the note. The pain from the poison had only slightly decreased and the three of them were in silent agony. She pulled out the flag, three large medical books, Jillybean’s own Sig Sauer P226, two boxes of ammo, a gold lighter that had once belonged to Matthew Gloom, the now dead leader of the Santas, a few pounds of dried venison, a few more of salted fish and two jars of Jenn’s own carrot and beet infused vinegar recipe which went well drizzled on game meat.
Jenn paused, amazed at the jars, wondering how they could have gotten into Jillybean’s possession. The wonder was short-lived while the pain in her hands just holding the jars seemed endless. She set the jars aside and plucked out the final box, which was filled with medical supplies. Within it were the Atropine and Diazepam as well as instructions.
The relief from the pain took a few minutes and as they waited, they huddled closer to the fire they had lit; it was some time before the heat of it seeped into their bones. As they shivered, Jenn picked up the note again and finished reading it:
“Remember, you are still a queen. A good queen. It’s what the world needs, now more than ever.
Yours,
Jillian
PS The hands of a queen are the hands of a healer—Study!”
“She’s given me schoolwork,” Jenn snorted.
Mike’s head was still pounding—when people spoke it sounded like he was standing in a giant metal bell. He didn’t have it in him to laugh. Stu let a forced chuckle slip through his falsely grinning lips, and put his hand out for the note. It had been the only one in the box. He had checked.
Jenn seemed to know what he wanted from the note. He wanted to know if he was mentioned. “You probably had your own note in that other box. We each had one, I bet.”
“Yeah, sure.” He put more effort into this smile and then sat back with his hands held out to the fire, wondering how pathetic he would look if he snuck out to the cliff to see whether he could find the other boxes. Very pathetic, he decided since there was no way the plastic boxes could still be intact with the punishment they were taking.
Very pathetic or not, he hobbled to the cliff two hours later when Jenn and Mike were fast asleep. All that remained of the Captain Jack and the blue boxes was some trash, some shards of fiberglass and the shredded remains of her sails, being swept up to the cliff and dragged back down again, endlessly.
He told himself that there had never been a note; it made it easier to turn his back on Jillybean forever.
Chapter 8
Bainbridge Island was divided into sections and then into subsections and each of these was scoured. No building was left untouched, not even Jillybean’s school.
It was the scariest, most dangerous place on the island and there was definitely a shortage of volunteers to search it. Zero, in fact. It was why it was left for last.
“I’ll do it,” Neil said, from his couch by the fire. Emily had heaved the couch within two feet of the flames, which she had fed with enough logs to melt lead. Neil was sweltering. Sweat came from every pore, drenching his t-shirt, his sweater-vest and the heavy pink comforter swaddling him that Emily had dragged down from her own bed.
It was all too much but when he had retreated from the heat to sit near the open window, he had shivered himself into a hunched ball.
“No way are you going anywhere near that s
chool,” Emily declared. “You’re too weak.” She had become his Nurse Ratched and watched over him like an overprotective vulture. Although she insisted he wasn’t going to die, she hovered around him, judging his every action and word with a nervous cast to her eyes that he read as: This is it, he’s turning!
It was hard for Neil to look at his god-daughter. She was so beautiful while he was becoming more revolting by the minute, inside and out. He could feel his mind twisting with hate. “I’m the perfect choice, Governor,” he insisted, “since it seems as though I’m your only choice. It’ll be fine. I-I have time enough to search the school. And, uh, gather some items we should keep under wraps.”
Governor Deanna Grey hated that he was their only volunteer. The ease of life on the island had not bred heroics into her people and after having lived so long in safety, they shied away from danger. She sighed, wishing she had a different choice. Neil wasn’t doing well. His eyes had become hollow and there was sweat running in tiny rivers through the crags of his scars. And he was now a stark, unhealthy white, outside the blazing red of his cheeks, that is. He had the disease. There was no second-guessing it now. “Maybe we could just do a quick search of the building and lock it up tighter than ever, afterwards. Her experiments aren’t going anywhere, are they?”
“Perhaps now is a good time to just burn that building down,” Norris Barnes suggested. He was the Chief of Housing and Infrastructure on the island and had railed for years against what he called the wasted space accorded to Jillybean and her experiments. “If there’s a spy or assassin in there, well that’ll be just killing two birds with one stone if you ask me.”
“You don’t want to burn down that lab,” Neil advised, using part of the pink blanket to mop his forehead. “Even I don’t know everything she has cooking in there. It could be she has…well, let’s just say there are some things that even fire won’t kill, and you don’t want them released into the atmosphere.”
Generation Z (Book 4): The Queen Unthroned Page 7