Furious

by Jeffrey James Higgins

  My tongue swelled in my desiccated mouth and my parched lips cracked. I needed more water, and I wished I had grabbed my bikini top off the deck, because my chest glowed bright red. My entire body stung from sunburn, and fatigue hung on me like a heavy coat. Brad stayed somewhere below, in the shade, probably sleeping in bed while I clung to the mast.

  I hated him.

  That was not fair. He was sick, and the virus had turned him into a monster, but I could not shake the feeling his neurological damage had unleashed a propensity for violence which had already existed. If Brad had been able to control his temper when he had been healthy, maybe the disease would not have presented like this. It had turned him into a flesh-eating monster. A rabid dog. A zombie.

  The air cooled as the sun sank low on the horizon, bringing relief. The sails flapped in gusts of light wind. I had locked the wheel on a westerly course, which was the correct direction, but if the wind blew too hard and I did not make adjustments, we could capsize. Having the sails deployed with an unmanned helm would be catastrophic in a strong breeze.

  I hung from the seat, halfway up the mast. What would I do when the sun set? If I fell asleep, I could fall. I needed to secure myself to the mast, but to do that, I would have to reach the top, ninety feet above the deck. My fingers and toes tingled, just imagining it. If I was going climb up there, I needed to move before dark, because it would be too easy to slip free of the stirrups once the sun set. I lifted the lower ascender and straightened. I moved the upper ascender and climbed higher.

  “Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.” I repeated it like a mantra.

  I locked my eyes on the top of the mast—far, far away. My stomach fluttered and my arms tingled. My fine motors skills grew sluggish and my vision dimmed. This terrified me more than the shark. Well, maybe not. I repeated the process again and again, and the summit drew near.

  Five minutes later, I reached the satellite and communications pods, charred black from the lightning strike. If another thunderstorm hit, I would have to get below. I put my hand on the largest pod and used it for balance. I climbed over it, reached the crest, and wrapped my arms around the mast. I was strapped into the ascender, but I had to secure my upper body to the mast, because if I nodded off, I could topple out of the harness and fall to my death.

  What could I use?

  I untied my bikini bottom and held the mast as I slipped it off. I pulled my body flush with the mast with my left hand and draped the bikini over my arm. I used my right hand and teeth to tie it to the mast. I tugged on it. It would not hold my weight, but it would tighten against my hand if I fell asleep and leaned away from the mast, and that should wake me. In theory.

  I hugged the mast and pressed my cheek against the smooth surface. I wanted to close my eyes, fall asleep, and awaken back on Commonwealth Avenue to discover the past year had been a dream, a horrible nightmare. I craved the safety of my childhood bed but hiding from reality would not help me. Not now.

  I stared at the horizon. A few days ago, I had been terrified pirates would attack us. Now I prayed for thugs to board our yacht. How fast circumstances and perspectives changed. Rays of sun pierced the surface around the yacht, illuminating twenty feet below, like a swimming pool. A dark object swam thirty yards off the port side. It had to be the shark. I followed it with my eyes for a long time, then the sun set and turned the surface opaque, hiding the denizens of the deep.

  Looking at the deck made me dizzy but focusing on the horizon mitigated my fear. A fall would kill me but staring at the horizon tricked my primitive lizard brain. From ninety feet in the air, I could see eleven or twelve miles. Something caught my eye on the southern horizon. What was that? I strained my eyes and leaned forward. A light flickered.

  A sailboat!

  The mast light blinked on the horizon as the sailboat bobbed on swells, then it vanished. The sky became a canvas of colors, and my vision dimmed and blurred in the low light, but I did not take my eyes off the spot where I had seen it. Darkness fell, and I strained to see the sailboat again. I needed the light to be there, needed another person on the ocean with me, needed to know I was not alone.

  My eyelids grew heavy and my body begged for rest. My head jerked once, twice, three times. My eyes shut and I could not open them. My breathing deepened, and I pictured Emma smiling at me. Warmth radiated through me, and my pain disappeared.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  I awoke in a panic and flung my arm into space.

  “Help,” I screamed.

  I jerked in the swing and remembered where I was and what had happened. I clung to the mast and wrapped my feet around the satellite array. My heart raced, as if I had awoken during a skydive.

  Day eight of acute symptoms.

  The sun had risen above the horizon and the wind had strengthened, filling our sails and heeling the yacht a few degrees to starboard. Waves splashed against the hull as our speed increased. We had escaped the doldrums. From the sun’s position, the yacht had drifted during the night and now pointed to the northwest. I oriented myself to find the other sailboat’s light but saw nothing. I scanned 360 degrees of horizon.

  The other sailboat had disappeared.

  Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I balanced on the edge of panic. I tried to calm myself. I had made it this far, and all I had to do was outlive Brad. Once paralysis set in, or he slipped into a coma, I could take control of the helm and make for port. He had broken his leg and would not last much longer. I just had to hold on.

  I peeled my tongue off the roof of my mouth. I needed water and food, and my bladder ached for release. My foot had stopped bleeding, but had swollen like a balloon, and my raw palms burned.

  I untied my bikini bottom from the mast and draped it over my shoulder. I held the mast with my hands, arched my back to tilt the bosun’s seat, and released my bladder. The urine pooled in my seat and leaked over the side, running over my legs, but I did not care. I needed relief. The urine dissipated in the light wind and rained on the deck. Two days ago, peeing off the mast would have been humiliating, degrading. Now, it was a logical step for survival. Circumstances changed perceptions and prioritized needs. I had seen the same phenomenon in the surgical waiting room, but now I understood it.

  I smelled the pungent urine, a sign of dehydration. How much longer could I last without water? I trained my eyes to the south. Where had the sailboat gone? Something drew my attention, and I blinked to focus.

  A faint light flickered on the horizon. My old friend had returned. Maybe it was wishful thinking or my imagination, but the light appeared larger. The light had a greenish hue which could be a visual trick caused by reflections off the surface, but if it was green, it would mean it sat atop the starboard side of the mast. Mast lights on cruisers were green to starboard, red to port, and white from behind. Green would indicate the sailboat headed in a westerly direction, and I could still see the light, which suggested the sailboat charted a parallel course within twelve miles of us.

  I did not know if I could survive without help. Even if the virus incapacitated or killed Brad, I would still have to get to port alone. My sailing skills were novice, and I had no equipment to navigate, not even a compass. I needed to contact the sailboat. But how?

  I could see the distant mast light, because I was high above the surface, but the other crew could not spot us from their deck. If they noticed our radar signature, the normal response would be to give us a wide berth, not close the gap. I had to send an SOS, and with our radio fried, it would have to be a visual signal.

  The flare gun.

  When I toured the yacht in Bali, Brad had mentioned he stored a flare gun in the foresail locker. I cursed myself for not thinking of it when I had hidden in there, but I had be
en trying to escape and not contemplating rescue. The flare gun was my only tool to signal the boat. I had to retrieve it.

  I swiveled in my chair and looked down. My head spun and nausea crept into my throat. I closed my eyes, held onto the mast, and breathed. I opened one eye and peeked again. The deck and cockpit appeared vacant.

  Where was he?

  Was Brad able to walk on his broken leg? Had the virus paralyzed him? Was he dead? Not seeing Brad—not knowing what he was doing—frightened me more than watching him sitting beneath the mast.

  I stretched my arms and legs to get the blood moving again. My foot hurt. I leaned over to touch the bandage and my bikini bottom fell off my shoulder. I reached for it, lost my balance, and grabbed the mast to steady myself. My bikini flapped in the wind and fell over the side and into the ocean. Now, I could not tie myself to the mast. I needed to get the flare gun and signal the other boat, because I may not see another one for days or weeks. Or ever.

  I had to try.

  The process for descent was the reverse of ascending. I transferred my weight off the seat and lowered the device. I sat back, lifted my feet out of the stirrups and lowered them. It took four repetitions before I found my rhythm.

  I stopped twenty feet above the deck and inspected the yacht from bow to stern. I tried to see through the stateroom hatches, but the sky and clouds reflected off the glass. I craned my neck toward the cockpit, but the Bimini top hid half of it from view. Brad could be there, lying in wait, or he could be below, but it did not matter. I had no viable alternative.

  Butterflies fluttered in my belly, but I had faced fear before. I had made it through the loss of my father and the subsequent neglect by my alcoholic mother. Cutting into my first patient had taken incredible courage. I had survived Emma’s death. This voyage had forced me to face my worst fears, and I had survived. I could do this. If Brad was waiting for me, I would fight him. I would not die like a sheep, afraid to fail.

  “I love you, Emma. If I don’t make it, I’ll find you.”

  I grabbed the ascender and lowered myself. I stepped out of the harness and onto the deck. Pain shot from my foot, through my spine, and into my brain. My hamstrings had tightened in the harness, and I had trouble straightening my legs. I took one tentative step. And another.

  I glanced at the cockpit. If Brad rounded the corner now, there was no way I could climb the mast or outrun him. I shuffled across the deck toward the bow without making a noise. I knelt beside the foresail locker and looked aft. Nothing. I lifted the hatch and climbed the ladder. I had to place the heel of my wounded foot on each wrung to avoid popping the stitches. I paused halfway and closed the hatch behind me.

  I dropped to the floor and moved to a cabinet. I removed a bottle of Evian and drank it all. I downed a second bottle. And a third. My stomach bulged under the strain and the liquid flowed through me, rejuvenating my body and restoring my strength. I opened a storage compartment and dug through the supplies. I found a white tee shirt with the yacht’s name, “KARNA,” printed in gold on the front. I slipped it on, and it hung mid-thigh and melted away my goose bumps. I delved farther into the container and located a Swiss army knife. I clipped it to my shirt.

  In the far corner of the compartment I discovered a black box, made from heavy plastic. I set it on the bed and popped it open. The flare gun rested inside. It had a French name and looked like a revolver with an oversized barrel. I drew the heavy gun, pressed a lever, and snapped the barrel open at the breach. Three flares wrapped in plastic were wedged inside the box. I ripped one open, and inspected the flare, which resembled a shotgun shell, only wider and longer. I slipped the flare and gun back into the box.

  I could not carry the gun and use the ascenders at the same time. I searched the cabin for line or a strap but found nothing. I thought for a moment then pulled the sheet off the bunk. I cut it with the knife and tore off a long strip of fabric. I looped the strip through the case handles and tied it over my shoulder like a bandolier. I removed the last two bottles from the refrigerator, drinking one and saving the other for later. It would get hot during the day. I rummaged through the cabin, careful not to make noise, but found nothing else.

  Time to go.

  I climbed the ladder, cracked the hatch, and peeked over the brink. Brad stood on the starboard side of the cockpit staring at the mast. He knew I had come down.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  I slipped down the ladder and backed away from the hatch. The other sailboat could disappear from view at any moment, and every second I waited could mean losing my chance. Besides, there were only a few places to hide on a yacht, and even Brad’s damaged brain would eventually consider checking the foresail locker. I had to ascend the mast, but I would never make it with him standing there.

  The thought of leaving the compartment weakened my knees, and I leaned against the bulkhead for support. I pictured Emma’s face. I had faced my darkest days and come so far. I could do this.

  I had an idea.

  I opened the storage compartment again and searched for something heavy and easy to handle. I found a fishing rod holder under the bed and hefted it in my hand. It was the right weight, but too long. There was nothing else. I squeezed the bottle in my hand. I would want it later, but if I never made it up the mast, water would not matter. I had to use it.

  I climbed the ladder and looked through the plexiglass. I could not see Brad. I unlocked the latch and raised it a few inches. Brad stood near the mast facing the bosun's seat with his head cocked. He turned and looked at the cockpit, trying to solve the problem. I had to hurry before he figured it out.

  I raised the hatch, praying he would not turn around, and eased my upper body through the opening. I twisted my torso, cocked my arm, and threw the bottle high into the air with all my strength. It sailed over the Bimini top and landed with a clunk near the helm. Brad whipped his head toward the sound. Had he seen the bottle? He limped aft, the bones in his leg crunching under his weight. The sound sickened me.

  I climbed through the hatch as he loped toward the cockpit. If he turned, he would have me. I tiptoed, trying to be quiet, and the bloody bandage squished between my toes. Flames radiated through my leg, and I grit my teeth.

  A wave smacked into the bow and the deck swayed and pitched. I lost my balance and fell hard on my side, sprawling on the deck. I twisted and glanced at the stern. Brad had fallen too. He hung across the safety lines, facing away from me then stood and swatted the lines with an open hand.

  I clambered to my feet and hobbled to the mast. I slipped into the harnesses and tightened the belt around my waist. I watched Brad stumble into the cockpit. He tilted his head toward the sky and snarled. I raised the ascender, sat in the seat and stood in the stirrups. I elevated the seat and repeated the process, faster than before. The gun case banged against my hip, each time I stood.

  “Yaaa,” Brad yelled.

  I looked over my shoulder, and he glowered at me from the stern. He raised his hands over his head and curled his fingers. He snarled and climbed onto the deck.

  I hung only ten feet in the air. I turned away from him and focused on speed. Raise ascender . . . sit . . . raise stirrups . . . stand. Brad trudged across the deck toward me, thumping his leg as he moved. The noise grew louder, closer.

  He neared, but I did not turn to check. Any wasted motion would slow me.

  “Aargh,” Brad screamed below me.

  I looked down. Brad jumped and slapped the line with his hands, missing me by inches. The chair swung in the air, and I clung to the harness to avoid falling. He crashed to the deck and screamed in pain. I continued to climb.

  I reached the top and rested.

  That had been close. My life had come within seconds of ending, an
d now that the danger had passed, my hands shook. I hugged the mast to steady myself. Cumulus clouds crawled across the blue sky. I breathed in the salty air, fresh and thick. The yacht bobbed in the ocean as the wind blew harder and the sea surged. The mast swayed, exacerbated by my weight. I had almost died, but I survived. My body tingled with exhilaration, stronger than ever before. Fighting for my life and using my wits against my enemy, against nature, had empowered me. I had turned my mind into a weapon and won—not the war, but a minor battle.

  Hope existed.

  I leaned back in the seat, which dangled as high as before, but this time, I felt safer, more secure. I examined the horizon to the southwest. It took a minute, but I caught flickering sunlight reflected off the other boat’s mast. I had three flares. A flare may not be visible during daylight, but if I waited until night and the sailboat disappeared, I would regret missing my chance.

  I swung the case under my arm, rested it against my waist, and hooked the mast with my feet. I would not drop the flare gun after I had almost died retrieving it. I drew the gun, opened the breach, and set it inside the case. I pulled a flare from the opened package and loaded it into the gun. I snapped the breach closed and held the gun in my hand.

  The wind carried Brad’s high-pitched screams to my ears. He balanced on his injured leg and swatted the mast with his hand, sending vibrations into my legs. I ignored him and swiveled in my seat to face the distant light.

  I raised the flare gun over my head. I had never fired any kind of firearm before, and my heart raced, either from fear of the gun or the possibility my signal would go unnoticed.

  I inhaled, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The metal dug into my raw finger, but the gun did not fire. Hunger and dehydration had weakened my grip, and I could not pull the trigger all the way back. I wrapped my left hand over my right and used two fingers. The trigger inched back.

  The hammer snapped forward, and the gun exploded. A red flare rocketed from the barrel, high into the air at the tip of a fiery red tail. The flare rose higher and higher. It exploded in a starburst, a thousand phosphorous fragments burning through the sky—the Fourth of July in the Indian Ocean.