Furious

by Jeffrey James Higgins

  I turned around and screamed.

  Brad stood inches from the plexiglass door. He stared at me with dilated pupils and perspiration beading on his forehead. His eyes drifted between my legs.

  I covered myself with my hands.

  He did not move. His erection pushed against his boxer shorts, and his eyes locked on me with the same leer I had seen in the eyes of middle-aged men when I jogged on Commonwealth Avenue in my skin-tight leggings. Brad’s expression looked prurient, hungry, dangerous.

  He pulled his boxers off and let them drop to the deck. He grabbed the stall handle and pushed the door open.

  I threw myself against the glass, slamming it shut.

  “Stop it Brad. What are you doing?”

  “Grrrgh.” Drool dripped off his teeth.

  “Get out. I’m in the shower.”

  He opened the door again.

  I leaned my weight into it again, and my feet slid until they bumped against the bulkhead. I used it for leverage and pushed. The door clicked shut.

  “Brad, you’re scaring me. Stop it right now.”

  “Fuck,” he said, and pointed between my legs.

  “Get out. I mean it.”

  What kind of neurological horror is this?

  Brad’s eyes rolled up in his head and he placed one hand against the stall. He grabbed himself with his other hand and orgasmed. Creamy ropes of semen splashed against the stall door. I watched. Horrified. Shaking. His ejaculate slid down the door leaving long soapy streaks. I had never seen Brad touch himself, not even during sex. What the hell was this?

  I cried. This thing was not my husband.

  Brad opened his eyes and gaped at his erection and the mess on the stall door. He wrinkled his forehead, confused. He raised his eyes to mine, as if asking a question, and cocked his head.

  “Head hurts,” he said.

  I glared at him, silent.

  He turned and walked away, dripping his seed on the floor.

  I realized I had been holding my breath and gasped.

  He groaned as the mattress settled under his weight. What should I do? If I had not closed the door, would he have raped me? Did he know what he was doing?

  I’m trapped.

  I pressed my face against the glass and cried.

  Brad’s snoring echoed through the cabin, more gurgling than breathing. I stepped out of the stall and peeked through the open door. He lay in bed, his feet twitching with muscle spasms. I had to get away from him.

  I slid the door open more, and it creaked.

  Brad stopped snoring.

  I froze. I held my breath until his respirations resumed. I stepped over the mess he had left on the teak floor and stayed on my toes.

  Brad’s eyes were closed, and he smacked his lips, as if desiccated. When had he last been able to drink anything?

  I had stored my clothes in the wardrobe on the other side of the bed. I slipped into the stateroom, three feet from the foot of the bed.

  Brad snorted and bared his teeth, still asleep. Probably.

  I stepped toward the bureau, and a hunk of glass pushed against my dressing. I stopped and lifted my foot before it pierced my skin. Tiny shards still littered the deck in front of the bureau.

  I eyed Brad, who was getting another erection. This virus was demonic.

  Brad grabbed himself, and his snoring stopped.

  I had to move.

  I swung the medical kit over my shoulder, tiptoed across the cabin, and shut the door behind me.

  Brad groaned.

  I made it, but what now? Where could I go? Would he try to hurt me?

  Brad grunted, and the mattress squeaked.

  I stared across the salon at the stern berths.

  Brad’s feet thudded onto the deck.

  I sprinted aft for the starboard berth, as the latch on the stateroom door clicked open behind me. I slipped into the cabin and looked back across the salon.

  My bloody footprints stained the deck and led right to me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I perched on the edge of the bed with my eyes fixed on the inside of the door and listened to Brad stagger around the salon. He grunted like an ape as he opened and shut cabinets. What the hell was he doing? An image of him bursting through the door ran through my mind on a continual loop. My breath came faster.

  The rabies virus had incubated in two days, and the acute phase had started after only one week of the flu-like symptoms. I had never seen a case of furious rabies and its terrifying neurological symptoms. The virus attacked the nervous system and manifested in unique ways as it destroyed people’s brains. For thousands of years people had conflated rabies with myths about people metamorphosed into vampires, zombies, and animals. Monsters may not exist, but furious rabies transformed people into savage beasts.

  Brad had punched his ex-wife and been physical with me, but he had not attacked me. Not yet. When he tried to force himself into the shower, he had seemed more horny and confused than angry. I tried to calm down. He had not attempted to hurt me. He would never do that.

  I’m lying.

  Brad had anger issues, and now that the virus had ravaged his mind, he could not moderate his behavior.

  He will hurt me.

  Brad’s footfalls grew louder as he approached my berth. The sounds stopped close to my door. His labored breath came in thick, raspy grunts. Had he seen my bloody footprints? What was he doing?

  The door handle jiggled.

  “Dagny?” His voice sounded strange, unnatural. Alien.

  The fine hair on my neck tickled, and I hugged myself. I said nothing. I had locked the door, but it would not be difficult for him to break it down. I examined the portholes along the wall. They allowed light and air inside but were too small for me to climb through.

  What was I thinking? Brad was my husband. My sick husband. He was in pain and I was a doctor. He needed me. I could not let my fear prevent me from helping him. He was dying, but I could ease his suffering. I stood and reached for the door. I wrapped my fingers around the lock but did not open it.

  I listened. Brad’s throaty breathing sounded like an animal. A sick animal. People should avoid rabid animals, right? Still, I had vowed to love him in sickness and in health. I had also sworn an oath to help patients in need. I had to overcome my fear and act like a doctor.

  I turned the silver knob on the lock halfway—hesitant, unsure.

  Am I making a mistake?

  Brad slammed against the door with a bang, and I jumped. It sounded like he had slapped the door with his palms. He pounded again. The door shook, and the knob jiggled, slipping the bolt into the open position. Unlocked.

  I lunged for the latch and jammed it home.

  That thing is not my husband.

  Brad’s footsteps faded away into the salon. I exhaled and plopped onto the bed. I needed a plan. I closed my eyes and assessed the situation. I had to treat this the same way I diagnosed a patient—observing and articulating the problems and thinking of ways to mitigate each of them.

  Brad’s mental condition had deteriorated to a point where he would not recover. I had to accept it. I had to sail to land, and I could not do that hiding in the cabin. I knew enough to operate the engine and sails and keep the yacht moving, but with our navigational systems gone, finding the Maldives would be difficult. We had been on the right course when the lightning struck, so if I followed the setting sun, we should hit the Maldives, or if we missed them—Africa.

  Lightning had destroyed the entire electronics board, so th
e AIS was offline, which created a second problem. Ships would not see us, unless they manned their radars, and I would not get a proximity alarm if we were on a collision course with another vessel. If one rammed us, we would die.

  My third problem was the lack of wind. We had been in the doldrums for days and it could last for weeks. Our gas would last for a couple more days, and I would not have to use the sails until we were close to the Maldives. I could deal with sailing problems later.

  The weather still threatened us. The last lightning storm had moved in fast, and if another one hammered us, we may not survive. I did not have the skills for rough seas, and if a wave broadsided us, we would capsize. If the weather worsened, I would need to cut to engine, deploy the sea anchor, and batten down the boat. To prepare for a storm, I would have to leave the cabin.

  The virus addling Brad’s brain was my most immediate problem. He was in the acute stages of furious rabies—aggressive and violent. Brad seemed capable of hurting me, and in his diminished cognitive state, I could not count on him to have any self-control. His behavior in the shower confirmed it. My safety had to come first. He was in pain and dying, but I could not render aid while he raged. Even if he calmed down, I could not do much for him, other than administer Tylenol and provide emotional support.

  If Medevac Worldwide Rescue had traced our location before Brad destroyed the phone, they may have dispatched a rescue ship. But if they had not triangulated us, they would not send help, because the ocean was too expansive to locate a lone sailboat. Eric knew I was in trouble, and he had feelings for me, so maybe he would send help.

  I stopped daydreaming. No one would find us. I was alone on a ship with a rabid animal and nobody was coming to my rescue. I dropped my face into my hands and wept.

  Brad stomped up the companionway and climbed on deck.

  Was he looking for me in his confused state? What if he fell overboard? I should lead him into his cabin, but I could not move. He scared me and though I did not wish to acknowledge my feelings, it was true. I had become a castaway on a yacht, adrift in an oceanic wilderness with a man suffering from a neurological deficit—a madman.

  I shuddered and hugged myself.

  Sunlight filtered into the cabin from small portholes high on the wall, and I peered into the cockpit.

  Brad trudged past, dragging his feet like he had coordination problems. The virus had devoured his nerve endings. He mumbled to himself, alternately angry and defensive, but I could not understand his words.

  He paced in circles around the deck, his rants punctuated with high-pitched yelps—almost a dog’s bark. He walked toward the starboard side and disappeared from my view. He stopped talking and I could not hear anything.

  What’s he doing?

  The engine stopped.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The yacht drifted to a standstill on the flat, saltwater lake created by the doldrums. We rocked side to side in the current, which pushed us away from our destination. If a storm hit now, we would capsize. The problems mounted and my situation seemed impossible. I laid on the bed and closed my eyes.

  I awoke confused. I remembered lying in bed and nothing else. I blinked my eyes and my dire situation flooded into my consciousness, like receiving a death notice. Through the porthole, the sun hung low in the sky. I must have slept for hours, and I felt stronger, rested, which was something.

  Brad yelled from somewhere on deck. I looked through the porthole at his feet near the helm, facing the sea.

  “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he yelled.

  Was he talking to me?

  He turned and stumbled into the cockpit. There was something primal about him now. He cocked his head to the side like a wolf searching for a scent on the wind. He extended his fingers—rigid, like claws. Maybe his hands had cramped. He drooled onto his shirt and growled.

  I gasped.

  He looked up, as if he had heard, but that was not possible. He curled his lips away from his teeth. Another spasm? He bit at the air, three times in succession, hunched over, and leered at me.

  I ducked away from the porthole. Had he seen me? My eyes darted around the small berth, desperate to escape. The bed almost filled the room. Opposite a bench at the foot of the bed lay the en suite head, a bathroom much smaller than the one in our stateroom. Above the bench was a long cabinet, and two portholes opened high on the walls on each side of the berth. One faced the cockpit and the other the sea—both too small to climb through. A long rectangular window paralleled the bed, about five feet over the waterline, but it did not open.

  Behind the bed, a raised platform extended to the stern, and a hatch opened in the transom. The hatches did not function as exits. Across from the head, two large cupboards hung from the interior bulkhead. One looked like a wardrobe, and the other was oddly shaped and only extended a few feet off the deck. The room felt like a prison—a prison with an insane guard patrolling the perimeter.

  Brad walked out of my view, and I strained to listen. I stood on the bed and looked through the interior porthole. I saw the cockpit and the steering wheel, but not Brad. I turned toward the starboard wall and shrieked.

  Brad’s pressed his face against the porthole and glared at me.

  He knelt and hunched his back. Saliva dripped off his mouth. Matted hair hung over wide eyes, and his stare bore into me. I had seen that look before.

  The beast had returned.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Brad watched me through the window, like a lion preparing to savage an elk. Long strands of thick saliva hung off his lower lip.

  I crawled across the bed and pressed my back against the interior bulkhead. I wanted to appear brave, pretend nothing was wrong, but my hands shook, and my lips quivered.

  He seemed to recognize the fear on my face. He bared his teeth.

  If he came for me, I could stay in the room and hope I had the strength to stop him from opening the door. Or I could run from the cabin and hide. But where?

  Brad cocked his head and bit the air, sending saliva flying. He pounced at the porthole and his lip exploded from the impact. Blood flecked the glass. He seemed not to notice. He retreated, bumped into the safety lines, and moved toward the cockpit.

  He’s coming.

  I had thirty seconds to decide what to do. I swung the medical bag over my shoulder and jumped off the bed. I ran across the cabin and grabbed the door handle. I heard Brad’s feet slap against the deck as he landed in the cockpit. I studied the recessed latches on the cabinets beside the door, which differed from the wardrobe handles in our stateroom.

  I dropped to my knees and pressed the buttons near the top of the cabinet. The latch popped, and the door fell open, revealing the engine compartment, a tight space between the stern berths and under the companionway. The engine lay before me, and heat radiated off it.

  I stuck my head inside and looked aft. Beside the engine, hoses wound out of a white box, and other machinery hummed near it, probably the generator, water filter, heater, and air conditioner. The compartment extended ten feet to the stern, tapering near the end, and the ceiling angled down beneath the tender garage.

  There’s room.

  I shut the small cupboard and opened the larger door, which also accessed the compartment. I peered into the unlit space again. Above me, the steps creaked as Brad stepped onto them. I did not have a choice.

  I lowered the medical kit into the engine space and ducked inside. I hesitated before closing the cabinet. I had locked the cabin door from the inside and there was no other egress, so even in his impaired condition, Brad may figure out where I had hidden. I stepped back into the cabin, climbed onto the platform behind the bed, and opened the hatch over the tran
som. Maybe Brad would see it and think I had climbed out and fallen overboard.

  Something slammed against the cabin door. Brad.

  I scampered across the bed, trying not to make noise. He growled and slammed into the door again. Wood splintered near the hinge.

  I climbed into the compartment, but when I tried to close it, there was no interior handle, because it had not been designed as a living space. I gripped the ends of the door with my fingertips and waited for Brad to make noise again. My fingers ached, but I had to time it perfectly. Brad slammed against the cabin door and wood splintered. I pulled the cabinet, and it clicked shut as the door burst open and fell to the floor.

  Had he seen me?

  I held my breath.

  Brad stomped into the room, huffing and puffing. He banged into something on the ground, probably the broken door, and the head door slammed open. He yelped.

  A moment later, he growled from the opposite side of the bulkhead. He banged against the compartment door, and I covered my mouth and shut my eyes. If he opened it, I was dead. The mattress springs creaked, and I heard him crawl across the platform behind the bed.

  The engine compartment had plunged into darkness when I had closed the door, and I could not see a light switch. A few slivers of light flickered around the edges of the cabinets, but I could only make out dark shapes. The space reeked of diesel fumes and heated electrical wiring, and the back of my throat tickled. I could not cough. Not now. I swallowed to moisten my throat.

  The mattress springs groaned again, and he landed on the deck, the broken door crackling under his weight. Brad stormed out of the cabin into the salon, and then pounded up the steps to the deck. I could not hear him anymore.

  I crawled as deep into the compartment as I could and balled into a fetal position. The space felt warm and dry, and the sound of the generator made it difficult to hear anything, both a tactical problem and a psychological blessing. Brad’s grunting and growling had pushed me to the edge of panic. Unfortunately, I would not hear him if he returned.