Hell's Encore: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (This Dark Age Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  She nodded, then blinked back more tears and forced a sad, strained smile.

  “What is it?” he said, alarmed.

  “My legs,” she said in a trembling voice. “I’m sick. I can’t hardly walk.”

  26

  “Closer!” Greg yelled at Chelsea, who was working the tiller.

  “I keep trying, but it gets all fruffly!” Chelsea yelled back, face reddening in anger.

  “It’s called luffing, you seasick landlubber,” Greg growled in his skipper voice. He even spit over the side for added effect, bringing disgusted looks from both girls. Total hypocrites. He’d seen them spit bunches of times.

  Tony said, “What’s a landlubber? I heard of it before.”

  “A landlubber,” Greg said theatrically, “is someone who lubs on land.”

  Tony and the girls glanced back and forth uncertainly, then smirked in shared realization that they were being put on.

  Andrew laughed. “You’re so full of it.”

  “No laughing at sea!” Greg shouted with a wild look in his eyes that sent each of them into peals of laughter.

  “Uh huh,” Tony said. “But we can lub at sea, right? Just not on land?”

  More laughing after that, then Chelsea found a heading that leaned the boat over a little more, increasing its speed nicely.

  “Is this okay?” she said, frowning in concentration.

  Greg said it was, so long as they stayed out of the shallows. On the map, the river got narrower as they approached D.C. If tacking got too hard, they’d use the motor to bring them into the next dock.

  Everyone agreed that was a great plan, and for the next several hours they tacked infrequently and made good progress. It was good that the wind came mostly from behind them and a little on the side. Greg had read this was the best kind of wind, even though it seemed like directly behind them would be faster.

  An hour later, the wind shifted. Now they were tacking way more. Every time they did, they lost speed and drifted a little. They needed to be faster tying off the mainsail, but that wouldn’t happen if they didn’t try harder, and the looks in his crew’s eyes said they were sick of this game.

  “Can we turn the motor on now?” Sarah said, rubbing her hands. Everyone’s hands were raw. “When are we gonna stop? We passed like three marinas already!”

  Greg shook his head. “This isn’t about the destination. We’re also practicing. What if the motor breaks down? Won’t know unless you practice.”

  “We’ve been practicing for weeks,” Tony said through clenched teeth.

  Tony could be a pain, but he rarely got upset. He looked mad now, though. They all did.

  Sighing loudly, as if giving up a lot in order to satisfy the whiniest group of crybabies ever to sail the seven seas, Greg said, “Okay, fine. Chelsea, put us into the wind so it gets all fruffly. Andrew, go below and bring up the sail cover.”

  “Aye aye, captain,” Andrew said and dashed down.

  Tony helped him furl the jib, then the mainsail, but they still didn’t have that cover. Five minutes more and Greg yelled, “Dammit, Andrew, hurry up!”

  Andrew popped his head out and said, “Look what I found! Pirate rum!” He held up a jug of amber liquid.

  “That’s not Rum,” Sarah said, grabbing it and looking at the label. “It’s whiskey.”

  “Whiskey is rum,” Andrew said.

  “Dump it over the side,” Greg said. “Do I gotta get the cover myself?”

  Andrew ignored him and said, “You know … it’s not like it’s illegal anymore. I mean, for us to have some.”

  “It is on this boat,” Greg said, quite seriously. If drinking and driving was bad, so was drinking and sailing.

  Andrew took the bottle and went back down. A minute later, he returned with the sail cover.

  After a lot of fumbling and readjusting, Greg and Tony got the cover on. When they started the motor, everyone leaned back and relaxed as the boat glided along.

  The sky was overcast, and getting darker. Greg had taken off his watch so it wouldn’t catch on anything, but by his reckoning, the time was around four in the afternoon. A look at the map showed they weren’t even halfway to their destination. Hopefully, the light would last long enough for them to find a convenient slip somewhere.

  Being in a boat made him more tired than he’d ever felt before. Which was weird. Something about constantly balancing as he moved around, the endless tugging of ropes, the perpetual course corrections, and the steady wind that forced him to bundle up tightly.

  He couldn’t help it. He yawned.

  “Why don’t you go below and rest,” Sarah said.

  Between Chelsea and Sarah, Sarah was the prettiest. If he wasn’t already dating Olivia … But he was dating Olivia. And she had green hair. Also, she was the first girl he’d ever kissed. Olivia said that was special and meant they’d spend their whole lives together, forever and ever. That said, Sarah was here and Olivia wasn’t, and Greg found himself blushing at the concern in her voice.

  “Maybe I will,” Greg said, puffing his chest out fractionally. He even stared over the water in a way that best revealed his face in profile. Then he nodded. “You guys got it up here?”

  “Yes,” they all said in unison.

  “Be sure to watch for buoys,” he said. “If you don’t see buoys, stay sort of … you know … in the middle.”

  “We got it,” Tony said. “Why don’t you trust people more?”

  “Prolly how he was raised,” Andrew said. “Suspicious parents, suspicious kids. Classic situation.”

  Sarah smiled prettily. “We’ll be fine. Go on and rest. Trust us.”

  Greg nodded wearily, stared into the distance again, and then went below.

  Sometime later, curled comfortably in blankets in the triangular forward berth, Greg glided from the land of dreams to the carefree confusion of wakefulness. He would have fallen back asleep, but loud laughter from above piqued his curiosity, and he sat up instead.

  Right away, he noticed something wrong. The motor wasn’t running, and the boat wasn’t heeled over as it would be under sail. Also, his so-called friends were talking and laughing more than usual.

  “Woo hoo!” Andrew yelled as if overhearing his thoughts.

  Trying not to fall or bang into anything in the dark cabin, Greg picked his way carefully forward. If not for the sound of water lapping against the sides, he could have sworn the boat wasn’t even in the water anymore. More laughter from above, then light flared from one of the camp lanterns.

  “What the heck’s going on up here?” Greg said as he clambered up the steps.

  “Uh oh,” Andrew said. “We’re in trouble now. Captain’s gonna make us walk the plank!”

  “Like to see him try,” Tony said before taking a drink from the whiskey bottle—the same one Greg told Andrew to dump over the side, and which clearly hadn’t happened.

  “Are you idiots drunk?” Greg said, staring incredulously between the four.

  Chelsea said, “We only had a little. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

  “Yeah, man,” Tony said. “Some pirate you are.”

  Greg checked their course and saw they weren’t moving. “Are we … did someone put out the anchor? Why aren’t we moving?”

  “Duh,” Sarah said, grabbing the bottle from Tony and taking a swig. “Can’t you see we turned the engine off?”

  “But we’re not moving.”

  “And I said duh. The engine’s off! Calling us drunk …”

  “This is a river, you moron,” Greg said, starting to get angry. “If you didn’t set the anchor, we should be drifting.”

  As one, they stared over the side.

  “Water’s moving,” Tony offered hesitantly. “That’s good, right?”

  Greg swore. “No, it’s not. We’re stuck, you idiot. Why didn’t you wake me up before you shut it off?”

  Chelsea staggered forward and shoved him. “Why’d you go to sleep for? You’re supposed to be in charge!”
>
  The others backed her up, each accusing him of falling asleep on the job, of not taking the importance of their mission seriously, and of being irresponsible with their lives.

  Looking around at his drunken crew, he realized they were more correct than they probably knew. He was responsible for them, whether they felt so all the time or only during emergencies.

  “You know what,” he said, turning to Tony, “you’re right. Go below and get the boat hook. And before you open your dumb mouth: it’s a pole with a hook on it, and it’s on the boat.” Tony moved to take the bottle from Sarah, but Greg was quicker, grabbing it and throwing it into the water. “Now!”

  Tony opened his mouth, then gasped when Greg spun him around and shoved him halfway down the hatch. A minute later, after much cursing and banging around, Tony hurled the boat hook onto the deck.

  Which was fine. So long as he followed orders, Greg chose to ignore the breach of shipboard etiquette.

  “Thank you,” he said and took up the pole. “Everyone—over to this side.”

  They did as instructed, and for the next few minutes, Greg poked the soft, muddy bottom with the telescoping pole in an effort to shake them off whatever they were on and into deeper water.

  Sarah said, “Should we rock back and forth?”

  “Good idea,” Greg said and put down the boat hook.

  Rocking the boat was easy, and soon the mast was swinging overhead like a pendulum … but the boat stayed put.

  “Dang it,” Greg said. “Tide’s too low. Probably gotta wait till morning to get off. You guys really screwed this up, you know that?”

  Sarah started to say something, then Andrew pointed over the water and said, “Hey, what’s that? A light!”

  Sure enough, way off on the Virginia side, a set of headlights beamed from land previously shrouded in foggy darkness. The vehicle seemed to be moving more or less toward them.

  “Hey, over here!” Andrew shouted, raising the camp lantern over his head and shaking it.

  “Are you crazy?” Greg said, grabbing it from him and turning it off. “You don’t know those kids. What if they’re like Blaze? Or Carter?”

  “Or Carter’s mom,” Tony said, bringing chuckles from everyone. Greg’s jokes about Carter’s mom were now more popular than knock-knock jokes.

  For the next several minutes, they sat watching the car to see what it did. Eventually, it turned and headed off to the right for about a quarter mile, then it disappeared.

  “Guesh we’re not gonna be resh-cued now,” Andrew said glumly, slurring the words a little.

  “Why don’t you go to bed,” Greg said. “And rinse first. Your breath smells like gasoline.”

  “Your momma smells like assoline,” Andrew said.

  “Dude!” Tony said, whirling on him.

  Andrew’s eyes widened in sudden realization. “Sorry, man. Totally didn’t mean it.”

  Making fun of an enemy’s parents, like Carter’s, was one thing. But for everyone else, it was probably the worst insult in the world.

  Being the unofficial king of momma jokes, Greg chose to ignore it. To do otherwise would mean they’d have to fight, and the kid was clearly sloshed to the moon on whiskey. Drunk people couldn’t help saying dumb stuff. Everyone knew that.

  “Just go to bed,” Greg said tiredly, showing it was no big deal. “I’ll keep watch.”

  27

  Sometime around two in the morning, the tide came in and the boat started to drift. No wind, thank goodness. Rather than continue unguided into even higher bottoms, Greg started the engine. Shockingly loud, after the comparative silence of the last several hours, but nobody down below seemed to notice. Bunch of morons, getting drunk like that. And shining lights at strange kids. Almost like they had no sense at all.

  “Idiots,” he muttered, turning the tiller and guiding the Banshee into deeper waters.

  Downriver, one of the big bridges from Virginia to Maryland spanned gigantically.

  “Huh,” he said, impressed despite himself. For a bunch of idiots, they’d actually made it pretty far. Which meant …

  “I wonder,” he said, taking the boat more in the direction of the Virginia side, where the headlights had come from. Dark as the river was, a quarter moon lit a tiny section of overcast sky, and pretty soon he could see the outline of what had to be Reagan National Airport. Greg had been there two or three times with his mom to pick up his dad, who sometimes traveled for his job. His dad had preferred Dulles, but tickets there were more expensive.

  Greg knew about the group at Dulles Airport. Mostly girls, which was why Jack had left him home when he’d gone to meet them. They were taking in all the little kids in the area, and because of that, Lisa suggested they were eating them. Everyone thought she was joking, but Greg hadn’t been sure. She had a dark side—always had—and since the night she’d killed Carter, it had only gotten darker and more pronounced.

  As he guided the boat, the big traffic control tower loomed into view. Beyond it, stranded jets could be seen pulled up to the concourse gates. Very creepy, seeing the place so dead. His few experiences with airports had imprinted on his mind an image of bustling activity, long lines, heavy traffic, and lots of noise.

  “What the …?” he said, blinking in surprise.

  At first, he’d thought it was a trick of the light, or maybe the false dawn asserting itself. But he couldn’t deny what he saw: a point of light flared from inside the massive, glass-faced terminal. Not flickering, like an oil lantern. No, it was probably flashlight.

  Hoping the tide was high enough so as not to run aground again, Greg navigated closer for a better look. Abruptly, the light turned off.

  “What is it?” Tony said from the ladder.

  “Jesus, Tony! Don’t do that. Scared me to death!”

  “Sorry,” Tony said in his not-sorry-at-all voice.

  “I saw a light,” Greg said, pointing across the airfield. “That’s the airport.”

  Tony made a show of looking. “Don’t see nothin’. Head feels like shit, though … uh … I think I gotta … I think … uhhhh …”

  Unable to continue, Tony rushed to the side and threw up noisily into the river, then kept at it long after the splashing sounds stopped. Afterward, he slumped against the lifelines and panted to catch his breath.

  Greg grinned at his misfortune. “Want another drink? Might be another bottle down there …”

  Tony’s angry reply died on his lips as a set of headlights flared to life near the water. Whoever was driving rolled their vehicle forward and back until the twin beams lit up the boat.

  “Get below!” Greg said and gunned the engine to full throttle.

  The runway went for a good quarter mile, but the vehicle didn’t follow. Greg watched until it was a faint speck. Ten minutes later, feeling safe, he eased off and gave more attention to the channel markers and buoys.

  “We all right?” Tony said shakily.

  Greg nodded. “Pretty sure. Yeah.”

  When dawn broke, the Banshee and her sickly, puking crew found themselves anchored near a low, flat, steel and concrete bridge. The once beautifully manicured lawns of that part of D.C., with monuments visible from the water, were now heavily overgrown with grass despite the numerous grazing deer.

  Greg was tempted to bring one down, but held off. His reasons were twofold. One, he didn’t particularly like killing the beautiful animals, especially when they had no way to preserve the meat. Two, he didn’t want to draw more attention to themselves. Bad enough someone knew they were here tooling around in sailboats.

  Of the crew, Sarah seemed the least affected by the previous night’s experiments with alcohol. She looked sick, sure, and she’d thrown up too, but she hadn’t kept throwing up, and she climbed up top when Greg called for her.

  “What?” she said in a tired voice, staring dubiously at the bridge.

  “I anchored us super close,” he said. “Now we can climb the mast and hop over.”

  “Are you nuts? I
can’t climb that. I’m a girl, remember?”

  “And I’m fat,” Tony said.

  Strictly speaking, Tony wasn’t fat anymore, not after a winter of meat, organs, and water, but he was the biggest one there, and he wasn’t known for his athleticism.

  “Got it all figured out,” Greg said. “This ol’ boat has a bosun’s chair. We’ll hook you to it and send you up. Easiest thing in the world.”

  “A what?” Chelsea said. “Nobody’s sending me up nothing. Take us to the side and we’ll jump off.”

  Greg shook his head. “Can’t get close enough to shore. Water’s too shallow. Unless you want to jump off and swim. Then you’ll freeze, like Tony did. We got to Tony pretty fast, but if you get stuck in the mud or something, you could die. Trust me, this’ll work. It’s in the book.”

  “You and your dumb books,” Chelsea said.

  “Books aren’t dumb,” Greg said hotly. “Non-readers are.”

  Tony said, “Think he’s calling you dumb, Chels …”

  Chelsea flicked Greg the bird and went below, with Tony following.

  “Let’s get that chair set up,” Greg said.

  Together they set about hooking the diaper-like seat to the halyard.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Sarah said, turning it this way and that and jerking the line repeatedly.

  “What’s not to be sure of? Book says they’re safe. There’s even pictures. All I do is pull you up with this winch, see?” He held up a winch. “Why would they have one if it didn’t work?”

  “But what if the rope breaks?”

  Greg snorted. “It’s not rope, it’s called a halyard. I keep telling everyone, but nobody listens. Now hold still while I buckle you in.”

  “Why don’t you go first?”

  “Because you’re too weak to pull me up.”

  Sarah glared quietly while he fumbled with the straps. Secretly, Greg relished his time so close to her. She seemed a lot prettier today than she had yesterday, and he thought that the most bizarre thing ever. How could someone get prettier one day to the next? He felt guilty for it—especially with Olivia back home worrying about him. He felt even more guilty for not worrying about Olivia. If she were here and he there, he knew she’d still be worried about him. Now he had that to feel guilty about, too.