Furious

by Jeffrey James Higgins

  Brad jumped and shoved the hatch open, knocking me off balance.

  I fell to the deck.

  His hands came through the hatch.

  I stomped on the glass and knocked him back down. Any minute he would realize he could use the stairs to come on deck and finish me. I could drop into the cabin, but I would not have the power to climb back up. The end drew near.

  Brad pushed the hatch open again. I slashed his hand with the knife, and he screamed and fell into the cabin. Blood dripped off the blade’s edge. I had to get away, but where could I hide on a yacht? I looked over my shoulder at the bow. The bow line was coiled near the bowsprit.

  That’s it.

  The best place to hide on a sailboat was not on the sailboat at all. I sprinted for the bow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  I stuck the knife handle in my mouth, snatched the coiled line off the deck, and shook the end loose. I formed a two-foot-long loop and double-knotted it, the way I tied my running shoes. I yanked eight feet of line free of the coil, wrapped it around a metal cleat, and pulled it tight.

  The hatch crashed open behind me and Brad’s hands clawed at the deck.

  I tossed the line off the bow and peered over the side. The loop hung two feet over the surface and slapped against the hull. An image flashed in my mind—the sun glinting off the blue water in the pool, behind my father’s lifeless body. I grabbed the line with both hands and stepped over the lifelines. My heart pounded, and I squeezed the line to stop the tremors in my hands. I broke into a cold sweat.

  I glanced at the hatch as Brad’s head poked out of it, and he pulled himself on deck facing aft. I had to hurry before he turned and saw me.

  I leaned against the line to make sure it stayed taut and stepped onto the side of the hull. I pushed away from the yacht, transferring my weight onto my feet. I descended, hand over hand, walking my feet down the hull toward the water.

  I peeked over the gunwale one last time. Brad stood and flexed the muscles in his arms. He turned around, and I ducked. The line burned the skin off my palms, and I spread my toes to improve my tenuous purchase on the hull. I stopped halfway and bent my knees until my body lay against the hull. I dangled my healthy foot beneath me and used my toes to locate the loop. I slipped my foot into it, and the knot tightened around me. I shifted my weight onto my leg and took the strain off my arms. I loosened my grip on the rope.

  Above, Brad growled and ran around the deck hunting me. The virus had devastated his mind, and his synapses failed to connect as the damage spread. His brain had become a neurological fireworks show. I doubted he would think to check over the side, which meant I was safe.

  For now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I dangled from the bow, gripping the line—holding onto life. Above, Brad growled and scampered around the deck, like a wolf stalking a wounded doe. A moment later, the muffled sounds of breaking glass emanated from the galley. He seemed furious.

  The wind increased, and the sails ruffled, heeling the yacht and providing some forward momentum. The sea undulated around me.

  If I lost my grip and fell into the water, I could not climb back onboard without the line. Even where the stern sat lowest in the water, the deck remained far above the waterline. Unreachable. My foot pulsated where my stitches stretched. Blood dripped off my toes. I followed a drop as it plunged through the air and splashed into the ocean. A pink haze formed on the surface below me.

  The shark.

  Fear jolted me—an electric shock arcing across my nerves. How had I forgotten about the shark? I had read sharks could detect a drop of blood in the water from miles away, and Brad had told me they could leap out of the water after prey. I dangled two feet over the surface, like a worm on a hook.

  My eyes flickered across the surface, frantic. The line creaked from my shifting weight and rubbed against gunwale. If the line snapped, I would not have to worry about drowning. The shark would devour me.

  I closed my eyes. I had not been to church since my father’s funeral, but I bowed my head and prayed. I did not ask for God to intervene and save me—that was too much for me to believe. Instead, I prayed I would be smart enough to find my way out of this predicament, to think my way to safety. But if a solution existed, I could not see it.

  “Shit.”

  I shook my head. I had a madman above me and a shark somewhere below. The wind had increased, and no one manned the helm. Brad would only live for a few more days, so if I could outlast him, I had a chance to survive.

  My good leg tired and the line dug into the sole of my foot. My teeth clenched around the knife handle and my jaw quivered with a spasm. My position was unsustainable and soon, I would be too tired to climb up the line. I needed to find a better hiding spot, somewhere safe to make a plan.

  Blood soaked my bandage, and a red stream trickled across my foot and beaded on the tips of my toes. I watched droplets grow then break free and fall into the water. I balanced on my right leg, bent over, and wiped off the blood. I dried my fingers on my bikini bottom. A long bloody trail hung in the water as the yacht drifted eastward, and I waited for the wound to clot.

  Below me, a black fuzzy shape skirted the port side, swimming ten feet underwater. The great white had returned. I became a cat toy hanging at the end of a string. I had no choice but to climb up on deck.

  A dorsal fin broke the surface of the water forty feet off the starboard side and turned toward me. The shark followed the blood trail, which led to me.

  I hoisted myself and braced my feet on either side of the bow for balance. I followed the fin with my eyes and waited. I would have to be quick.

  Its nose broke the surface fifteen feet away. Its mouth opened as if it were tasting the blood in the water. The shark stared at me with its black eyes, flicked its powerful tail, and submerged.

  I bent my right knee, shifting my weight onto it, and rotated to the port side of the hull.

  The shark broke the surface, its jaws open and its eyes rolled back in its head. It snapped its teeth and banged against the bow, where I had just been hanging. It splashed back into the water and disappeared below the surface as quickly as it had attacked.

  My body shook, and I hyperventilated. I did not care if Brad was rabid. I had to escape the shark. I lifted my left foot and swung my weight across the bow until I straddled it. I pulled myself higher as I walked with one foot on each side of the hull. My arms were weaker than I had realized. My strength and energy almost gone.

  When I was a few feet from the deck, I reached for the gunwale and wrapped the fingers around its lip. I kept my right hand on the rope, because falling into the water would bring a fast and ghastly death. I lifted my head level with the deck.

  I locked eyes with Brad.

  He crouched on his hands and knees and snarled at me from three feet away. He must have heard the shark strike the bow. He growled and reached for me.

  I ducked below the deck and my injured foot slipped on the bloody surface of the hull. I slammed against the bow. I grunted in pain, twirling in the air as I dangled from the line. The polypropylene cut into my palms. My muscles ached and my grip slipped.

  Brad glowered over the side at me, his mouth foaming and his eyes afire.

  I eased my grip and slid toward the water, burning more skin off my hands. I squeezed hard to stop my descent but continued to slide. I swung my feet and touched the loop with my foot, but it bounced away and I slid past it and into the water. I jabbed at the loop with my injured foot and hooked it. My weight landed on my laceration and I screamed.

  I stood on the rope and lifted my other leg out of the water. I pulled myself upright. My skinned palms reddened the line, and bl
ood dripped off my foot into the ocean. I jerked my head around searching the water for the shark but saw nothing but blue water.

  Brad growled above me, and I stared back with a hatred mirroring his own. Brad pulled on the line with both hands, and I rose a few feet in the air.

  He’s so strong.

  I pressed my foot against the hull and yanked the line away from him. I fell two feet and bounced against the yacht. The impact knocked the wind from my lungs and the knife fell. It disappeared into the ocean.

  My only weapon—gone.

  Brad growled and paced, radiating pure aggression. The neurological nightmare had consumed his mind. At least his hydrophobia would prevent him from getting close to the water. He would not follow me down the line.

  That’s it! Brad’s hydrophobia.

  I could use his rabies-induced, pathological hydrophobia as a weapon against him.

  The hair on my neck rose, and I glanced over my shoulder. The dorsal fin headed for me. I gripped the rope and straddled the bow. I had to be ready.

  This time, the shark advanced from the port side and dove below the surface.

  I rappelled to the other side of the hull as the shark burst out of the ocean. It snapped at the port side, exactly where I had been.

  I had pushed too hard off the boat and the tension on the line swung me back across the bow. My momentum carried me towards the shark.

  Oh God, I can’t stop.

  The shark shook its head as I slid toward it.

  I raised my legs to avoid its open mouth and kicked its nose, pushing off the beast. I smacked against the hull and braced my feet against the fiberglass.

  The shark thrashed, searching for food, but came up empty and disappeared below.

  It’s now or never.

  I pulled my bikini top off with one hand, leaned over, and dragged it through the water. If the shark appeared now, it would bite me in half. I held the soaking-wet bikini top in my teeth and climbed like a mountaineer, my fear giving me a surge of strength. Brad clung to the bow sprit and hung over the edge—waiting for me. I stopped, a few feet out of his reach, and took the bikini out of my mouth.

  “Want some water, Brad?”

  He cocked his head as if trying to process my words.

  “Don’t forget to hydrate,” I yelled.

  I threw the bikini, heavy with saltwater, and it struck him square in the face, dousing him. He yelped and fell away, out of sight.

  I climbed hand over hand until I reached the top. I could not go back, or the shark would have me, and with my strength depleted, I did not have the stamina to climb the line again. I had to confront Brad now. I grabbed the gunwale and hauled myself up and over. My bikini top lay in a puddle on the deck.

  Brad had vanished.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The water had frightened Brad away—for the moment. I did not understand what was happening in his virus-addled mind, but he would return to hunt me down, and he would do it soon. With my energy exhausted, I functioned on adrenaline alone. I had to find another place to hide.

  The entrance to the foresail locker lay in front of me. I opened the hatch, climbed halfway down the ladder, and shut the hatch behind me. The stifling cabin had been closed since we left, and the pungent odor of fiberglass tickled my nose. I rubbed my face to avoid sneezing. I locked the hatch, but only a thin piece of plastic held it closed. If Brad found me, he would breach it, and I would have nowhere to run.

  A minute later, Brad ran across the deck toward the bow. He shook his head, frothing with rage.

  I had barely made it. I let go of the handle and descended the ladder on my toes. I pressed against the wall in the cramped compartment, as far away from the hatch as possible.

  Brad stomped on the deck and banged his hands against the lifelines. The stanchions creaked under his furious rage. He had realized I escaped, but did he think I had fallen in the ocean and the shark had taken me? He howled in a frenzy.

  I wanted to scream, to cry, to make it stop, but I could not make a sound. I hugged myself and whimpered, too dehydrated for tears.

  Brad stepped on the hatch and it creaked beneath his weight. He scanned the deck, and saliva dripped onto the plexiglass. He grunted and moved aft, out of view.

  I was not safe here. I opened a cabinet and found two bottles of Evian. I twisted the caps open, smudging the plastic with blood, and guzzled them, one after the other. My body soaked in the liquid like a plant in the desert. I did not see any food.

  I moved toward the ladder to locate Brad and stubbed my toe on a canvas bag.

  The mast ascender.

  It could work, if I had the courage. I slung the bag over my shoulder and climbed the ladder. The sun reflected off the glass, and I could only see a few feet in any direction. I gripped the handle. I had no choice. I unlocked the hatch and opened it halfway. I poked my head up and viewed the empty deck.

  Time to go.

  I bounded up the ladder onto deck, and tiptoed toward the mast, careful to avoid the stateroom hatches. I crouched low, in case Brad watched from the cockpit.

  I made it to the mast. I untied a sheet from a cleat at the base and retied it to a cleat along the gunwale. I set the bag on the deck and dug out the harness. I clipped the ascenders to the sheet, as I had seen Brad do in the Java Sea—a lifetime ago.

  Something crashed in the cabin below.

  Had he heard me? I had to hurry.

  I stepped into the harness and through the loops in the bottom ascender. I stood and pushed the top ascender over my head. I sat in the bosun's chair and took my weight off my feet. I reached below, raised the lower ascender, stood in the straps, and repeated the process. I had climbed four feet of the deck when Brad craned his head out of the cockpit.

  “Yaaa,” he yelled.

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  I pushed the ascender above me and sat back into the seat.

  Brad came for me.

  I grabbed the lower ascender, but I pulled it too fast and it did not move. I used both hands and slid it higher.

  Fifteen feet.

  I stood in the stirrups and raised the top ascender.

  Brad lunged for my leg.

  I sat back in the chair and lifted my feet.

  He swiped at air as he sailed past, his fingers inches from my ankles. He toppled onto the deck and rolled.

  I lifted the lower ascender and stood, pushing the top ascender with me.

  Brad sprinted across the deck and jumped again.

  I sat and lifted my legs in the stirrups. He missed me by two feet. I climbed until I hung twenty feet off the deck, beyond his range.

  I gasped for air and my heart beat as if I had suffered a heart attack. I managed a breath and gazed upward. Sunlight glinted off the communications pod, seventy feet above. I did not intend to go higher. Blood dripped off my foot onto the deck, and my raw hands darkened the ascender. Sweat poured off me, and fatigue wore away my resolve. I had to rest.

  The bosons chair swung side to side. I looked below. Brad held the line in his hands.

  He started to climb.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Brad hauled himself, hand over hand, climbing the taut line toward me. His weight rocked my boson’s chair, and I held on as it whipped back and forth. I had to keep going. I stood, raised the upper ascender, sat in the elevated seat, and pulled the lower ascender after me. I repeated the process and did not look down. I did not rush and moved as fluidly as possible. One mistake and he would catch me.

  “Smooth is fast, smooth is fast,” I repeated.

 
My technique improved, and I raised the seat eight times before I stopped to catch my breath. I peered between my legs. Brad had stopped climbing. He hung from the sheet, twenty feet off the deck. He arched his neck and stared at me. The muscles in his arms twitched with spasms. He lowered himself.

  He lost his grip and fell.

  Brad struck the deck with a snap and lay still on the deck. My head swooned, and I shut my eyes. I had never been suspended in air. Heights terrified me, but I had been too scared to notice until now—my desire to live overcoming my fear.

  Brad groaned.

  I opened my eyes.

  He shook his head, dripping saliva everywhere. He rolled onto his knees, stood, and squealed. Brad collapsed on the deck holding his lower leg. The cracking sound had been his fibula or tibia fracturing. Or both. Brad stood, balanced on one leg, and glared at me. He bit the air. He limped away and disappeared into the cockpit.

  Had my inability to recover from Emma’s death begun a chain of events that led to this nightmare? Was I responsible for Brad’s infection? Had my weakness doomed him? Doomed me? I shook my head. I could not go down that path. Not now. Not ever.

  “This is not my fault,” I screamed.

  I swayed in the seat, sixty feet above sea level. From my perch, I could see eight or nine miles, and I explored the horizon in all directions. No land. No ships. Nothing but ocean. Off the port side, the great white’s dorsal fin broke the surface and cut circles around our yacht. I hung from the mast, trapped above a great white shark and a madman who wanted to kill me.

  What the hell was I going to do now?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO