by Tracey Ward
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself. “They aren’t going to save them.”
“We have to do something,” Karina says decidedly. “Come on. We’ll take the fishing boats out to gather survivors.”
The rain starts to fall in earnest as she hurries away. I look back toward the mountain where our people are hurrying inside out of the storm. We would be too, if we had any sense.
I chase Karina up the beach. She’s run straight for the small fishing boats tied to poles driven into the shore. She’s already untying one when I get there.
“Karina, we can’t,” I tell her. “The storm is picking up. You saw what happened to that ship. What do you think will happen to us in this row boat?”
As if to prove my point lightning cracks again, illuminating the beach in a garish light.
Karina shakes her head, her wet hair plastered to her face. “We’re a smaller target. We’re less likely to be struck by lightning.”
“If the lightning doesn’t kill us the waves will.”
She doesn’t listen to me. She’s tugging hard at the ropes securing the boat, a crease of determination cutting across her smooth forehead. I take hold of her arm and pull her toward me.
She opens her mouth to protest but I cut her off. “Listen to me. Think about what you’re doing. The wind is picking up, the rain is getting worse, and once those waves get to churning nothing is safe out there. Definitely not a fishing boat. I know you want to help them, I do too, but what help will we be if we’re dead before we find anyone?”
Her eyes tighten in protection against the now pelting rain. Her eyelashes are dark and clotted together, her pale face streaked with wet. I can see it in her eyes that she knows I’m right. We’d never make it to them, and even if we did we’d never make it back. Not in one piece.
Thunder vibrates the rocks at our feet, sending a shiver through her body under my hand.
“You’re right. I know you’re right, but… Gray, they’re out there and—“
“I know,” I assure her gently, “but we can’t help them.”
A wave crashes to shore. It races up the rocks, reaching past our ankles.
“We have to go,” I remind her.
She nods shakily before taking off at a run. She splashes through the receding water that’s turning to yellow foam between the rocks. I follow close at her heels, glancing sideways at the sinking wreckage. The fire has gone out on one half. Maybe it’s underwater now. I don’t know, I can’t tell for sure with the thickening storm clouds blotting out the last light we had left.
A discordant banging picks up behind me. I turn to look down the beach, cursing under my breath. The boat Karina was untying is loose, banging against the rocks as the tide tries to pull it out to sea. It’s barely hanging on. One more rush of the waves will yank it loose.
“Grayson!” Karina calls. She’s paused to wait for me up the beach. Lightning scours the sky, making both of us flinch.
I wave for her to keep running. “Get inside! I’m right behind you!”
“What are you doing?”
“I have to tie up the boat! We can’t afford to lose any of them!”
Her face is torn. She bites her lip and looks between me and the boat, between herself and the safety of the mountain. Up to the electric sky above her.
“Go!” I shout before turning my back on her.
I don’t know if she listens. She probably doesn’t. The only voice she hears lately is Easton’s.
If he was here he’d be in that boat rowing for all he’s worth out to sea, being the man Karina is asking me to be. But that’s the problem with her. With all of us. She’s beautiful and good and the best friend I’ve ever had, but lately she looks at me like something is missing. And when she looks at Easton I know she thinks she’s found it. He’d go back again and again looking for survivors, his big body full of strength mine will never know. I’d never make it. Not even if I wanted to.
It’s not that I want these people to die, but I’m realistic, not heroic, and I can see from the wild way the ocean is churning and the clouds are swirling that there is no hope of heading out past the breakers and making it to the wreckage. I’d die trying.
I slip on the rocks, nearly falling. My long arms flail, my tall, beanpole body wobbles gracelessly, but I’m able to right myself at the last second and push on down the beach. I’m fast on my feet. So fast that I nearly make it. I’m almost to the boat before the loosened rope lets go completely, but a wave rushing to shore slows me down while simultaneously lifting the wooden hull off the rocks and pulling it away from my grasp.
I have half a second to make a decision. Only half a second to say ‘to hell with it’ and let the boat go or salvage one of our most crucial means of survival. There’s still time for another day or two of fishing once this storm passes, and fishing means meat. Protein to help get us through the long night and into the next Seventh hour when we can come out and fish again. More fish means fewer cows and goats go to slaughter, meaning more milk. More resources. A better, fuller diet for the kids inside who are still growing.
Everything is connected. Everything has consequences, and in that half second when I see the fishing boat slipping away, I see the strength of the Gaians going with it.
I lunge for the rope. My body splashes into the receding tide, rocks digging into my knees and crashing against my shins, but my fingers wrap around the thick, coarse line, and I hold on for dear life. I’m pulled underwater as the boat and I are pulled out to sea. Luckily I get a good breath. I’m a strong swimmer. I’m able to pull on the rope and kick with my feet until I find the surface.
My fingers find the edge the boat. I break just in time to see a wave cresting, coming to crash down on top of me. I gasp in a gulp of fresh air and go under again. I feel it when it hits, when it rolls and jerks the boat nearly out of my grasp, but I hold on tight. I wait it out until the bubbles are dispersing and the rope feels taught but calm in my hand. Kicking for the surface again I reach up for the feel of the hull, grab the edge, and launch myself inside with all the strength I can muster. The water is getting cold, colder than I expected it to be, and I have to remind myself as I settle into the seat, shivering and teeth chattering, that it’s getting late. The Eighth hour is nearly on us and no one should be in the water right now.
Luckily the oars for the boat are strapped inside where they’re supposed to be. I pop the snaps quickly to release them. I just barely get them in the water and manage one powerful stroke to align myself with the next wave when it comes at me. I push through it, forcing myself forward, out to sea when what I really want is to let it carry me home. I’m facing the wrong way, though, and if I don’t row to help myself ride the waves back, I’ll never get there. I’ll end up in that shallow hell where the surf crashes me around, never getting me back to shore and never pulling me past the breakers. I have to go out farther to come back in first and my cold, shaking body is almost as bitter about that as my mind is.
My arms are screaming when I finally make it past the breakers. It’s calmer out here but not by much. The storm is raging. I’m in the eye of it, already surrounded by debris from the wreckage. It’s a lot of wood, some small scraps of sails and rope. No people, thank God. No bodies floating face down that I’ll have to avoid hitting with an oar if I ever plan on sleeping soundly again. I turn my boat slowly, taking a moment to wipe the water from my eyes, useless as that is. I’m drenched again in an instant, water pouring through the dark brown hair that hangs over my forehead. It drips down my face, into my eyes, pools at the corners of my mouth. It’s strange to be this wet and cold after months of scorching heat just outside my door. Months of drought and burning, and now here I sit freezing and soaked to the bone.
Taking several deep breaths I ready myself for the return to shore. My heart is pounding with a very real fear, with the very real knowledge that I might not make it. That I might die out here. It’s going to take timing and an insane amount of effort in these shifting
currents, but I’m hoping I can manage. Looking back to the beach I see Karina still there, waiting with her hands over her mouth and her eyes glued on me. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if—
The boat is jerked to the side, destroying my alignment with the shore. It sends me toppling forward. The handle of one of the oars stabs me soundly in the side making me bark in pain like I’ve been punched. I’ll bruise for sure and for a second I can barely breathe through the pain that burns into my stomach. The back of my throat closes up tightly against it as I gasp curses and rants of anger.
As I lean over the side of the boat I see what hit me. A piece of wreckage, a beam with a torn sail, a piece of rope wrapped around it, and a girl.
I blink against the blur of water in my eyes, but she’s still there. Tangled in the sails, pinned to the wood by the rope, her brown skin vibrant in color and so unmistakably alive. Her long, chocolate hair is matted over her face, hiding her eyes, but I know she’s not dead. It’s like I can feel it. Feel her life in my gut where it burns and aches angrily, throbbing with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I reach into the water as the waves begin to lift us both. I take hold of her arm stretched out over the beam and I pull, yanking on her so hard it would hurt if she was awake. Luckily she’s not and I’m able to lift her, pull her free of the debris, and toss her into the hull of my small boat before we’re separated by the cresting waves.
She lands in a heap at my feet as I grab onto the oars. I row with the last of my strength. With everything I have in strokes that make my side scream, that tear a roar from my throat until we break the current and the tide and the sea and crash into the smooth stone floor of the beach.
Chapter Five
Gray
The minutes after the crash are a blur. I’ve only kept seconds. Snapshots of what happened captured in the flash of the lightning when the world was too real to ignore. I remember hitting the shore. I remember people rushing the boat. I remember Karina and the fishing crew and hands lifting me. I remember the cold. The hurt. The fear.
I remember the girl.
“You saved her,” Karina repeats proudly.
I look away. Her eyes are too big, too bright. They make my head hurt.
“I didn’t mean to,” I mumble, my cold lips slipping over each other numbly.
Karina laughs, the sound echoing off the walls of the nearly empty exam room.
I don’t laugh with her. I wasn’t joking.
Dr. Kanden strides into the room, her grandmotherly appearance at odds with her no-nonsense attitude. She offers me a neatly folded stack of clothes wrapped in twine. “Here. Fuller sent these up for you. I told him you were mobile and he said for you to get dressed and go guard the girl.”
I nod as I take the clothes from her.
“You can pull this curtain to change behind if you want,” she tells me briskly, already turning to leave the room, “but leave your shirt off for now. I want to take a look at your side when I come back. Check your ribs.”
She’s already looked at my head. She checked my appendages. All good, all functioning normally. The big concern is the hit I took in the side with the oar. It hurt to take deep breaths when she asked me to, something that made her purse her lips, but when I asked what was wrong she didn’t answer.
As the door closes behind the doctor my eyes dart to Karina’s, hoping she’ll take the hint.
She smiles at me, amused. “Do you want me to close my eyes? Turn my back and pretend I haven’t seen you naked a half dozen times since we were three?”
“I’m pretty sure the last time you saw me naked was when we were seven. A lot has changed since then.”
“Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” I deadpan.
“Coward.”
I stand there dripping on the floor, waiting. Finally I reach for the curtain.
“Oh for—Fine.” Karina turns her back on me. “Is that better?”
I don’t answer. Instead I strip quickly, struggling to pull on the dry clothes over my wet skin. I get tangled and aggravated, but eventually I’m in fresh underwear and the dark pants of my uniform. I feel strange standing in a room alone with Karina and no shirt on. We’ve been swimming together a million times, this part of me she’s no stranger to, but this feels different. Everything is different.
“Are you decent?” she asks.
I run my hand through my hair slowly, letting it fall back into place. “Yeah, I’m good.”
She’s grinning when she turns but she shudders when she sees me. “Oh my God, Gray.” Her hand reaches out for my bare skin. “Your side.”
I look to where she’s nearly touching me, her fingertips stopped short of the purpling flesh over my right rib cage. She’s so close to me now that we’ve gone beyond awkward and spiraled into palm-sweating-what-the-fu—
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
I swallow hard. “It aches, yeah.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
She looks up at me, her hand lowering slowly to her side. She doesn’t seem as concerned by her closeness as I am. She’s unaffected as she stares at me.
At least that’s familiar.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “I said it’s fine.”
“Yeah, you said your side is fine. I’m asking about you.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not.”
“Is.”
“It’s not,” she insists sternly.
I grin down at her. “Is, times infinity.”
She laughs, the annoyance easily evaporating off her face. “What are you? Six years old?”
“If I was I wouldn’t have cared about stripping down in front of you.”
“You would have done it to annoy me.”
“You’re really squeamish about butts.”
“Normal people don’t like them rubbing up on their arm, weirdo.”
“It was clean.”
“I don’t care if it was unused, fresh off the shelf.”
“The butt shelf?”
“You’re such a strange guy, do you know that?”
I laugh. “I was a strange kid. You’re the one who hasn’t grown out of it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Nipples.”
Her eyes go wide, her finger rising to my face in warning. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t what?” I ask innocently. “Don’t say the word nipple?”
“Stop that.”
“Flippy nipple.”
“Grayson!”
“Nipple dimple.”
“I hate you so hard.”
“I’ve got a million of ‘em.”
“I believe you,” she laughs. “I’ve heard about seven hundred thousand, you jerk. You know I hate that word.”
“I’ll stop,” I chuckle, the motion burning in my ribs. “For now.”
“You’re a saint.”
I smile down at my hands still holding my shirt. I’m anxious to put it on, to cover my body and all the things about me that have changed, because this moment right here with Karina is one of the best we’ve had in weeks. It’s small but somehow huge, like looking at an old picture suddenly come to life. One you would give anything to step inside of and live in forever.
“You really are, you know,” Karina tells me quietly. “Maybe not a saint, but you’re definitely a hero.”
And just like that, it’s gone.
When I look at her I’m fractured. I want to be the man she thinks she’s looking at. The one who saved a life, who risked his to do it, but I’m not. I’m a boy who sat shaking scared in a boat waiting for the tide to take him home, and if I’d had to expel one more ounce of effort than I did to ‘save’ that girl, I wouldn’t have. I would have saved myself. My pathetic, cowardly self.
I want to pull the curtain. I want to ask her to leave, to back up
even a step. More than anything I want her to stop looking at me like that. Like I’m more somehow. Like I’m Easton.
The doctor knocks on the door before cracking it. “Are you ready, Grayson?”
I look away from Karina, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”
Doctor Kanden smiles briefly at Karina. “Abby is with the girl next door. She could use a hand undressing her and getting her in warm clothes, if you don’t mind helping.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Karina kneels down to collect my wet clothes off the floor. “I’ll take both of their things down to the L and get them cleaned and dried.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, reaching out to stop her. “I can bring it down later.”
She pushes my hand away gently. “Don’t be stupid, Gray. I’m going back down to work anyway. I might as well take it with me now.”
There aren’t words for how weird I feel about Karina touching my wet underwear.
When she’s gone I feel myself slacken. I don’t know if I sigh or if the doctor is psychic, but she grins at me knowingly.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“My ribs ache, but otherwise I’m okay.”
“Are you pretending you don’t know what I mean or do you really not know what I’m asking?”
“Pretending and hoping you’ll let it go.”
She nods her head agreeably. “Whatever you want.”
“Thanks.”
“Though I have some advice if you want it.”
“Medical?”
“It has to do with the heart.”
“Pass.”
She chuckles as she presses her fingertips gently against the tender flesh of my side. It burns but I don’t make a sound. “That’s your choice, Grayson, but I’ll tell you this; you’re never too young to be concerned with the inner workings of the human heart.”
I grunt in pain as her fingers find a soft spot, her probing touch suddenly making me collapse defensively in on my side.
Dr. Kanden tsks as she takes a step back. “I was worried about that. You cracked a rib. Maybe two.”
“Cracked or bruised?”