Adrift

by Travis Smith

  “Paulie, go get that tittering twit now!”

  John held his breath as the man raced past him, none the wiser to his existence, and waited for an opportunity to chase after The Stranger himself.

  “Bee-sting, yer comin’ wiv me. Get up!”

  9

  John made haste as soon as Paulie the pirate was clear of his position. The captain and Bee-sting were tearing through the underbrush as heedlessly and noisily as a squirrel running from a predator. Their crashing and hollering made it impossible for John to discern where exactly The Stranger had gone.

  “Damn!” he cursed under his breath. The night was already too dark to track the man, and he still had no idea where Maria and Robert had gotten off to. He turned back and looked toward Paulie and the strange beast-man that had run off into the jungle. Torn, he looked from the direction The Stranger had gone to the direction he knew the pirates’ ship to be docked.

  “Oh, Maria,” he groaned, “please be well.” He hoped the two of them wouldn’t unwittingly run into one of these small groups and be caught off guard. He had warned them of the perils ahead, and they should be alert enough to watch for danger, especially at night.

  Making up his mind at last, John set off toward the ship. He found his camp hidden in the trees with the ship in sight, and he decided to stop and rest for the remainder of the evening. If the men came scurrying by with The Stranger recaptured, he would certainly hear them.

  He tried to sleep, but it came agonizingly. What if Maria and Robert were hurt or captured while he sat here resting? He had promised Eugene that he would help The Stranger, and here he was hiding uselessly amidst the trees. He could scour the island all night and all of the following day and never encounter anyone. It was much larger than it seemed. Surely lying in wait here was the right thing to do. No matter what happened, those men would have to come back for their craft, and John would be waiting when they did.

  By midday on the following day, John had heard not a peep from the jungles behind him, and he’d seen no one come meandering down the beach. He’d slept, but only for moments. He thought it highly unlikely that he’d missed anything during that time.

  He soon became restless, however, and he could abide inaction no longer. He secured his sword to his waist and set off along the beach toward the docked boat.

  “Hey, ho!” he called to a lone lookout that was pacing along the shore.

  The man stopped in his tracks and stared at John in stupid silence.

  “I, uh—” John began. “I handed off the prisoner some time ago, ’n’ I was just checking to see if ye’d heard from yer cap’n!”

  “Err,” the pirate grumbled, slowly drawing his blade.

  “No harm,” John assured him, holding his hands out empty. “I’m just passing through.”

  The pirate glanced nervously at his ship. “Squidzo!” he called. “Why dontcha commere quick!”

  “Oh, no, there’s no need fer that,” John chuckled. “I’ll jus’ be on my way.”

  Another man—presumably named Squidzo—peered over the edge of the ship before turning and hastily making his way down toward the pair on the beach.

  “So ye ain’t seen yer cap’n, I reckon?” John asked.

  The pirate pointed his sword at John and growled with narrowed eyes, “Why dontcha lay down yer skewer there.”

  John looked nervously at the approaching Squidzo before glancing back up to the ship to ensure that no one else was around. “Now, there’s no need for any violence. I just thought I’d greet ye with a how-do.”

  “We’ll get to the how-do’s once ye’ve laid down yer blade.”

  John glanced again at Squidzo. The pirate was close enough now that John could catch him should he turn and run to alert anyone else, so he shook his head and bolted into action. “Ye should trust more, chum,” he growled.

  The pirate relied on intimidation and bullying. He wasn’t fast or cunning or particularly strong, and he didn’t see it coming in the least when John snatched his own sword from its scabbard and swung it in an upward arc, removing most of the pirate’s extended arm. His sword fell to the sand in a bloody shower, and he immediately let out a sharp shriek that echoed across the entire Great Sea. John stayed that shriek in a hurry when he jabbed the tip of his sword upward into the pirate’s soft chin, ending his dim wits with a gut-wrenching gurgle.

  “Oy!” Squidzo called, drawing his own sword and breaking into a run. A more intelligent being may have turned back and at least tried calling for backup before engaging in battle, but Squidzo did no such thing. He rushed upon John with his blade outstretched and clashed the metal against that in John’s hand.

  Since no one but the three of them were out here to bear witness, John could finish the second pirate and no one else would ever know he had been here. He flicked his long, sharp blade deftly side-to-side, easily deflecting every frantic swing the enraged Squidzo threw his way. The man was strong, and he had a barbaric rage in his favor, but his swings were clumsy, too powerful to be accurate, and John remained nimble on the defense.

  The metal clanged several times while Squidzo grunted and cursed and attempted to side step before John, who swiftly mirrored his opponent’s moves. Before long the pirate had grown visibly winded, and John waited for an opening to hurl his boot heel into the man’s gut. The blow sent Squidzo windmilling backwards into the sand.

  John fell in upon him and placed the point of his sword against the man’s throat. “I don’t suppose I can convince ye to run along ’n’ keep yer trap shut?” he asked.

  The pirate grimaced and attempted to hurl one last thrust into John’s side.

  “I didn’t think so,” John said, sliding his blade through Squidzo’s throat and producing a jet of thick, hot blood.

  10

  After the pirate stopped struggling to breathe through an open windpipe, John surveyed his current situation. A glance up the beach and toward the jungle told him that the captain was not yet returning with The Stranger, and a glance at the ship before him told him that these two men were the only lookouts for the time being.

  He wasted no time in burying the two men in shallow graves beneath the hot sand. He kicked a little sand over the dark pools of blood that were seeping through to the mud below. The first pirate he’d killed carried a large ring of keys, which John took and fastened to his waist before burying the pair.

  The sailors must have all been down ship to partake in an early dinner or to just avoid the heat; either way, John carefully approached the bow of the ship and slowly made his way onto the pier and on deck. He peered around each corner before moving forward to ensure he didn’t get caught. If he could find the galley, he could lay low and wait for The Stranger before making their escape. He’d been transported on ships similar to this, so he thought finding the holding cells would be simple.

  A thump made him jump and drop to his knees behind a large barrel on the deck. A wooden door thudded closed as a sweaty pirate emerged from below and let out a large belch. He threw an empty rum bottle overboard and approached the edge of the craft to look out over the beach.

  “Squiddy!” the pirate called.

  John considered rushing the man, slitting his throat, and tossing him into the waves below, but the body could wash ashore and create a complication. A complication could likewise occur if the captain took too long returning and these remaining men went ashore and stumbled across the shoddy graveyard in the sand. Something within him told John to take his chances while he still could.

  “Where the fuck’re the lookouts?” the pirate muttered to himself, looking up and down the beach.

  John snuck quietly behind the confused man and into the dark stairwell leading down to what he hoped were the galleys.

  11

  The galley door was as inconspicuous as John remembered. He thumbed through the keys and found a large steel key that fit snugly in the lock on the door. He opened the door slowly and peered into the room. No one was there, but the room was fill
ed with tarps and boxes and cloth for repair sails. Plenty of places to hide his weapon.

  He stashed the blade and sat upon a box nearby, anxiously awaiting whatever may come next. Should the captain return without The Stranger and set sail, he would be helplessly trapped aboard the crowded ship. He’d counted at least twenty men when the craft had docked, and he’d never be so lucky as to escape all of them alone.

  John sat considering each unfavorable possibility well into the night, when he finally heard the thumping of boots coming down the stairs. He tucked his hands behind his back and lolled his head back and allowed his mouth to droop open as though he were sleeping and dead to the world.

  “Here we are, yer highness!” a voice called as keys jangled in the lock. This was it! They had brought The Stranger to him after all. “Special lodgings, just fer ye!” The door thumped open, and the man kicked John brusquely in the foot. “Who the fuck is this?”

  John feigned a loud snore and remained as still as he could.

  “Another drunken runaway on this forsaken isle?” the pirate asked. “Well, guess ye’ll ’ave some comp’ny ’til we figger out what to do wiv ’im.”

  The Stranger slumped against the opposite wall and sat in sullen silence as the pirate backed out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  John relaxed his body and looked at The Stranger with a giddy grin. He’d done it. He’d truly done it after all.

  “Long time, no see, Stranger! Ya ready to get outta here?”

  Chapter 12:

  Onton Onward

  1

  Patrick Oliphant opened his eyes to a blinding midday sun that felt as though it were floating just overhead. He had dozed as he sat upright against a large rock face on the beach. Stora was curled by his side purring softly as gentle waves crashed upon the shore. Patrick smiled and leaned his head back against the rock wall behind him. He stroked Stora’s soft fur and embraced the comfort of her touch.

  He was on an island on a bright, cloudless day. A gull flew by overhead and called a greeting down to the resting boy. No other sounds interrupted his leisure. No ships sailed by in the distance. No beasts growled in the jungle behind him.

  Suddenly Patrick heard a rustle to his right. He opened his eyes to see his mother emerging from behind the rock. He smiled to see her here.

  “How are you, sweetie?” she asked him.

  “I’m well,” he replied softly, “so well. I can’t remember ever feeling better.”

  Through this fog of contentment, Patrick felt an abrupt confusion trying to push through.

  Ignore it, he thought. He felt glad to be in this warm place, strange though it may be. He felt glad to be surrounded by those he loved. He should have embraced this moment, but instead his mind revolted.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and looking at her straight on now.

  “What do you mean, dear?”

  Patrick closed his eyes tight. What did he mean?

  I don’t know.

  “I mean why are you here? How are you here?”

  His mother appeared to attempt to smile, but her face was contorting against it.

  As Patrick watched, her face changed, and he saw that the person before him was not his mother at all—it was a stranger.

  The face of his mother grew dark and slightly more wrinkled. A beard appeared before Patrick’s eyes. Her smile turned to a scornfully determined scowl.

  “Who are you?” Patrick asked, suddenly frightened. His hand squeezed into a protective fist in Stora’s fur. The day had grown unbearably hot, and his body broke out in a heavy, prickly sweat.

  The Stranger opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Patrick could hear only the crackle of the waves.

  He snapped his head back to the sea to find that the cool water before him had turned to a wall of scorching flames. Waves not of salty seawater, but of deadly flames licked their way closer and closer along the shore. When Patrick looked back to The Stranger, the man’s face was burning, his skin melting. The wrinkles sagged into a fiery mask of illness.

  Patrick looked down to find that Stora had vanished from his side. The soft sand beneath him had turned to hard packed dirt. The rock wall behind him turned to the softening clay of his house’s wall.

  The island created by his oxygen-deprived brain melted away with the façade of his burning home, and it was only the prospect of dying beneath the dick of the monster who had wandered through a hole in the crumbling wall that brought Patrick back to his grim reality.

  2

  Patrick’s house had been completely surrounded by the infected for days on end. His food and water supplies had run out, and Stora was practically crawling out of her skin to be let out. Patrick had clung to a selfish hope that he could keep her inside with him until the situation resolved itself, but no matter what the two of them had shared, alone together in this sick world, the beast was a wild animal, and she demanded to be set free.

  Patrick took inventory of the spare lamp oil containers he’d salvaged since the outbreak. He had nine full containers left, as well as one partially filled lamp that he’d been using regularly. His hands shook as he lined the lamps up and braced himself for what he would have to do.

  Before he got started, Patrick bent down and ran his fingers down Stora’s thin back one last time.

  “I have to let you go now, girl,” he whispered.

  Stora looked into his eyes expectantly and sighed in response.

  “Okay,” he said after a long, deliberating pause. Accepting that this was goodbye was proving to be the most difficult aspect of the whole thing. “I’m probably not going to make it out alive. You have to take care of yourself out there.”

  Stora only stared. Despite her magnificence, she was only a cat, and she would never comprehend the severity of their predicament.

  Patrick rubbed his thumb under her chin, and she closed her eyes appreciatively. “Do you understand?” he asked. “We may not see each other again.”

  She began purring and pawed at Patrick’s hand after he removed it from her chin.

  “Please understand,” he begged. “All I want is for you to understand.”

  Stora offered him nothing in return.

  Patrick fought back another round of tears as he scratched her head once more.

  “It’s okay,” he choked. “Let’s get this over with.”

  A rock-solid lump in his throat, Patrick stood and leaned against the door, hoping against hope that something would happen to render this unnecessary. Nothing ever happened, and, at last, Patrick brought himself to gently push the door open just enough for Stora to eagerly shove her thin body through the crack and bound off into the surrounding brush.

  Patrick barricaded the door again and rushed to the window and peered through a small crack to watch his friend leave. A few of the nearest lurkers turned toward the scurrying animal, but none came close to catching or stopping her. He waited a few moments longer in the hopes that she would come rushing back and beg to be let back in the front door with him.

  When he accepted that Stora was gone for good, Patrick wandered his home as slowly and mindlessly as those who wandered around it outside. He gathered bits of cloth from old blankets and clothing and tore them into strips to use as fuses for his lamp bombs. He tore the strips long enough so that he could dip one end in the oil and shove the other end into the lamp. The tip that had been dipped in oil would burn slowly and allow him to throw the glass bulbs and create a sizeable burst of flame as they shattered.

  Patrick carried the bombs two at a time and placed them on the floor by the door. He pulled away the heavy table that had so successfully kept him barricaded in his old home. When three glass bulbs remained on his table, he closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, attempting to steady his shaking hands.

  “Here goes nothing,” he muttered.

  He struck a match and drew it near one of the makeshift fuses he’d created. As the tip of the cloth ignited, so too
did the tips of his fingers, which had been coated in the lamp oil during his process. Patrick dropped the match and flapped his flaming hand against his legs. The lamp oil burned slow and hot, and it would not readily be extinguished. In his panic, Patrick knocked the two unlit lamps to the floor, where they shattered and sprayed oil across his kitchen. Excruciating moments passed as he smacked his burning hand across his clothes in failed attempts to put out the flames. He felt in painful detail as his skin began to sizzle and blister beneath the heat. At last Patrick’s panicked mind told him to put out the lit lamp before it caused an even bigger problem. He snatched at the burning fuse with his free hand, but the cloth had been wedged inside too tightly. The entire apparatus tumbled to the floor and landed in the puddle of broken glass and lamp oil.

  Tall, hot flames immediately erupted up toward the dry thatched ceiling. Patrick stumbled backward into his den and fell upon his backside in the floor. By the time he sat back upright, sweat and singes coating his face and hair, the fire upon his fingers had gone out, but now he faced a much more hopeless circumstance.

  Patrick scooted and slid himself backwards until he hit the wall by the front door and leaned against it, staring hopelessly at his rapidly burning kitchen. The flames licked up the wall and travelled down the hallway. The reed roofing began collapsing down inside the house, feeding the flames. The clay walls melted and crumbled. The air inside the small dwelling quickly dwindled.

  Patrick looked at the door to his left and considered making a run for it, but something told him he was as good as dead anyway. The number of those things directly outside that door was far too overwhelming. He would rather go in here, warm and quiet inside his own home. He would rather exit this realm in an oxygen-deprived stupor, oblivious at last to the death and sickness around him.

  He closed his eyes, and his brain took him away from this grim reality. He closed his eyes as he left the realm of the living—if you could still call them such—and entered whatever existed on the other side. He opened his eyes to find an island.

  3

  Death.

  It’s life’s greatest lie.