Furious

by Jeffrey James Higgins

  I limped through the galley, to avoid walking in front of the steps, and slid between the couches. I ducked under the dining table and crawled toward the port wall. I placed my cheek against the deck and stretched my arm under the couch. My fingers touched something plastic, but it squirted out of my reach. I stretched my fingers wide, pulling the muscles in my arm and back, and touched it again. I hooked the phone with my fingernails and dragged it to me.

  I examined the satellite phone receiver in the dim light. Shaped like a walkie-talkie, it had a video screen, dial pad, and buttons for preset channels and scrolling. The power button was larger than the others, positioned on top. Wires hung from the bottom, like roots dangling from a vegetable freshly pulled from the earth. Four bundles of copper wires stuck out of the ripped black casing. Each bundle had a distinct color—red, black, green, white—and while I did not understand their individual functions, it did not matter, because color coding negated my lack of technical knowledge. I only had to connect the wires from the headset to the same colored bundles in the other half of the cord.

  The satellite phone cradle hung beside the charred navigation panel on the aft wall, just above the captain’s chair. The chart table lay only a few feet away, but to reach it, I had to cross in open view, within feet of the steps.

  A shadow flittered across the floor, and I glanced through the companionway hatch. Brad walked through the cockpit. He extended his arms with his elbows locked and his fingers curled, as if he suffered from cramps or some kind of neurological impairment. He cocked his head and stared over the gunwale at the horizon, with his back to me.

  What was he doing?

  The smart move would be for me to retreat through the galley and hide in the engine compartment again, but I had the phone, and I was so close.

  I can do this.

  I crawled from under the dining table and moved across the deck on my hands and knees. I squeezed past the captain’s chair, turning it until it faced the companionway. I crouched behind it. The sky was visible through the hatch, but not Brad.

  I steadied my breathing and counted to ten. Still no sign of him.

  I set the knife on the floor, stood behind the chair, and inspected the satellite panel. If Brad were to come below, I would see his legs as he mounted the steps, which would give me the opportunity to duck. In theory.

  I grasped the other end of the telephone cord, with the same four colored bundles of copper wire flopping out of it. I knew nothing about the internal machinations of electronic equipment, but it seemed obvious I only had to splice the copper wires together to fix the damage.

  Brad’s footsteps thumped across the deck, somewhere near the helm. I stopped and focused on the hatch.

  Nothing.

  I pawed at the ripped cord and tried to expose the copper wires recessed inside colored casings, but I could not get hold of them. I clawed at the rubber with my nails, but it was too thick. I lifted the knife and stuck the tip into the wire casing, but the blade was too big to fit, and it cut the copper wire.

  I placed the knife on the desk and used my teeth to bite the rubber. That worked, and I pulled the coating away, exposing half an inch of wire. I nibbled at the ends of three remaining colored bundles until all the wire was visible and my mouth filled with a metallic taste.

  With the cord in the wall prepared, I turned my attention to the other half dangling from the satellite phone. I had to expose those wires too.

  Something bumped on the wall behind me. Brad’s footsteps clomped across the port deck. I leaned over the chart table and looked through the portholes, as Brad trudged past. I ducked and continued gnawing at the rubber. I had to hurry.

  I exposed three of the wires, but the copper in the white casing had fused to the rubber and as I pulled it away, two of the four strands of copper wire broke. Would it matter? There were four bundles of four wires each, so would two broken wires on one bundle be a problem? I could not risk it.

  Brad’s tramped past the portholes above the galley. He was heading back to the helm. Would he come below?

  I retrieved the knife and cut two inches off the white casing. I used my teeth to open the end and exposed the wire, preparing all four bundles on both ends of the severed cord.

  Brad entered the cockpit and bumped into something. He was coming. I had to stall him.

  I turned to the electronics panel, charred black from the fire. Beside it was a manual switch for the navigation lights. The instruments were destroyed, but the redundant switches for the mast lights may still function.

  Brad’s footsteps landed on the deck and he bumped into the cockpit table.

  I flicked the switch.

  Brad’s footfalls stopped. I peeked around the corner. He stood still in the companionway hatch. Had the mast lights come on? Brad turned and walked out of sight.

  I lay the phone on the desk and went to work. I grabbed the copper wires from the white housing on each end of ripped cord and twirled them together. They held. I spliced the second, third, and fourth bundles together with trembling fingers.

  Something banged near the main mast and Brad’s footsteps pounded along the port side, returning to the helm.

  I twisted the last bundle together. Done.

  Brad landed in the cockpit.

  I hit the power button on the satellite phone. The screen did not illuminate. I tried the other buttons. Nothing worked. Something else must have broken inside when Brad had ripped it from the wall. I deflated, my energy and hope draining away.

  Brad climbed onto the first step.

  I set the phone down and ducked under the chart table, swiveling the chair to conceal myself. I pressed my fingers against the soft leather to prevent it from moving. My lips trembled.

  Brads stomped down the steps and stood in the salon. His breathing came in raspy snorts, full of mucus.

  “Aargh,” he shouted, his voice high and strained.

  The knife.

  I had forgotten the knife on the desk next to the phone. If Brad saw it and came to retrieve it, he would see me.

  He walked closer, now only three feet away, and I smelled his rotten breath. He turned toward the port berth and crashed through the cabin door.

  My heart raced. My body shook. The chair wobbled in front of me, but I did not dare release it for fear it would rotate and reveal me. I leaned around the chair.

  Brad stood in the berth doorway, his fists balled, and his hair matted with sweat. He stared into the empty cabin and cocked his head, as if he sensed me nearby.

  I glanced across the salon to starboard berth. I would have to pass Brad to get there.

  I lifted one hand off the chair and reached above, probing the desk for the knife. I touched the handle and plucked at it with my fingernails.

  I slid it closer until I could grab the handle. I pulled the knife down behind the chair as Brad walked back into the salon.

  I tightened my grip on the handle and held my breath.

  Brad rambled across the salon and into the stateroom.

  Was it a trick? Was he baiting me to show myself?

  I stood and hesitated. I willed myself to move. I tiptoed through the salon to the starboard berth, keeping my eyes on the stateroom door. I expected him to burst through the door and catch me, but he did not.

  I entered the berth and closed myself inside the engine compartment with a loud click.

  Now what?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I awoke from a nightmare, straining to scream, but unable to make a sound. How long had I slept? By the lack of light inside the compartment, it had to be night. The engines had been off for close to twelve hours, th
ough it was impossible to judge the passage of time in the darkened hold. If we still floated close to the equator, the current pushed us away from the Maldives. The yacht rolled more, which meant the wind had returned. A storm could be coming. If the wind intensified, I needed to take the helm before we capsized.

  It was day seven of acute symptoms, and Brad would probably only live for another three or four days. I could not survive that long without drinking water, which made waiting him out inside the engine compartment impossible. I had to control the boat to reach land. Eric had said paralysis and coma were the final stages of furious rabies. I would have a chance if I could wait until Brad became incapacitated, but how long would he last, and how would I know when it happened?

  I heard nothing outside the compartment which meant Brad could be dead already.

  My God, Brad . . . dead.

  Sorrow brushed my fear aside, and tears filled my eyes. Brad had not been a wonderful husband, but he did not deserve to die, not like this. No one did.

  Dr. Singh had said India experienced over twenty thousand deaths from rabies each year, and I had read there were more than fifty thousand annual deaths worldwide. If I survived this, I would combat this horrible disease. The challenge motivated me to keep fighting.

  My swollen tongue stuck to my mouth and my head pounded. I needed to get water and food then wait for Brad to die. To survive, I had to sneak back into the galley, but fear riveted my feet to the deck.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  I grit my teeth and shook my head. I could not wait. I strained to hear Brad. If he was on deck, I could make it to the refrigerator and sneak back to my sanctuary. I had to try.

  I would have to crawl to minimize noises, so I put my hands on the generator to orient myself and stretched my legs behind me. My foot struck the flashlight, and it skittered across the deck and fell into a trough between machinery with a deafening clank—the loudest sound in the world.

  I froze. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Had Brad heard? Maybe he was on deck where the ocean would mask the sound, or maybe he was asleep.

  “Aargh,” Brad growled from the starboard berth, just a few feet away. It was low and guttural, like a bear defending a cub, a dog protecting a bone—a monster hunting me on a sailboat. He knew where I hid, and he had been waiting for me to show myself. Brad clawed at the compartment door, coming for me.

  I reached for the knife, but I could not locate it. It had to be close.

  Brad banged on the door again.

  I abandoned my search for the knife and slid away from the sound toward the port berth. The exit panel was flush against the bulkhead, but I could not see it.

  I shuffled to my left, and my leg pressed against a scalding hot pipe. I yelped and bit my tongue to stop from screaming.

  Brad pounded on the door, clawing and scratching, grunting with bloodlust.

  I rushed forward, feeling my way through the machinery. A thick plastic tube hung across my path. I climbed over it and fell, banging my mouth against a sharp corner. I tasted blood.

  The latch clicked behind me. Brad had solved the puzzle. I moved faster and my head collided with the bulkhead. I slid my hands across it, searching for the door. The panel opened behind me, flooding the compartment with light.

  I whirled around as Brad stuck his head through the opening and glared at me with bloodshot eyes caked with mucus. His skin had turned beet red from either fever or the sun, and his face and chest twitched with spasms. He no longer seemed human. He bared his teeth and saliva foamed over his lips.

  He crawled into the compartment.

  I turned toward the bulkhead where light illuminated the panel latch. I dug my fingers into it and the cabinet swung open into the port cabin. I glanced over my shoulder.

  Brad hunched on all fours behind me. He leaned over the generator and reached for me with blood-stained fingers.

  I kicked at his hand, but missed, and my heel connected with his chest. The force of the blow knocked him off balance, and he tumbled between the generator and the air conditioner. I turned, grabbed the edges of the opening, and pulled myself through. My knees struck the bottom lip of the compartment as I dove onto the cabin, and I rolled onto my back.

  Brad moved toward me—a malevolent shadow.

  I knelt, slipped my fingers under the cabinet door, and slammed it shut. The latch clicked as Brad’s hands thwacked against the wood.

  I sprinted from the cabin, around the companionway, and into the starboard berth.

  Brad crawled toward me bathed in shadows, his face a mask of rage. I slammed the panel shut.

  Brad wailed like an animal trapped in the dark. The virus had not weakened him, as I had hoped. He was strong, violent, and savage. A nightmare. He slammed against the door. It would not hold for long.

  I had to hide. But where?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I fled through the salon into the galley and snatched a steak knife out of a drawer. It was better than nothing. I raced into the stateroom and slammed the door behind me. I threw the bolt, locking it, but that would not stop Brad either.

  I examined the head, with its flimsy door. If I hid in there and he found me, the hatches were too small to climb through and I would be trapped. I eyed the hatches above the bed. Those I could get through, but what would I do next? I scooped my bikini off the floor and put it on. Somehow, being dressed made me feel less vulnerable.

  Brad’s pounding resounded inside the engine compartment, as he tried to punch his way through the panel. If he used his legs, he would break the wood in seconds.

  I had to defend myself, but I did not possess any fighting skills. I had never punched anyone, never been in a fight, not even as a young girl. I had jogged six days per week and toned my body, but I did not lift weights and possessed little upper-body strength. I was no match for a muscular man.

  To survive, I had to use my mind as a weapon.

  Brad pounded on the door, his growls reverberating behind the companionway, as if the ship itself was growling. Wood splintered.

  I climbed onto the bed and stood on my toes, my stitches pulling against my wound. I lifted my leg and balanced on my good foot. I grabbed the plastic hatch handle, pressed the release button, and turned it counterclockwise to break the seal. I pushed the plexiglass hatch open and salty air blew in my face. Brad would break free from the engine compartment at any moment.

  I held onto the hatch and waited.

  Wood splintered in the stern and Brad’s feet pounded on the deck. He had escaped. A door slammed open, probably the head inside the berth, then his footsteps thumped across the salon. He banged into the stateroom door, kicking and punching it, as if blinded by rage.

  I tossed my knife through the open hatch onto the deck. I pushed off the bed and pulled myself through. It took all of my effort to get my weight over the lip of the hatch. I squeezed myself through the small opening and climbed on deck. I closed the hatch behind me.

  I grabbed the knife and stared through the plexiglass. The stateroom door burst open and Brad ran into the room—a feral predator in search of prey. He slobbered like a dog, spraying saliva and turning the yacht into a biohazard. His eyes darted around the room—wild, inhuman. He kicked open the bathroom door and dove inside. He crashed against the sink, knocking the soap and toothbrushes onto the floor.

  Brad bounded out of the bathroom and across the room. He yelped when he stepped on broken shards of glass, but the pain did not slow him. He threw open the cabinet doors and whirled around looking confused. Brad turned and stared at the bed.

  The wind whistled through the unsealed hatch. Brad lifted his gaze toward the sound and his eyes met mine. A grin spread agains
t his face and he bit the air between us.

  He jumped on the bed and reached for me, but his hands slammed against the plexiglass and he fell back on the bed. He scurried to his feet and jumped again, grabbing the lip and pulling himself up into the hatch.

  I ran as fast as I could along the gunwale to the stern. I hesitated at the cockpit to make sure he was coming. His upper body slid through the hatch opening and he staggered to his knees on the deck. I jumped into the cockpit and hurried down the stairs. I missed the last step and landed hard on the lower deck, twisting my ankle. I crashed to the ground in pain and the knife slid across the deck.

  I clambered to my feet. My laceration burned and my ankle throbbed. I hobbled across the floor, grabbed the knife, and limped into the stateroom.

  Brad’s footsteps pounding overhead as he ran the length of the deck.

  I climbed onto the bed and tossed my weapon through the hatch, and it clattered on the deck. I jumped for the hatch but missed and fell back onto the bed. My legs had weakened. Behind me, Brad banged down the companionway. He would be on me in seconds, and I was injured and unarmed.

  I bent my knees and catapulted myself into the air. I caught the lip of the hatch and pulled with all my strength. My waist cleared the hatch and my upper body lurched onto the deck, but my legs dangled inside the stateroom.

  Brad dove for me and his hand collided with my thigh. I twisted my body, and he sailed by.

  I pulled myself through the hatch and watched. Brad picked himself off the floor and climbed onto the bed. I gasped for air, my heart pounded, and my foot and ankle screamed for relief. My body craved nourishment and my strength waned. I could not keep this game of cat-and-mouse going for long. He would catch me this time for sure.

  I slammed the hatch shut as Brad dove for it, and his hands banged against the plexiglass. He howled in pain.

  I hefted the knife, but it would not be enough. He was stronger, wild, unstoppable. I had to evade him. It was my only hope. My eyes darted around, desperate for escape. I could jump into the sea, but that meant certain death. My eyes scanned the deck for something I could use against him.