Furious

by Jeffrey James Higgins

  My eyes followed the flare as it plummeted and disappeared into the brine, leaving a trail of white smoke behind. I searched for the green light but saw nothing. I waited for a full minute. And another. My eyes burned and my throat tightened. A tear ran down my cheek.

  The ship had vanished.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The afternoon sun burned my skin, turning it cherry red. I hung in the seat with the gun case secured against my hip. Brad had paced the deck for hours after I fired the flare, incensed by either the explosion or my escape. Maybe the rabies made him sensitive to loud noises, but his own incessant shrieking did not seem to bother him. For me, it was another story. His manic growling tore at my nerves and chilled my bones.

  He wanted to tear the flesh from my body.

  Brad stayed on the deck and monitored me. He did not appear to have anything human left inside him, but he knew enough not to leave me alone again. His primitive brain recognized he had cornered me, treed his prey. He knew I had to come down, and when I did, he would slaughter me.

  He bared his teeth like a grizzly and scratched his nails across the deck.

  I looked away. I pulled my tee shirt off and fashioned a turban to shade my eyes from the sun. My tongue swelled, but I continued to sweat—a positive sign—because once I stopped perspiring, heat exhaustion came next, followed by heatstroke and death. My stomach rumbled from hunger. I had not eaten in days and my strength waned.

  The halyards clanked rhythmically against the mast, calming me, and I drifted at the edge of sleep, fighting to stay awake. I could not lash myself to the mast, unless I untied the gun case and used the strip of bed sheet, but I would risk losing the flare gun. I forced myself awake.

  My thoughts drifted to Eric. Shy Eric. Kind Eric. Brilliant Eric. He exuded an inner peace, a quality Brad pretended to have, but never did.

  I had doubted Brad’s suitability from the beginning, but once I had married him, I committed. I never cheated on him, never flirted, never entertained romantic thoughts about another man. Loyalty meant everything to me, but somehow, Brad’s raging below—waiting to kill me—had freed my mind to think about Eric and an alternate future. If I made it through this, I would tell Eric what his friendship meant to me. The fantasy kept me going.

  I spotted the sailboat again, catching glimpses of its mast in the distance, at least ten miles away. If I saw it after dark, I would try another flare. Either it would work, or it would not.

  My life depended on the outcome.

  Far to the east, the horizon darkened with clouds. Another storm. How strong would the winds be and how violent? The rain squall seemed distant, but if it hit us, we would be in trouble. I could not deploy the sea anchor or steer, and our chance of capsizing would become all too real.

  The sun took a lifetime to reach the horizon; a lifetime of sizzling flesh; a lifetime of thirst; a lifetime listening to Brad below. Furious Brad. Rabid Brad. I could not think of him as my husband anymore. He had morphed into a devil, a demon from my nightmares. The sun touched the horizon and spread out, shimmering at the edges of the earth. It melted into the ocean and the sky changed from pewter to black.

  I slid the case onto my lap, opened it, and loaded another flare. Two shots left. I aimed the gun toward the distant mast light and pulled the trigger. The flare rode high into the sky and burst like another sun, much brighter than before. I allowed myself to hope.

  I stared at the green mast light flickering in the distance as the sailboat bobbed on the rising swells. The ocean heaved, like the chest of a giant beast. The wind died. Brad watched me from the deck below.

  I waited.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Day nine.

  I leaned my face against the mast, hovering between consciousness and sleep. I thought of Emma and my daydreams took on a life of their own. My head bobbed, and I forced myself awake. The sky turned steel blue signaling the approach of sunrise. I shook my head. The sail had filled, and the yacht pitched as it cut through the waves. I estimated we heeled fifteen degrees to starboard, and if the winds shifted any more, I would need to ease the boom out or turn the boat away from the wind. An unmanned sailboat was doomed.

  The sun cracked the horizon and turned the water to golden honey. I raised my hands over my head and stretched my aching body. The sky had cleared to the east, so the storm had missed us. I twisted my torso to crack my back and froze. The other sailboat looked closer. Was the boat heading toward us? I rubbed my eyes and checked again. I detected the thin dark line of the hull and the red and green lights on the mast. It was not my imagination. The sailboat had turned toward us and closed the distance.

  The crew must have seen my distress flare. The sailboat looked to be approximately ten miles away, and the wind had strengthened, blowing out of the east and propelling us forward at a minimum of five or six knots. We could go faster if we trimmed the sails and jibbed away from the wind, but since we failed to maximize our sails, the other boat should cruise faster than us. If their crew managed to milk a few more knots out of the wind, they could close the gap, assuming they took the right angle to intercept. However, the perfect angle was unlikely to be an ideal angle to the wind, which would slow them. I also did not know what kind of boat they had, or if they faced stronger currents or rougher seas, or how proficient they were at sailing. Many variables would determine their speed, but I estimated they would reach us during the night.

  My head spun, my stomach ached from hunger, and pain radiated through my temples. Either dehydration caused my symptoms, or I was infected with rabies. I shook the notion away. Some things were out of my control.

  Would I be conscious when help arrived? I needed to warn the other crew about the rabid nightmare lurking below. If I could slow our yacht, they would overtake us sooner. I could deploy the sea anchor, but I had stowed it after the storm. The most obvious solution was to furl the sails or turn into the wind, but I needed to be in the helm to do either of those maneuvers.

  I looked over the bosun’s chair at Brad sitting on the deck below. He raised his head and met my stare. I would never make it to the helm alive.

  “Hey Brad, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I want a fucking divorce.”

  He cocked his head and bared his teeth.

  I watched the other boat. The sea was a dangerous place and thousands of years of sailing had created a culture where mariners helped others in distress, and with or without legal compulsion, most captains rushed to the aid of sailors in need. That had to be why the other boat had changed course. The crew must have found it odd we had fired a distress flare, but kept our sails raised and continued away from them. What if they decided we were not in trouble? What if they changed course and left us alone? I had to lower our sails to slow us or risk the other crew abandoning their rescue effort.

  The luff edge of the mainsail clipped to the halyard with shackles, which were enclosed along a metal track inside the aft portion of the mast. I could squint and see them in there, but I could not reach them. The yacht’s enormous sails were meant to be controlled from the helm, not by a novice swinging off the mast like a monkey.

  I leaned away and examined the sail. My goal was to drop the sail, so I did not have to furl it like I would under normal circumstances. I only needed it to lose the wind. I unclipped the Swiss army knife from my tee shirt and ran my hand across the mainsail. It was constructed from heavy cloth, probably Dacron or some other man-made fiber, and covered with laminate.

  I opened the largest blade and pressed it against the sail, but the knife would not penetrate it. I stood in the stirrups and grabbed the head of the sail. I pulled the luff edge as taut as I could. The fabric wiggled in my hand as the wind tugged it. I swiveled the knife in my hand, angled the bl
ade down, and raised it over my head.

  I stabbed the sail, and the knife punctured the fabric with a pop.

  I changed my grip and yanked the knife downward, but it was not sharp enough to cut the cloth. I closed the blade and fingered through the other tools. I opened a small saw with jagged teeth, inserted it into the hole, and sawed until it chewed through the sail.

  Sweat beaded on my skin, rolled off my forehead, and burned my eyes. I cut a three-foot incision. Wind blew through the opening, pulling the sail and making it easier to saw. I lowered my bosun's chair a few more feet and continued to slice away. The sail fluttered as wind poured through the opening between the sail and the mast. I kept going, and the sail flapped wildly, slapping and stinging my arms.

  I lowered the chair and cut for thirty more feet. The sail flapped out of control, striking me when I leaned too close. The wind slipped off the torn edge and slowed the yacht and decreased the angle of heel.

  The hole in the sail reached a tipping point, and when the wind tugged at it, the weight of the fabric ripped on its own. I clipped the knife onto my shirt and swung the boson’s chair forward, away from the snapping fabric. The wind completed my work and tore the edge of the mainsail all the way to the boom.

  The sail billowed across the deck, causing the yacht to flounder and rock side to side. I had slowed our momentum to one or two knots, and from a distance, our damaged sail would be visible. If the other boat came within sight, they would know we were in trouble, but if they abandoned the pursuit, I had destroyed my best option for navigating to port.

  Exhausted, I leaned against the mast and waited. Movement caught my eye. A dorsal fin appeared fifty yards of the port side. The shark had returned, if it had ever left. It swam around the boat in a lazy circle, then submerged into the depths.

  Minutes turned into hours and the day slipped away. I dreamed about water, not the ocean, but large glasses of cold beverages—lemonade, apple juice, iced coffee—anything to hydrate. My lips cracked and bled in the sun. I licked them and my mouth filled with the taste of iron. My skin burned wherever it was not covered by the tee shirt. I wanted to vomit, a sign of heat exhaustion.

  Brad waited below. He did not move out of the sun. He did not go to the bathroom. He sat and watched. Every few minutes he growled and pounded his hands on the deck. Once, he flopped around like he was having a seizure. Even from atop the mast I could see his skin had burned and blistered, but he did not appear to care. His sole focus was me. He wanted to catch me, hurt me . . . murder me. He was an animal on the hunt.

  I hoped he would die soon.

  What would I do with Brad when he passed away? His rabies-riddled body posed a biohazard, and heat would hasten his decomposition. It was a morbid thought, but I had been around enough cadavers to know what would happen. His body would bloat, burst, and liquefy. The smell would become unbearable and it would turn the yacht into an unlivable environment in two days. I would have to drag him over the side, but if he died below deck, I would not have the strength to carry him upstairs. If I got him into the water, the great white would eat him and draw more predators to the yacht. Would I be able to feed the body of my deceased husband to the sharks?

  I shuddered. How would I explain that to the police? To his parents?

  The waiting drove me to madness.

  “What’s happening to me?” Brad said.

  I twisted in my seat and looked at him. Was he speaking to me? Those were the first coherent words he had uttered in days.

  “Brad?”

  “What is this?” he said.

  “Brad, do you understand me?”

  “Stay away from me, Dags. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  I could not believe he was talking again. Was he beating the rabies?

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Aargh,” he yelled, and snapped his teeth at me.

  Eric had said some patients experienced periods of lucidity near the end. What an evil virus. Brad must be in hell. I averted my eyes.

  The sun beat on my face.

  I stopped myself from staring at the other sailboat and trying to estimate when it would arrive. I checked hourly to see if my salvation drew near or if it had changed course and abandoned me for dead. My stomach tightened before I would look and then I would see it—larger, closer, coming to save me. By nightfall, I estimated it was two or three miles away. It would reach us before dawn.

  What would happen when it did? The sailboat was coming to help because the crew had seen the distress flare, and I had a duty to warn them about Brad. He was violent and highly contagious, and if he bit someone, he would infect them. They would never hear me yelling over the wind and waves, so how could I signal the boat to tell them I had a rabid lunatic onboard? I could flap my arms and point—like a horrific game of charades—a game where the losers died.

  I inspected the lights on the masthead. I could use them to signal, but the only Morse code I knew was SOS. It had been in the sailing book I had read on the plane. Dot, dot, dot—dash, dash, dash—dot, dot, dot. Simple enough to remember.

  I held my hand over the red light for two seconds then removed it. I covered it two more times, followed by three long exposures, then three short ones. I repeated the sequence again and again. If anyone was watching, they should recognize the international distress code.

  I held onto the mast and rested. Even the slightest physical exertion tired me. I untied the sheet from the gun case and used it to lash myself to the mast to avoid falling to my death hours before help arrived. I balanced the flare gun in my lap. I needed to get fuel into my body soon. I imagined a large plate of spaghetti Bolognese, the tomato sauce dripping over angel hair pasta, shredded parmesan cheese melted on top, and a piece of buttered garlic bread beside it. A hunger pang tweaked my gut.

  I closed my eyes, leaned against the pole, and dreamed about food.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The bed sheet tugged at my wrist where I had tied it to the mast, and I jarred awake, not knowing where I was or what was happening. Lack of nutrients, dehydration, and physical exertion had exhausted me, and I must have passed out. I untied my hand and shook it to get the blood flowing. I reached in my lap for the flare gun, but it had fallen during the night. I saw the case lying on the deck, but no sign of Brad.

  The sun rose over the horizon, turning the sky orange. Day ten of acute symptoms. My nightmare would end soon—one way or the other. I searched the horizon for the other sailboat but did not see it. Had it turned in the night?

  I heard something faint, something new, and I cocked my ear to the wind. The low, throaty rumble of an engine in neutral chugged nearby. I rotated the bosun’s chair and stared aft. The other sailboat floated ten yards off our starboard side. Its sails were furled, and it bobbed on the ocean swells. My chest filled.

  When had it arrived? I had lost consciousness before dawn, so the boat could not have been there for long. If they had tried to hail me, I had not heard them. No one was visible onboard the forty-foot sailboat. “Sun Odyssey 419” adorned the white hull, under the beige gunwale. I did not see the crew. Or Brad.

  “Hey,” I shouted, but only a squeak came out.

  My throat parched. I smacked my lips and tried to salivate but could not.

  “Help, help, help,” I yelled.

  I stared at the boat’s empty deck. No one responded. They could not hear me. I unclipped my knife from my shirt and banged it against the mast. I sent the SOS code. Clang, clang, clang—clang . . . clang . . . clang—clang, clang, clang.

  Nothing.

  “I’m up here. Somebody, help me.”

  No response.

  My chest ached, and I cried a
tearless sob. I had entered the recurrent dream I had as a child where I tried to call my mother but could not utter a sound. Salvation lay within sight, but I could not yell loud enough for anyone to hear. I banged the knife on the mast again and the clanging echoed through the air.

  Why could no one hear me?

  I scanned our yacht, but the sail obscured the cockpit. Had Brad gone below?

  The sun glinted off something, fifty yards to port. I shaded my eyes and recognized the profile of a white dinghy—unoccupied. It must be the Sun Odyssey’s lifeboat. It bobbed on the surface, drifting away, and trailing a line in the water. Why was their dinghy floating away?

  I turned back to the Odyssey.

  “Help me.”

  The wind carried my voice over the bow and across the ocean. The crew must have seen me hanging from the mast. Were they below deck? What the hell was going on?

  My frustration gave way to anger. I had to get off the mast and find them, warn them about Brad. If he was still alive.

  I lowered myself down the line toward the deck. The sail ruffled in the early morning breeze and I pushed off the mast with my feet to avoid it. Our yacht drifted away from the other boat as we rolled over long swells. I hesitated ten feet above the deck. I did not see anyone. Something was wrong.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  No answer.

  “Brad?”

  Nothing.

  I scanned the deck a final time. This was it. All of my efforts had gone toward signaling the sailboat, my last hope for survival. Now it had arrived, and I needed to get help.

  I lowered myself to the deck.