Dying Days Ultimate Box Set 1

by Armand Rosamilia

  The phone rang again and Dave fumbled to silence it. As if to mock him, Dave’s mind alerted him that his hands were trembling just before his panicking fingers lost control of the phone and dropped it on the ground.

  “Hey,” the amazon yelled. “Somebody over there?”

  Dave looked from the ringing cell phone to the two figures moving toward him—it was time for a choice. He decided that the phone was unimportant and it was time to get gone. If he ran now he would have a big enough head-start to get back to Finn’s and get help. He turned to run, but after two steps his left foot landed on a pile of loose scraps of lumber. He lost his balance and stumbled to the ground. The wood prevented him from getting solid footing and before he knew it four hands grabbed him. He heard his phone ringing in the background before a punch connected solidly with his chin, then the lights went out.

  3

  The boat drifted aimlessly on the tide.

  A mile-and-a-half to the west, the lights of Flagler Beach twinkled silently. A steady stream of headlights made their way up and down A1A.

  Ike came out of the cabin—a can of Budweiser in his left hand and a bottle of Yuengling in his right—Linda was right behind him carrying two margaritas.

  “Drinks for everyone,” Ike said.

  Linda handed one of the margaritas to Rosie and Ike handed the Yuengling to Chip.

  Taking a seat in a canvas deck chair, Linda flipped red curls back off her face and crossed her long, tan legs. Sitting to her left was her best friend Rosie and, to Rosie’s left, was Chip Williams, Rosie’s blind date for the evening. Ike leaned against the door jamb of the cabin door, his 6’6”, 275 pound frame all but blocking the opening.

  Rosie raised her glass.

  “Here’s to the first day of vacation,” she said. “Two weeks with nothing to do.”

  “And plenty of time to do it,” Linda added.

  The 37-foot cruiser, The Knight’s Mare, rocked gently on the calm Atlantic.

  “So you’re in the Air Force, Chip?” Linda asked with polite curiosity, as if his buzz-cut hair and ram-rod straight bearing didn’t make it obvious enough.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Chip responded flatly.

  The group waited for more, but that was the extent of his reply.

  “Ike was in the Navy,” Linda boasted. “Right Ike? You were a TURTLE, right?”

  “SEAL,” Ike replied with a chuckle. “How do you confuse a seal with a turtle?”

  “Give me another margarita and I’ll be confusing seals with puppies,” she said with another flip of her hair and a warm laugh.

  “So how did you two meet?” Ike asked, changing the subject.

  “My friend Lisa is Chip’s sister-in-law. She thought we’d get along,” Rosie offered.

  From what Ike had seen so far, that was a leap in logic that he never would have made. While they were both very nice people, they were polar opposites.

  Rosie was vivacious, outgoing and fun while Chip was the stereotypical military officer—all business, very few words and never in danger of being the life of the party. Even their ages were wrong. Chip was in his late forties while Rosie was only in her early thirties.

  But Rosie was too polite to ditch the guy, not that there were too many opportunities to ditch him when you were floating a mile-and-a-half off shore.

  After leaving Ike’s slip in St. Augustine they had traveled south toward Flagler Beach for an hour before killing the engine and the lights. Now their course was controlled by the tide.

  Miles Davis provided a smooth soundtrack to the evening, emanating from unseen speakers.

  Linda was re-telling the story of how she and Ike had met when Ike noticed a vessel a half-mile off the stern. Knowing that his lights were off he made a mental note to turn them on when the approaching craft got close enough. Out of habit, he reached into the cabin and grabbed his binoculars, which were equipped for night vision.

  He made the boat out to be about a 21-footer, probably a Sea-Ray. As far as he could tell there were three people on board, one drove while the other two sat still behind him on the cushioned vinyl seats.

  “…I wouldn’t give him the pen and paper until I wrote my number down and made him promise to call me, isn’t that right Ikey?” Linda said. “What are you looking at?”

  “Boat approaching. Without a moon he won’t see us. Just making sure he doesn’t get too close.”

  Everyone turned to look off the stern. The lights of the boat were clearly visible and the sound of the engine grew louder with every second.

  When the Sea-Ray was about one hundred yards off the stern of Ike’s boat, the roar of its engine dropped to an idle and it slowed to a stop. Ike kept his binoculars trained on it. Again by habit, he used the built-in features of the binoculars to obtain a bearing and distance on the boat’s location.

  Sure enough there were three people on board. The driver, a skinny man who looked like an extra from “West Side Story”, stood at the wheel while one of the passengers, of indeterminate gender, appeared to wrestle the other one, a man in his early thirties, into a standing position as if they were going to dance.

  Linda had resumed her story as Ike watched the scene on the other boat. The larger passenger dragged the other one to the side of the boat. Ike’s curiosity was piqued when he saw the man’s hands tied in front of him. The driver then pointed a gun at the bound passenger while the other one bent down out of sight. When he (or she) stood up he held an anchor in his hands. Dropping the anchor overboard, he then pushed the bound man over after it. The driver immediately shoved his throttle forward and the boat roared to life, did a fast U-turn and sped away heading north.

  “Holy shit,” Ike said as he up the ladder to the controls. ”Chip, follow me.”

  Chip got up and followed the order like the military man he was. Ike started the engine then pushed a series of buttons on the GPS console.

  “Somebody just got thrown off that boat out there.” Ike said. “I’ve activated the man-overboard function and entered our current position and the approximate bearing and distance to the target. All you have to do is follow it and it’ll tell you when we’re in the neighborhood.”

  Chip nodded his understanding. Ike slid down the ladder and went into the cabin. He opened a cabinet below the sofa and took out a scuba tank, a mask, a set of fins and a large flashlight.

  “Let me know when it beeps,” Ike called to Chip as he threw his shirt to the deck, kicked his flip-flops off and tied his long salt and pepper hair into a pony tail. He put the SCUBA equipment on quickly, the result of having done it countless times.

  “What’s going on?” Linda asked.

  “Chip, do you know what you’re doing?” Rosie asked.

  “Just relax, ladies, I think I just saw two guys throw somebody overboard from that boat.” Ike stated almost matter-of-factly.

  As the girls looked on in stunned silence, Chip cut the motor back and the boat slowed to a speed of less than 10 knots. Ike leaned over and peered into the darkness.

  “This is the spot,” Chip called.

  Chip cut the engines and Ike spit into his mask, rubbed it around, rinsed it in the ocean and put it over his face. Placing the regulator into his mouth he took two test breaths before turning on the light and stepping off the stern.

  * * * * *

  The water was about twenty feet deep and warm.

  Ike kicked his way to the ocean floor and stopped. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the black hose that trailed behind his SCUBA tank. On the end of it were a combination depth/pressure gauge and a compass. He checked his position and kicked off.

  The man-overboard function on the console used Global Positioning Satellite technology to determine the exact location of the boat. Then, based on Ike’s input of the approximate position of the other boat guided them to that spot. The only variable, which could be the difference between life and death for the man in the water, was Ike’s estimate of the spot where he went in.

  Ike mentally calcul
ated the time that had passed since the person was thrown overboard. He estimated just over two minutes. After three minutes the chances of survival for an average person began to drop dramatically.

  Thirty seconds later his light found the squirming figure of a man, sitting on the sandy bottom.

  The man was struggling wildly against a chain wrapped around his ankles. When their eyes met there was more fear in the other man’s eyes than relief. Ike held up his hand in a calming gesture. Then he took the regulator from his mouth and placed in the other man’s.

  The man seized the regulator and took deep breaths as he continued looking at Ike with terrified confusion.

  Ike slipped out of the tank’s harness and set the tank on the ocean floor next to the man. After holding both of his hands up to signal that the man should remain calm, Ike pointed to himself and then to the surface. Then he pointed to his watch and held up two fingers.

  The man nodded his understanding and Ike kicked off, following his bubbles to the surface.

  * * * * *

  Chip maneuvered the boat so Ike could climb onto the dive platform.

  Linda and Rosie stood by the cabin door watching in silence as Ike went to the cabinet and fished through it. After a brief search he came out holding a pair of bolt cutters. Without a word he walked to the stern and stepped into the ocean again.

  Ike only had to follow the man’s bubble trail to locate him again. The chain that secured the anchor to the man’s ankles was too thick for his bolt cutters, but the cheap, hardware-store lock surrendered easily. Ike unwrapped the chain then reached to his hip where he produced a large buck knife to cut the duct tape from the man’s wrists. Free of his bindings and desperate to get off the ocean floor, the man attempted to dart to the surface, with the regulator still in his mouth and the tank still sitting on the bottom.

  Ike grabbed the man’s shoulders and yanked him back down.

  The man looked at Ike with wide eyes, clearly not understanding the danger of ascending too rapidly with lungs full of compressed air. Rising too fast would cause the air in his lungs to expand and eventually seep into the bloodstream. The small bubbles ride in the blood like any other hitch-hiker until they either expand enough to rupture a blood vessel or block the flow of blood to the brain. Once the flow of blood to the brain is stopped, the result would be a very unpleasant death.

  Ike held his hands up in a calming gesture. Then he pointed at the regulator and to himself, indicating that they needed to share the air supply. The man nodded and Ike took a couple of breaths while he slipped the tank onto his back and secured it. Once Ike was wearing the tank he returned the regulator to the man’s mouth.

  Ike stood and lifted the man slowly, maintaining a calm demeanor, and gently pushed off the bottom. After five or six feet Ike stopped their ascent and expelled his air and took another hit off the regulator, indicating to the man to do the same. They rose another five feet, repeated the procedure and did so until they broke the surface, where Chip was waiting on the dive platform.

  Ike grabbed the man by the belt and pushed him out of the water into Chip’s hands. Chip dragged him onto the deck where the man sat with his back to the transom and took huge gulps of air. Linda handed him a bottle of water and he drank half of it in one swallow.

  Ike climbed aboard and stowed his gear while Linda, Rosie and Chip gathered around the stranger, looking at him as if he were a rare species of fish in a tank.

  “Are you okay?” Linda asked.

  The man nodded, wiped his face and drank some water.

  “Thank you,” he said to Ike through heavy gasps. “Thank you.”

  Ike knelt next to him.

  “No worries,” he assured the man. “I’m Ike, this is Linda, Rosie and Chip.”

  The man shook Ike’s hand and glanced at the others, nodding his appreciation.

  “Thank you,” he said again. “My name’s Dave. Dave Ryan.”

  “Relax Dave, why don’t you tell us what happened,” Ike suggested.

  “I was at this bar on A1A, Finn’s, on the roof. I decided to take a walk and I saw these people throw a body in a dumpster. My cell rang and they saw me. The next thing I knew I was in the water sinking like a stone,” he shook his head, shuddering at the thought of it. “I thought I was going to die down there. How did you find me?”

  “We saw the whole thing; we were only a hundred yards away, our lights were off and we were drifting so they didn’t see us. By the time I got to you, you had only been in the water for three minutes or so.”

  “Do you think we should do something?” Rosie asked. “Like call the police maybe?”

  Linda went to the cabin and came back with a cell phone.

  “There’s no signal,” she said.

  “Let’s head back and call the police from the marina,” Ike said.

  Nobody objected, least of all Dave.

  “I need some dry clothes, how about you Dave?” Ike said.

  “Sure,” Dave answered. “Sounds good.”

  Rosie helped Dave to his feet. He thanked her and she smiled.

  Inside the cabin, Ike tossed a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt to Dave. Being much smaller than Ike, Dave was swimming in Ike’s clothes, but he didn’t care.

  “Sorry about the size,” Ike said. “I don’t have anything else.”

  “Hey, it’s cool, man.” Dave said. “I’ll survive.”

  Ike started the engines and got underway while Dave joined the rest of the group on the deck.

  “Would you like a drink, Dave?” Rosie offered.

  “Sure, I’d love a beer,” he answered.

  Rosie scampered into the cabin and came back with a Yuengling. Dave accepted it graciously and drank a third of it in the first swallow.

  He collapsed into a deck chair and stared off into the night. Rosie sat next to him.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Ike won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Dying Days: Origins (sample)

  Armand Rosamilia

  Chapter One: Notorious

  The apartment was cramped, smoky and the radio way too loud for the neighbors. Tosha Shorb tried to get to the window to open it despite the cold night, but several drunks were in her way.

  "Excuse me," she asked the guy in front of her. He ignored her.

  She was tired - she'd worked a double today - and, despite three shots was still sober. And now she was sweating because forty people were crammed into this shitty apartment.

  "Excuse me," she said louder, trying to talk over the inane pop music blasting through the room. When he glanced down at her and smirked, putting his beer can to his lips, she lost it. Before she could think she'd swung around and smashed him in the face, the can crushing on his cheek and beer exploding in all directions.

  "What the fuck?" he managed, and took a defensive position even as blood and beer streamed down his face and chest. He cocked his fist to punch but stopped, staring at his attacker.

  Tosha was a slight redhead with piercing eyes, which were now filled with rage. She looked much younger than her twenty-seven years, which wasn't a good thing when you worked in a hospital and patients never took you seriously when you came for blood-work.

  She put her hands on her hips, aware the music had been turned down and all eyes were on her. As usual. Glad her twin sister wasn't here to give her the motherly look, she tried to remain calm. "I asked you to move."

  The guy laughed. "Are you even allowed in here, little girl? What are you, twelve?"

  There were a few snickers from those guests that didn't know Tosha. To her friends and those aware of her reputation, they knew what was coming and took two steps back.

  The rage was building. She had two choices: turn, walk out and go home, or take action.

  She put her right foot back a step at the same time he wiped his face and winked at her. Tosha tipped her weight forward with her hard leather boot swinging, catching him squarely in the groin.

  As he doubled over, dropping to one k
nee, she leaned over and got in his face. "I'm allowed wherever the fuck I want, you fat piece of shit." Tosha winked at him as people grabbed her by the arms and pulled her away.

  "I think you need to leave," someone said to her.

  "Of course. You can't have some little girl in here kicking dude's asses, can you?" Tosha shrugged off their grip and gave them the finger as she left.

  Chapter Two: Flesh Eater

  It was cold but her rage kept her more than warm. Her Lizzy Borden concert shirt - she'd picked it up in Allentown during their last U.S. tour - was sticking to her chest and her tight blue jeans were starting to bother her. Her toes still felt numb after kicking the guy in the balls, and the thought of it made her laugh.

  The streets of Harrisburg were empty, as usual. "Should've listened to Trista and stayed in." Her sister was the introverted one, preferring to sit home after work and play videogames online with her imaginary friends instead of going out into the actual world and talking to actual people.

  She even preferred to be called by her stupid online name, Mathyu. Tosha didn't know if that was the dumb part, or the fact that she'd started addressing her sister by the name.

  In order to get to her apartment, she cut through an alley between the McDonalds and the Harrisburg Laundromat. It always smelled bad down here, but it was much worse during the summer, when the garbage heated up, rotten food and dead rats stinking. The bums loved this alley because the fast food garbage was tossed in the dumpster, and they'd rip the bags apart and feast.

  Tosha decided to sleep in tomorrow, burying herself in her pillows and stuffed animals on her bed, curtains drawn, and threatening her sister to not wake her unless the world was ending.

  She was so focused on her thoughts she stumbled into the bum, standing in the dark in the middle of the alley.

  "Watch where you're going," she said loudly. Usually when you shouted or acted crazier than they did, the bums would leave you alone.