Brigands Key

by Ken Pelham

  He released his grip on the door frame and flattened himself against the wall, letting the current drag him along against it. He was carried around the wall.

  As he entered the lee of the tower, he looked up. Twenty feet ahead, just above the reaching waves, Kyoko clung to a thin line. She was looking up.

  She dropped a few inches. She was about to fall to a drowning death. He shouted at the top of his lungs, barely hearing himself over the din of the hurricane. He shouted again.

  She dropped another two feet, suspended a moment, and plummeted into the sea, the steel cable falling down after her, whipping the water.

  She disappeared under the water.

  Grant shoved ahead, reaching the spot where she disappeared. Suspended by his lifejacket, he was unable to plunge under after her. He reached frantically downward, feeling nothing but the surging current. “No!” he screamed.

  He was pushed away from the tower by the relentless water and wind.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Kyoko had gulped one last breath before plunging under the water and she felt her air waning rapidly. The cable had fallen in after her and coiled about her like a snake in a great, sinking tangle. She unwound the cable from her arms, but the steel line bunched and dragged her deeper. She was shocked at the weight of the tangle.

  She pulled frantically at the cable, tugging, bending, trying to wriggle free.

  Something bumped into her shoulder.

  She grasped at it, hoping to pull herself free. Her hand closed on the object. Recognition stunned her. It was the leg of someone struggling in the water.

  For just a moment, she clung to the booted foot, and then the weight of the cable and the inexorable power of the water tore her free and pulled her to the bottom.

  Her lungs ached, screaming for precious air. Clouds gathered in her mind.

  She settled onto the bottom and gathered her legs under her. She felt the coils relax as they settled, held open in their own tangle by the bottom. She ripped at them and felt first one, then two coils slide down her body, scraping her skin off as they went.

  She lunged upward and away and pulled free of the cable. She broke the surface and gasped for air. A wave rolled over her and she went under again.

  An arm hooked under hers and pulled her to the surface. She turned, coughing, and looked into her rescuer’s face.

  “Carson!” she cried. She broke into sobs and buried her face against his shoulder.

  Grant held her tight against him. “Hang on! I’ve got you.” He helped her into the second lifejacket and cinched it tight. “You couldn’t go under now if you tried, but don’t let the waves catch you off guard.”

  The driving current pushed them clear of the lighthouse.

  The bulk of a large fishing boat appeared from a tangle of trees, churning up what used to be the driveway. The boat rolled and yawed on the storm, and would surely have been quickly capsized if it were on open water. Kyoko caught a glimpse of the boat’s name. Electric Ladyland. At its helm clung a wreck of a human being, leaning into the wheel.

  The boat plowed through the heaving water, driving straight ahead and crashing into the lighthouse, splintering what little of the door remained unsubmerged. Its bow wedged into the doorway and the relentless rush of water and wind pushed the stern about. Pieces of the door frame splintered and swept out with the current. Nobles, carrying two bundles, slid into the water and disappeared into the doorway.

  The boat pulled free from the doorway and was blown into the limbs of a fallen oak and held fast.

  Kyoko and Grant were swept from the lighthouse, through the grasping branches of the last few trees and out into the channel, toward the mainland.

  * * *

  Charley couldn’t imagine being more scared than he already was, but this got him there. Hammond, Sanborn, and Charley had just witnessed the sudden appearance of Electric Ladyland, white and ghostly in the storm, and the broken man escape from it, struggling under the weight of his burden.

  “Unbelievable,” Hammond said. “Roscoe! The guy is still alive. Barely.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Charley said. “Now.”

  “Our options are in short supply,” Sanborn said. “We’re best off hoping this house remains standing through the storm.”

  “Don’t you know what we just saw? Roscoe has the bomb core with him.” His voice cracked. “Roscoe’s going after Blount. We can’t stay here.”

  “God almighty,” Sanborn whispered.

  There was a sharp crack of splintering wood. Through the window, they saw the front porch of the house sag, split apart, and tear away. Charley felt the floor underneath his feet shift.

  “That ends the debate,” Hammond said. “The foundation is caving in.”

  Sanborn moved to the window. “Get ready. We’re going for Roscoe’s boat. Swim like hell; once we’re in the water there’s nothing we can do for each other. You’ll be on your own.”

  The house tilted crazily. Charley lost his footing and fell into the wall. The wall ruptured in the corner, opening at the floor and separating.

  “Get out now!” Sanborn cried. “We can’t be caught inside when it collapses.” He pulled himself through the window and disappeared. Hammond, his face ashen, followed.

  Charley cinched his lifejacket tighter, counted to three, drew a deep breath, and climbed onto the window sill.

  Another splintering of wood. The wall came apart under him and a timber tore loose and pinned his leg against the sill. He winced in pain and tried to pull free.

  A hand seized him by the wrist. Sanborn had him and pulled mightily. Charley thought his shoulder would separate, but he was suddenly free and in the tossing water. He tumbled and went under but was quickly righted by the lifejacket.

  They fought the short, unbearable hundred feet toward Electric Ladyland. Wave after wave washed over Charley’s head, filling him with terror, but he remained afloat.

  After the longest minute of his life, Charley was in the tangled branches of the oak, which itself was uprooting and beginning to drift. He scrambled through and clutched the transom and pulled himself aboard. Hammond huddled on the floor of the boat, coughing up water.

  Sanborn came rolling over the gunwale in a waterlogged heap. He motioned to Charley. “It’s your boat now. Get us out of here.”

  * * *

  Blount leaned out over the rail, drawing aim at the swimmers, and squeezed off two shots. The bullets fell short, spiking twin sprays of white off the surface, sprays that were instantly flattened and torn apart by shrieking hurricane winds. He screamed at them and fired again. It was no use. They were swiftly moving out of range. Sanborn, that rube of a cop, had distracted him with his potshots just long enough that he’d missed seeing Grant reach his Jap girlfriend.

  They’d gotten hold of lifejackets. That was bad. They had an even chance of living, and the storm was hurling them eastward. If the bitch lived…

  Rage filled him, causing him to waste two more shots. He willed himself to lower his weapon.

  If the bitch lived, he was sunk. He couldn’t stay on the island. He’d be caught in a heartbeat, thrown in jail, probably executed. But if he fled, he’d miss out on the score of a lifetime, and he sure as hell couldn’t escape and return to Hicksville.

  Or could he?

  If he went missing in a monster storm, he’d be presumed dead. In fact, without witnesses, he’d be a dead hero, just like Sanborn and his asshole friends. With witnesses, he’d be a dead villain. Either way, he’d be presumed dead.

  That was the answer. He would ride out the storm in the tower. Sanborn and friends couldn’t stick much longer in the keepers’ house. It was already disintegrating. The roof had been thrown aside as if God had swatted it away. The porch had collapsed. The first floor was underwater and the waves were slashing at the upper windows. It couldn’t last. If they had lucked into more lifejackets they would soon have to throw themselves into the tempest and hope for the best. The storm would carry
them close by the lighthouse.

  He would be there, pistol ready, when it did. He would wedge himself into the door frame and would pick them off, one at a time, fish in a barrel, assholes in a hurricane. Then he’d slip off the island as soon as the worst passed.

  He readied himself for a good kill shot.

  * * *

  Charley stumbled into the captain’s seat in the pilothouse, checked the ignition. All was ready. He threw the switch. The starboard engine sputtered and caught life. The port engine remained silent. Charley swore and shoved the remaining prop into reverse. Wood groaned, and branches yielded and snapped, and the boat withdrew from the tree and listed to starboard. The boat rode deep and Charley looked at Sanborn. Sanborn nodded and darted to the forward cabin and threw open the hatch. The small room was flooded. Water gushed into the room through a series of inch-wide ruptures in the hull.

  “We’re sinking,” Charley cried. He tried the switch for the bilge pumps. He heard one click into service, while the other two remained silent.

  “Can we make the mainland?”

  “Half an engine, half-speed, sinking vessel. In a hurricane. I don’t see why not.” He coaxed the dying boat free of the oak tree and gunned the remaining engine. Ladyland yawed and pulled sluggishly away.

  Free of the branches, the wind and water grabbed the boat and threatened to capsize it. Charley felt himself slipping as the deck sloped crazily. The boat rolled back upright. Charley snapped it into alignment with the ferocious wind and moved it away from the lighthouse.

  “Full up for the mainland, Charley,” Sanborn shouted.

  The boat labored into the open water doing twelve knots. A hundred yards ahead, black shapes rose and fell with the waves. Charley veered toward them, hoping against hope, his heart surging.

  They pulled alongside Grant and Kyoko and hauled them aboard. Slowed in the water, the boat rolled and yawed, riding even lower than before. Electric Ladyland was breathing her last. Charley swung her about and urged it toward the mainland. Every second, he knew, was distance. And distance meant survival.

  But could Ladyland give them a mile before going under?

  * * *

  Something caught Blount’s eye, far below. Something white.

  A boat.

  No, he told himself. No boat on the island could survive this howler.

  The boat churned away, close to sinking yet under power, shifting its aft to the following, crashing waves. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of the name on the transom.

  He froze.

  Electric Ladyland.

  It couldn’t be. Of all the boats on Brigands Key, what were the odds?

  Yet there it was, pulling away. Roscoe had escaped. No… there were at least three people on board. Those other bastards had gotten away.

  Sudden doubt and fear raced through him. He had to get moving. He turned to head for the spiral ladder downward.

  Standing over the trapdoor, ten feet away, was Roscoe Nobles. In the howl of the storm, Blount had not heard him enter. He was a nightmare of rags and swollen, hanging flesh, dripping wet. What remained of his face twisted into a hideous grin. In his hands he held a dull silver cylinder about four inches in diameter and seven inches long. At his feet stood a stack of metal rings, also of dull silver, seven inches high.

  “Going somewhere?” Nobles rasped.

  Blount stopped. “You ought to be dead.”

  “Unfinished… business.”

  Blount glanced at the metal objects. “Is that it?”

  Nobles nodded. “My… treasure.”

  “What do you want for it?”

  Nobles laughed, a sound that came out wet and broken. “Nothing. First you try to steal my treasure. Now you want to buy it?” Nobles coughed. “You... you ain’t got to hunt no more. I’m givin’ it to you.”

  Blount hesitated. “What are you up to?”

  Nobles cackled. “Weapons-grade. Come and get it.”

  Blount shook his head, aimed his pistol. This didn’t add up. “Asshole,” he growled. “I don’t negotiate and I don’t fall for tricks.” He squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Blount glanced at his gun. Out of ammo! He had lost count of his shots.

  Roscoe Nobles cackled, a wet laugh that rattled deep in his chest. “Things add up.”

  He lowered the cylinder slowly to the stack of rings. The two were meant to be fitted, joined, mated. Consummated. “I am become… Death,” he rasped. “The Destroyer of worlds.” He inserted the cylinder into the rings and rammed it down.

  In the last millionth of a second of his life, Artie Blount experienced two things. He saw blinding blue light, filling the world, dazzling, clear, pure, the blue of the clearest deepest sky multiplied a thousand times over, impossibly clear blue. In the same instant, he felt searing pain pass through his entire body, a wave, a hurricane, through every cell, destroying, burning, killing…

  Blue light.

  Sacred blue.

  * * *

  Grant glanced back. The island and the lighthouse, now a mile behind, were invisible, obscured by the driving rain. A brilliant light flashed, lighting the sky, flaring brighter and brighter.

  “Detonation!” Charley cried. “Grab something and hang on.”

  An instant later the shock wave struck, grabbing the boat and shaking it, threatening to lift and toss it. The stern spun wildly. Grant was hurled into the console and Charley was thrown over the wheel. Grant seized the wheel and swung the heeling boat back into the wind.

  “Roscoe took his revenge,” Kyoko said.

  A vast ball of light and fire rose from the gray of the storm and was instantly torn apart and shot northward, blasted by the shrieking wind.

  A deafening roar, deafening even above the freight-train roar of the hurricane, pealed across the tossing sea.

  A wall of water, twice the height of a house, raced toward them. More on instinct than thought, Grant spun the wheel and turned the struggling boat into the wave.

  Electric Ladyland climbed the wave as it raced beneath, broke through the churning whitecap, teetered and slammed down, and slid down the following trough. Grant nosed into the wind once more and angled back to trail the tsunami. The fishing boat was swept along.

  The swamped mainland loomed suddenly before them. Grant aimed for a gap between the limbs of the inundated trees and drove the boat with a crash into the snapping tangle of branches. Electric Ladyland listed dangerously and came to rest, pinned into the trees, and its stern sank beneath the water.

  A foot-thick branch, broken and pointed, pierced the wooden hull, impaling the boat, holding it fast. A miracle in disguise. Ladyland’s passengers huddled in a corner of the pilothouse, clutching each other tightly, eyes clinched shut, as Hurricane Celeste howled and raged, ripping and tearing at them, trying to kill them.

  Chapter Forty

  Two days later, Grant sat in a camp chair on the shattered waterfront of what was left of Brigands Key, sipping putrid coffee that Sanborn had inflicted on them before sneaking away. The morning was muggy and clear, and sweat rolled off his brow. The steaming coffee exacerbated the heat and he thought about dumping it. But the need for caffeine ruled all in the morning.

  He was a wreck. His punctured thigh was heavily bandaged and he was chock full of antibiotics and painkillers. Not enough painkillers; his entire torso ached with every breath, each a shooting reminder of his cracked rib. He’d been trampled by stampeding buffalo. Atomic buffalo.

  Kyoko sat next to him, her head bandaged tightly. The wreckage of Hammond's clinic had been searched futilely for her severed ear. Her hearing would never be as sharp as it once was, but she joked that the worst part was that she could no longer wear her hair short for the summer.

  Charley sat on the ruins of the dock, the planking tilted steeply, more than half of it missing entirely. His bare feet dangled in the water, something impossible before Celeste turned the once-straight dock like a tangle.

  None of them spoke. The
y were content to watch the buzz of activity taking place off the north end of the island.

  Helicopters buzzed round and round overhead. Most were military. Some were network news, and were kept at arms’ length from the island by the Army choppers. Cameramen leaned out of the news choppers, desperate for footage. Two dozen Coast Guard vessels were anchored in and around the channel. A canvas enclosure encircled the area of the lighthouse. The lighthouse that no longer existed. A tent city had sprung up this side of the enclosure. A couple dozen vehicles—mobile labs and trucks—were lined up outside the tent city. Some were CDC. Most were Army. Some were mysterious and unnamed.

  The north end of the island was gone.

  Men and women in hazmat suits prowled, sweeping every square inch with weird instruments, like spacemen in a bad movie. A floating lab anchored in the channel and divers came and went from it in waves. Officially, it was a “search for survivors.”

  Except for the military and government types, Brigands Key remained deserted. Angry residents fumed on the mainland, sequestered in the state pen at Raiford, talking to any camera they could find, clamoring to be allowed to return to their homes, anxious to see what little was left.

  No. That was the succinct government answer to those residents. Not until the rescue operations were satisfied and the island made safe. And, oh yeah, to prevent looting.

  Grant, Kyoko, Charley, Hammond, and Sanborn were the only ones allowed back in, and that was because the government was in a pickle with them. Those five alone knew the truth. So a bargain had been struck; keep mum until we give the word, then blab all you want. They had the run of the island and everything they wanted… so long as the truth was tabled for a while. No one was getting on or off Brigands Key soon.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Grant turned to see Sanborn, not waiting for an answer, pulling up a chair. He’d been out walking up one debris-choked street and down another, a good cop working his beat.