Furious

  My swollen foot throbbed with undulating waves of pain. I eased my weight onto it, as if I stood on a partially deflated balloon. I slipped out of the harness and scanned the deck, expecting Brad to emerge from below and finish me.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice soft, tentative.

  I moved along the gunwale, sidestepping around the sail, which flapped over the deck like a wounded bird. I walked to the edge of the cockpit, leaned over, and peeked inside. Nothing. I looked back at the other sailboat. It appeared abandoned.

  The great white’s fin cut through the water between the yacht and the other sailboat. I shivered. Where was Brad? Where was the other crew? Gooseflesh covered my arms. My lips trembled.

  This feels wrong.

  I knelt on the deck and pressed my face against the small cabin windows. The interior was dark, and I could not see though the tint. I walked to the stern and peeked around the helm. The companionway was open.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  I rounded the steering wheel and stepped into the cockpit. I saw nothing in the darkness below. I glanced back at the sailboat. It bobbed silently, like a ghost ship.

  “Ahoy on the Sun Odyssey,” I yelled.

  No response.

  I took a step. My hair rose on my neck. I took another. My hands shook. I moved to the stairs, bent at my waist, and looked into the salon.

  Empty.

  I held the handrails and stepped onto the stairs. What else could I do? I had to find the other crew. Maybe Brad was dead. I hesitated on the top step. My entire body trembled.

  “Brad? Are you in there? Please answer me.”

  The ocean lapped against the hull. The sail fluttered. I took another step. I looked right and left. Shadows veiled the stern berths. My bloody footprints had dried and turned a rusty brown. I climbed below. I held my breath and listened. A faint cracking sound came from somewhere below.

  “Brad?”

  Had he succumbed to the virus? After ten days of acute symptoms, he must be near the end. I moved to my left and peeked into the port berth. Empty. I checked the starboard berth, which was empty too. The broken door lay on the floor.

  Another noise came from the stateroom.

  What is that?

  I glanced at the companionway, my every instinct urging me to flee, but where would I go? I turned and faced the bow. I limped forward, past the salon and galley. I stepped into the corridor outside the stateroom. The door hung open a few inches.

  A wet slurping sound emanated from the room. Someone was in there. Was Brad snoring? I pushed the door halfway open, rested my palm on the doorjamb, and leaned into the opening.

  An older man lay on his back, sideways across the bed, with his hands and legs dangling over the edges. His face had contorted into a mask of horror, and his dead, unblinking eyes stared at me. Brad hunched over him like an animal. The man’s stomach splayed open and two broken ribs stuck out at odd angles. Blood soaked the bed and dripped off the saturated sheets onto the deck. Crimson liquid rolled across the floor, sloshing against the bulkheads and splashing the walls. The room stank of feces, blood, and death.

  Brad dug his hands inside the man’s abdomen and yanked a long string of intestines from the cavity—gray and slippery, like uncooked sausages. He jammed them into his mouth and bit into them. Blood squirted over his chest. He jerked his head, ripping a chunk off, and chewed it. He gnawed and slurped as the entrails slid out of his mouth.

  “Nooo,” a groan escaped my lips.

  Brad jerked his head up and glared at me with yellow eyes—wild, inhuman. The intestines squeezed through his fingers. He growled and bared his teeth in a demonic smile.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  I yanked my head out of the stateroom and slammed the door shut. My mind went black. I fled, driven by instinct. My legs moved by themselves and carried me through the salon. I reached the companionway and grabbed the rails.

  Something thumped behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder. Brad stood in the salon, drenched in the sailor’s blood. Six feet of intestines dangled from his hands and trailed on the deck behind him. His eyes bore into mine and he bared his teeth. A flap of torn villus hung from the corner of his mouth. He moved toward me, dragging his broken leg behind him.

  I turned and bounded up the steps, pain radiating from my lacerated foot. I shuffled through the cockpit to the starboard side and paused.

  Where could I go?

  The sailor—my savior—was dead. His sailboat drifted thirty yards behind us. I grabbed the lifelines between stanchions. I needed to get on his boat, but did I even remember how to swim?

  The stairs creaked under Brad’s weight.

  I had to jump. I bent my knees and coiled my body, ready to leap over the side. My hands shook, almost out of control. My legs had gone numb, as if they belonged to someone else.

  The dorsal fin passed five yards in front of me. If I jumped now, the great white would eat me alive.

  Brad took another step and growled.

  I sprinted for the mast.

  I climbed onto the cabin top, took a step, and slipped on my bloody bandage. I crashed hard onto the deck and skinned my knee. Brad’s head appeared in the cockpit. He whirled around and his eyes found me. I regained my footing and stepped into the harness. I did not stop to tighten it. I raised the top ascender and sat into the chair.

  Brad rounded the corner and moved along the gunwale, toward me. He dragged his leg behind him like a piece of luggage. His broken leg slowed him, but his body radiated intensity. If he got his hands on me, it was over.

  I raised the lower ascender and mounted the stirrups. I stood and lifted the top ascender in one motion. I sat in the seat and glanced at Brad. He was halfway to me and I dangled only four feet off the deck. I would not make it—not even close. He would grab me, pull me from the harness, and kill me. I needed an alternative plan.

  I slipped out of the bosun’s chair and dropped to the deck.

  Brad slung the intestines to deck, growled, and flashed his teeth. I smelled the decay on him. He clambered onto the cabin top.

  What now? I took a step backwards, tripped over an object, and landed hard on my side. The flare gun case lay beside my foot. I grabbed it and ran toward the bow, my nerve endings screaming with pain.

  Brad twisted his body and swung his arms as he dragged his broken leg. He stepped with a thump, stopped, and pulled his leg behind him, scraping it across the deck. He continued toward me. Thump . . . scrape . . . thump.

  I reached the bow and turned.

  He pursued me across the deck. Thump . . . scrape . . . thump.

  My fingers fumbled over the latches. I snapped the case open and removed the flare gun. One flare left.

  Thump . . . scrape . . . thump. Fifteen feet away.

  I tried to rip the plastic package around the flare, but my sweaty hands slipped off it.

  Thump . . . scrape . . . thump. Ten feet.

  I stuck it in my mouth and ripped it open. I removed the flare.

  Thump . . . scrape . . . thump. Brad was right in front of me.

  I dodged to the side away from his reach. I grabbed a stanchion and climbed onto the bowsprit. I balanced on the four-foot-long and one-foot-wide piece of metal, which pointed off the bow like a gangplank.

  Thump . . . scrape . . . thump. Brad made it to the edge.

  I wobbled on the slippery surface and looked through a slit at the anchor hanging below. The shark’s fin sliced past, twenty yards to port.

  The yacht rocked in the surge and Brad hesitated before stepping onto
the bowsprit.

  I snapped open the breach and turned the flare in my hand to insert it into the barrel. The bow bounced over a swell, and I lost my balance. I flailed my arms, trying not to fall, and dropped the flare. It clanked against the bowsprit. I moved my weight forward over my knees and regained my footing.

  The yacht pitched over another wave, and the flare rolled to the edge. I leaned forward and reached for it. The flare bounced off the bowsprit and slipped over the lip. I lunged and caught it in the air.

  I sat on the bowsprit, with my feet dangling over the edge.

  Brad growled and crawled forward, dragging his leg behind him.

  I slid the flare into the gun and slammed the breach shut. Brad reached for my throat.

  I pointed the gun at his chest and pulled the trigger.

  The flare fired out of the barrel with a whoosh. A white trail of smoke obscured the space between us. Brad’s chest lit up with a bright red flame. He screamed and bolted upright, then scampered onto the deck clutching his chest. His shirt burst into flames with white phosphorus burning hot and bright. He stumbled backward, swatting at it.

  He met my eyes, his face a mask of pain and rage. He snarled and took a step toward me.

  The flare exploded with the secondary burst and red tracers flew out of him.

  My leg burned, and I swatted at a flaming tracer embedded in my thigh. I dug at it with my fingernails, burning myself. It popped free, fell, and sizzled on the surface below.

  Brad ran screaming across the deck, with the flare stuck in his skin, and the deck smoking in his wake. He ran aft and disappeared into the cockpit. He screamed and banged around below.

  A loud whoosh erupted above me as the main sail burst into flames from the tracers. Fire crawled up the sail, burning and melting the Dacron. Black smoke billowed high into the air. A wide sheet of fabric, alive with flame, broke off and curled in the air. I ducked as it floated over me and drifted off to sea. Dark ash fluttered down and smoldered on the deck. Flames caught in a dozen places, and the fire spread.

  I tossed the empty flare gun into the ocean and held the bowsprit with both hands. I moved my good foot behind me and hooked the metal. I knelt on one knee and walked my hands in toward my body to stand up. The bow pitched over a wave and the yacht canted to port. The weight of my upper body extended over the bowsprit.

  I fell.

  I hooked my arms around the bowsprit, and my legs dangled beneath me. Blood dripped off my toes. I looked left and right, but the shark was not in view. The metal dug into my arms. I tried to pull myself up, but I did not have the upper body strength left. Blood formed on the surface below me. I took a breath to compose myself.

  Mind over matter—think it through.

  I was not strong enough to climb up, but I could use my body weight to help. I twisted my torso and swung my legs beneath me, like a pendulum, reaching higher each time. At the apex of the arc I slung my left leg over the bowsprit and used my momentum to pull my body on top. I righted myself and tucked my knee underneath me.

  I waited until the yacht lifted over a crest and plummeted into the trough. I put my weight on my knee and stood. The yacht climbed the next swell. I took two quick steps forward, grabbed the lifelines, and tumbled onto the deck.

  I ran toward the stern. I slipped on a wet pile of the sailor’s intestines and grabbed the lifeline to stop myself from toppling overboard. The shark swam close to the yacht, probably drawn by my blood. Smoke wafted across the deck.

  I had to get to the Odyssey. The Karna’s owner had stored the emergency life raft under the port berth. I limped through the cockpit, but the cabin was ablaze and acrid smoke poured out of the companionway like a chimney. I climbed onto the top step, choking on the heavy chemical smell. Brad banged around somewhere behind the smoke, screaming like a madman. Even if I could get to the berth without burning myself or being attacked, I could never drag a heavy life raft up the companionway alone.

  I stepped into the fresh air. The deck burned in a dozen places. The sunscreen on the Bimini top burst into flames. I retreated to the stern. The Odyssey had drifted forty yards behind us.

  What could I do?

  I leaned against a stanchion and watched the shark swim past, making slow circles around the yacht. My eyes drifted to the transom beneath me. The rigid hull inflatable motorboat was in the tender garage. I could lower the dry dock, push the inflatable across it, and motor to the Odyssey. I had to hurry before Brad emerged from below or the fire consumed me.

  I turned to the helm to lower the transom and open the dock, but the digital screen was black. The lightning had fried the electrical system, and I could not manually open the garage.

  The deck below me warmed as both berths burned. Black smoke poured from below, and Brad’s screams resonated out of the stateroom. A wisp of flame licked the cabin top around the companionway. I stepped onto the deck, now hot to the touch. The yacht groaned and something exploded in the galley. When the flames hit the fuel tanks, the yacht would disintegrate.

  The fuel!

  I could turn the engine on, motor close to the Odyssey, and leap onto its deck. I jumped back into the cockpit and reached for the ignition.

  Brad had taken the key.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  I had to swim to the Odyssey. There was no other way. The fuel tank could ignite at any time and blow the yacht into a million pieces. Even if the fuel did not explode, the fire would breach the hull and sink the yacht, and then the shark would have me. Unless I burned to death first. I did not have much time.

  At least I had a chance in the water. My God, the water. The image of my father’s pale, still body flashed in my mind. The Odyssey drifted fifty yards away. Could I swim that far? I was fatigued more than I had been after childbirth, but I had to try. I would not die here, afraid to act.

  I climbed onto the deck and stepped over the lifelines. I balanced on my toes, ready to jump. Where was the shark? My foot slipped on the gunwale and I held the lifeline for support. Blood dripped down the hull. My foot bled, worse than before. The blood would attract the great white and draw it to me like a trail of breadcrumbs. I had to distract it and buy time to swim to the Odyssey. I looked at the yacht and my gaze fell upon the pile of intestines.

  It has to work.

  I climbed back over the lifelines and ran forward, I knelt, held my breath, and scooped the intestines into my arms. They squished and unraveled as I gathered them against my chest. The stench of death enveloped me. The intestines slid through my hands, like slithering snakes. Blood soaked my shirt.

  I stepped gingerly across the wet deck to the port side. I leaned over the side and heaved the intestines into the air. They hit the surface with a sickening flop and blood and bile spread across the surface. A demonic chum. Seawater seeped into them and they started to sink. No sign of the shark.

  I reached between the safety lines and slapped my palm against the hull to lure the great white. Still no shark. I balled my hand into a fist and banged with all my strength against the side of the boat.

  The shark burst out of the water beneath the intestines, filling its mouth with the sailor’s remains. Its jaws gnawed on the meat as its nose soared high into the air. It hung there for a moment, intestines dangling from its mouth, then plunged beneath the white foam. The impact splashed cool water over the gunwale, drenching me.

  It had attacked from below—without warning.

  Blood dripped off me onto the deck and ran over the gunwale. It was now or never. I jumped into the cockpit, grabbed a cushion off the couch, and hurled it over the transom.

  I climbed over the lifelines, hesitated, and then ripped off the bloody tee shirt. I wadded it into a ball and thr
ew it over the port side near the stew of intestines. I gazed into the black, bottomless abyss below me.

  I jumped.

  The water hit me like a slap in the face. Cool water tingled my legs below the surface. I kicked my feet and scooped my hands trying to doggy paddle. I flailed, barely keeping my head above the surface. The shock from the temperature change snapped me out of my panic and focused my mind. I had committed and there was nothing left to do but swim.

  I swept my arms through the water toward the cushion. I reached it in two strokes and pulled it under my chest. It kept me afloat and subdued my fear. The Odyssey was almost fifty-five yards away. I aimed for the stern which was low enough for me to climb on board—if I made it.

  I balanced on the cushion and kicked, trying to keep my knees locked as my father had taught me. I paddled with my arms, reaching in front of me.

  Forty-five yards.

  I focused on the sailboat and did not look back. There was no point. The Odyssey drifted away from me, but I gained on it.

  Forty yards.

  The cushion maintained its buoyancy, no doubt designed to serve as a flotation device, and it compensated for my lack of form. I chose not to think about how much my arms thrashing on either side of the cushion resembled a seal from below. I skimmed across the surface, driven by terror.

  Thirty yards.

  Something splashed beside me and my heart leapt. Another splash and then another. Small, gray fish jumped out of the water. Scared fish. Fish running from a predator below—something big.

  Twenty yards.

  The fish flew around me, into me, bouncing against my body. Terror drove them into the air as the great white neared.

  Ten yards—so close.

  “I love you, Emma,” I shouted.

  Fish swirled in a jumble of fear. They bounced off the stern and around the boat. I kicked as hard as I could, but I needed to be faster. I sensed it beneath me.

  I dove off the cushion and swam for the boat.