by Tim Washburn
“We’re pushing a hundred days right now,” Thompson answers. “We’re hoping you’ll part with some of your food stores.”
“What’s mine is yours. How long you plan on cruising around in that tin can?”
Thompson chugs his bourbon and pushes his empty cup across the table for a refill. “I don’t know the answer to that, Murph. To tell the truth, I don’t have a damn clue what to do. Have you heard anything over the radio?”
“Crickets. We’ve been patrolling around this area hoping to find other friendlies, but so far the only one we’ve encountered is the Russian destroyer you torpedoed. And if the Aegis system was working properly, I’d have sunk her three days ago. I think the EMPs fried some components.”
“Did the Russians try to engage you?” Garcia asks.
“No. Which means he was probably running empty on hardware. Don’t know what the hell that means,” Murphy says. “I don’t know if they’ve been over here hunting our ships and he shot his wad or what. It’s a mystery.”
“What are your plans?” Thompson asks.
“I’m hoping we make radio contact with someone up the food chain. They can’t all be dead, can they?”
Thompson takes a sip of bourbon, relishing the heat as it travels down his throat. “I don’t know, Murph. You would think some of them survived. Maybe all the communication satellites have been destroyed.”
“Even the geosync satellites? Hard to believe anyone would target military satellites twenty-two thousand miles out in orbit.”
Thompson shrugs. “Hell maybe everyone is dead. But you risk running out of fuel waiting for a voice over the radio.”
“I won’t allow that to happen, Bull.”
“Think any naval bases survived?” Garcia asks. “A place where you could refuel?”
Murphy takes a swallow of bourbon. “We made a run by Norfolk and that’s a no-go. A dozen ships have been sunk or are in the process of sinking. The entire port facility is gone—wiped off the face of the earth. I assume the same applies to all the other navy facilities, including yours in Kings Bay. From here, if we can’t make contact, we’re going to make a run for the U.S. Virgin Islands. I’m damn sure not going to sit out here dead in the water.”
“And do what once you’re there?” Thompson asks.
Murphy shrugs. “I guess we’ll dock her and go ashore. Don’t know what else to do or where to go.” Murphy grows silent and takes a long sip of bourbon. “My wife and three kids . . . were . . . in . . . Norfolk. Same . . . for most of... the . . . crew.” Murphy chokes up and pauses. After several moments, he continues. “There’s nothing . . . left . . . there . . . for any . . . of us.”
Thompson stands and moves around the table, taking a seat next to his longtime friend. He leans forward and wraps an arm around Murphy’s shoulders. No words are exchanged as Murphy breaks into sobs. After several moments, he sniffles a final time and blows out a long, stuttering breath. The cup trembles when he lifts it to drain the remaining bourbon.
Thompson frees his arm and leans back in his chair. “We’ll go with you to the Virgin Islands.” He looks to Garcia, who nods. “We’ll make our own little convoy. I’d feel a hell of a lot safer with a surface ship to keep an eye on things.” Thompson leans forward and places his elbows on the table. “I do have one favor, though.”
“Shoot,” Murphy says.
Thompson struggles for a way to frame his request, in light of the last few moments. He decides straight on is the only way. “We make a run by Myrtle Beach then run south to Jacksonville. Karen and the kids left for a vacation at Myrtle Beach a week before everything happened. And Carlos’s family and most of my crew’s families were living in Jacksonville.”
“Deal,” Murphy says. “We should have enough fuel and it would be nice to know . . .” Murphy pauses, trying to reel in his emotions. After a moment or two of silence, he exhales and says, “. . . that some of our families survived this madness.”
CHAPTER 70
Weatherford
Gage or Henry will occasionally light their headlamp to ensure they’re not about to crash into a dead auto or to confirm their position on the road. Approaching the third mile of their five-mile trek they have yet to encounter another human, which isn’t unusual considering the absolute darkness and the time. The fetid stench of decomposing cattle carcasses greets them when they reach the first section of Marston land. Before hell rained down, Gage’s buddy Mitch Marston was one of the largest cattle owners in the county, often running four hundred head or so across his three sections of land. Now the two thousand acres is littered with cattle remains and it will be weeks before the stench fades.
A vehicle turns at the next intersection, the headlights flaring across the road.
“I bet that’s them,” Henry says.
Gage chambers a shell. “Nope. Headlights are too close to the ground.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“I have a hunch and, if it proves correct, I’d rather be standing here with a loaded gun.”
Taking the hint, Henry pulls the rifle bolt back and a large .308 cartridge pops into the breech. He slides the bolt home and clicks on the safety. “Let’s don’t forget why we are out here, Gage.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’m desperate to find Holly, but I’ve got a bad feeling about who might be driving that car.”
With their lights extinguished Henry and Gage move over to the side of the road as the automobile drifts closer, the headlights dancing across the blacktop. With enough firepower to stop an elephant, the thought of hiding never enters their minds. The car slows as it nears, and the rumble of the engine is loud in the quiet night.
Gage steps into the middle of the road and clicks on his light. The shotgun is braced across his chest and his index finger is stroking the trigger as the car coasts to a stop. Gage walks to the driver’s side and bends down to look in the car. Inside are two men, late twenties or early thirties, with long, greasy hair and scruffy beards. The driver has two tears tattooed near the corner of his left eye, their crude form suggesting an unskilled hand. Jailhouse tats, most likely, Gage thinks. “You’re driving Mitch Martson’s ’68 Mustang GT Fastback and neither of you are Mitch Marston.”
“We found the car,” the driver says.
Playing in Gage’s mind is the arsenal Mitch keeps at his house. A gun nut, Mitch has one of about everything, including an AR-15, a modified Uzi submachine gun, and a fully automatic AK-47. Henry works his way around the back of the car and takes up position on the other side. “Bullshit,” Gage says. “That car stays covered in my friend’s barn. You didn’t find shit. What happened to Mitch?” Gage asks.
“Mitch who?” the driver says. “We don’t know no Mitch.”
“You’re not from around here, are you, pard?” Gage asks.
“Nope, just passing through.”
“In this town, we look out for our neighbors. Now, I’ll ask again. What happened to the man you stole this car from?”
The driver turns and smiles, his hands buried somewhere in his lap. “Okay, you’re right. We took the car out of the barn. But we didn’t see this Mitch person you’re talking about.”
“So, if I let you go, I’ll find my friend and his family safe and sound at home? I may have been born at night, but it damn sure wasn’t last night. Get out of the car. Both of you.”
“Or what?” the driver asks.
In one swift motion, Gage pulls the shotgun tight to his shoulder and fires, the double-aught buckshot shredding the front tire. Gage jacks another shell and swings the barrel up, centering it on the driver. “Appears you have a flat. Now get out of the fucking car.”
The man nods and pushes the door open. Before the door comes to a stop, the man’s arm comes up, the Uzi grasped in his hand. The Uzi barks, sending out a wild spray of bullets as Gage squeezes the trigger. Most of the man’s head disappears, coating the interior of the car with a ghoulish mix of blood, bone, and brain matter. Gage takes one large step to th
e left and brings the shotgun to bear on the second man, who’s struggling to get the AK-47 up and in firing position. Gage fires again, the muzzle flash lighting up the inside of the car. The buckshot only has to travel six feet, and when it hits the man’s center chest, it drives him back into the seat. The man rebounds forward and slumps in his seat. Gage lowers his weapon and bends over to vomit as Henry walks unsteadily around the back of the car.
Henry clicks on his light. “Are you okay, Gage? Are you hit?”
Gage shakes his head, unable to speak. He vomits again and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Why didn’t you just let them go?” Henry asks.
Gage gags, but the well is dry. He stands and wipes his mouth again. “Couldn’t. His shirt is covered with blood.”
“You think they killed Mitch?”
“That’s the only way they would have ever gotten his Mustang.”
“What about the rest of his family?”
“Don’t know.” Gage gags again and pauses a moment for the urge to pass. “Mitch’s house is on the way. Better stop to take a look.”
CHAPTER 71
Off the coast of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
At dusk, Brad and Tanner dropped anchor a mile offshore from Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Brad was right. Their luck did change and he snagged two medium-sized black sea bass. Now, standing over the propane stove in the ship’s galley, the sizzling fish are making Brad’s mouth water. Tanner, on deck standing watch, ducks his head inside to inquire when dinner will be ready.
Brad glances up from the stove. “I thought you didn’t like fish.”
“I didn’t think I did, but that smells pretty good.”
“Give me another five minutes. Anything going on up there?”
“No. But it’s so dark I can’t see much of anything.”
“Use your ears. Noise travels a long way across water.”
“And listen for what?”
Brad turns the fish, crisping the skin. “Splashes or unusual noises that are close by. And don’t just focus on the area surrounding the boat. I’m worried about smaller boats approaching us.”
“Okay, Dad. I got it.” Tanner’s face disappears from view.
Brad lifts one end of the fish fillet with a spatula to check the crispness. Using a propane lantern to keep from running the generator, he’s eager to kill the light. He scoops the fish onto plates, grabs the lantern, and carries everything up the stairs. He passes a plate to Tanner, sets the lantern on the deck, and sits, the light leaking from below providing enough illumination for them to see their food.
Tanner takes a tentative bite, chews, and goes back for more.
“Like it?” Brad asks.
“Yeah, doesn’t taste fishy at all.”
“I told you, it’s all about how it’s prepared.”
Tanner takes a big bite. “You can cook this again,” he mumbles around a mouthful of fish.
Brad polishes off the last of his fish and sets his plate aside. He didn’t anchor at this location on a whim. Earlier he saw a sign for a marina at the Oregon Inlet and the entrance to that inlet is now located a mile off their bow. No doubt the marina has been ransacked, but Brad is hoping someone might have left a reverse osmosis water system behind. The only way he’ll know for sure is to paddle the kayak to shore and look. But that creates another set of problems. Leaving the EmmaSophia unoccupied is off the table, but Brad is wondering if his twelve-year-old son is up to the task of guarding their lifeline. Especially since Tanner has never fired any type of weapon, including a slingshot. After mulling the matter over for a few minutes, Brad decides he’s not willing to risk it.
While his mind clicks through other options, Brad grabs the empty plates and steps out to the swim platform. He kneels down to rinse the plates and a hand latches on to his arm. Off-balance, the hand yanks and Brad tumbles into the water. He surfaces, disoriented, searching for the person who had pulled him overboard. He turns back to the boat to see a woman climbing onto the swim platform. With a strong kick, Brad lunges for the back of the boat. He swipes at her foot and misses. She’s up now and climbing over the transom, her wet hair plastered to her face. “Tanner, gun,” Brad shouts as he scrambles onto the back of the boat. He gets a leg up and his foot slips off, sending him back into the water. He glances up to see his son grappling the woman, the rifle between them.
Brad roars, braces his arms against the boat, and lifts himself out of the water. The deck is slippery and he loses his footing, belly flopping over the transom. He scrambles to his feet as the woman kicks Tanner in the crotch and grabs the rifle. Brad charges and grabs the woman by the waist, tackling her to the deck and crushing the air from her lungs. Brad wrestles the rifle away and stands, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He cocks the hammer and swings the barrel toward the woman cowering on the deck.
“No, Dad,” Tanner shouts, hunched over, his hands wrapped around his midsection.
Brad glances at his son. “Why?” he shouts.
“Don’t . . . shoot . . . her.”
Brad turns back to the woman. “Get up.”
“Can’t breathe,” the woman stutters.
“I don’t care. Get your ass up.”
The woman rolls onto her stomach and gets up to her knees. With a hand braced on the center console, she pulls herself to a standing position. Brad gets his first look at her. She appears to be in her midthirties, but he can’t tell for sure with her long, dark hair covering her face.
The woman pushes the wet hair aside. “Please, I don’t have”—she takes a couple of shallow breaths—“anywhere to go.”
“Yes, you do. You’re going back in the water.”
“Please, just listen to me.”
“I’m not up for story time.” Brad steps left, now behind her. “Move.”
The woman shuffles toward the back of the boat. “I fell in with . . . the wrong . . . crowd,” the woman says, sobbing.
“That was your mistake,” Brad says, nudging her on with the rifle barrel.
“Dad?” Tanner says.
“Quiet, Tanner,” Brad says.
The woman climbs unsteadily over the transom.
“Jump in,” Brad orders.
The woman wipes the tears from her cheeks before jumping in the water. Brad grabs a flashlight, clicks it on, and steps back to the stern. He shines the light at the woman’s face. “Swim,” Brad says.
The woman continues to tread water. “I have no place to go.”
Brad brings the rifle up. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will. Swim.”
Fresh tears are leaking from her eyes. “Shoot me, then. I’m dead either way.”
Tanner crosses the deck and places a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Don’t shoot her, Dad. Let her come aboard. We can drop her off farther down the shore.”
Brad turns his head. “The woman tried to steal our boat.”
“I wasn’t going to steal it,” the woman says. She slips beneath the surface and reappears, coughing. “I was . . . looking for a place . . . to hide.”
“So you thought you would swim a mile offshore and try to climb aboard a boat? A boat that doesn’t belong to you?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was frightened.”
“You weren’t too frightened to wrestle my son for the gun?”
“I didn’t want him to shoot me. Please, I’m not a bad person.”
Brad lowers his rifle and turns to his son. “Help her out of the water.” He moves toward the front of the cockpit to allow him room to maneuver and keeps the flashlight aimed at the woman as Tanner helps her out of the water. “Take a seat,” Brad orders, motioning the rifle barrel toward the backseat.
The woman sits and brushes the hair out of her face. Brad steps a little closer and studies the woman more closely. She’s dressed in a tattered skirt and a once-white tunic blouse embroidered with some type of Aztec design along the collar and sleeves. She lifts a hand to block the light. “You’re blinding me.”
Brad, wanting to bean her with the flashlight, instead lets the beam drift down to her lower half. Her legs are scratched and bruised and her feet are bare, the last remnants of red nail polish on her toes barely visible. “Who are you?” Brad asks.
“My name is Nicole Stevens. I’m from, or was from, Greenville, North Carolina.”
“Age and occupation?”
“What is this? An interrogation?” Nicole asks. When Brad doesn’t answer, she sighs, then says, “I’m thirty-four and I’m currently employed, or was employed, as an adjunct English instructor at East Carolina University.” She tugs on a strand of hair to remove it from her mouth. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”
“Undecided,” Brad says. “What kind of trouble are you in? Do we need to be concerned about our safety, now that you’ve intruded onto our boat?”
“No, I slipped away from him before I entered the water.”
“Who’s him?”
“Damon, a man I met on the road out of Greenville. Don’t know his last name. We were part of a much bigger group initially but that became too unwieldy. And he’s the only one who had a weapon.” Nicole sighs. “He was as nice as he could be for the first few days.”
“And?” Brad asks.
“Not so much since then. He took . . . advantage of me . . . and tried . . .”—a fresh round of tears starts, spilling down her still-damp cheeks—“and he tried to . . . barter me to . . . others . . . to get things he wanted. I ran away before he could.”
“Why didn’t you go inland?” Brad asks.
“He told me he would kill . . . me if... if I tried . . . to run away.” She sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “And he’s . . . very . . . resourceful.”
“And where is this Damon now?”
Nicole takes a moment to regain her composure. “Over there in Kitty Hawk. He was trying to woo another woman into our group.” Nicole wipes the tears from her eyes. “I slipped away and ran.”
“Did he follow you?”