The Blue (Book 3) Page 22

  “Enough gas to get to Mexico,” he tells me. I ask him how he knows that if he doesn’t know where the hell we are.

  “You’ve just got to calm down some,” he goes on. “We’re not going to get there working together like this.” And then, he asks me again if they’re all really dead.

  “Where are the keys?” I ask. He gives me the same empty answer. I tell him he’s got one minute left to remember. There’s no other option left, I tell him. And then, with a bold laugh, he asks me what I plan to do all alone out on the ocean by myself.

  “If you kill me, this ship’s going down. See that storm?” he says, but I won’t look away for anything. I remember what the sky looked like, that it looked better than before. And I know he just wants to buy one second with me looking away to make his move. I keep my eyes right on him.

  “It’s not done. We’re in the eye. Look around you,” he says. And then he starts describing the cone shape, the eye wall of the hurricane that we’re running through. Only I don’t buy it for one second. The ship bucks and I hear another wall of spray crash onto the deck. My instincts almost overtake me, sending my eyes out to the horizon to confirm what he’s saying, but I stand firm, ignoring him. And then, when I feel the tension rising too high, like I know he’s about to make his move, he cracks.

  “You know what we were going to do to you?” he says. And suddenly the grin is gone, and I know he’s trying to start a whole new mind game. I tell him to shut up. But he won’t stop talking, and I tell him to sit the fuck down when he starts to gently squirm in his seat.

  “We were going to do the same thing we did to the last three we found. And the two before that,” he says, watching my reaction, waiting for me to flinch.

  “What’s that?” I ask, itching to pull the trigger.

  “Little girl, you don’t want to know. Now, you better put that gun down before one of us gets hurt,” he says. The smile hasn’t come back, and his tone is dark. I hear grunts coming from his throat, softly, the pain of the bullet in his leg getting to him now.

  “No, I want you to tell me,” I say. “What were you going to do?”

  But as soon as I ask him, and before he starts to give me an answer, I calm myself down. Just before I pull the trigger, I tell him to stop, not to say another word. Because I’ve decided now—decided I’m going to work myself up to kill him. I almost want to hear what he’s done so I know how right it will be when I do it. How right it was to kill them all. But something better comes to me. Exactly what to do with him.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to know. Just take me to my gear,” I say. And just like that, as I step back and out into the rain, I watch him rise up. You make a move for the gun and you’re dead, I warn him. I’m not, he reassures me. And then, as I tell him to walk slowly, he moves through the door. I wait for him, and then, I tell him to walk real slow. By the time we’re moving across the deck, I have the gun aimed squarely at his back. When we reach the bow, he starts to talk again.

  “Look up,” he tells me, but I don’t. “See the black coming back in? You have to let me get back to the wheel,” he says. But I tell him to keep moving. And then, in just a moment, we’re standing over a storage hatch at the bow. He starts to bend down to open it and I tell him to stop.

  “Don’t you want to take a look? Find your gear?” he asks me. I tell him no, and to keep walking.

  “Where?” he asks me, struggling a bit on his leg. And then he twists around to look at me, his long bedraggled hair slopping across his face, a look of exasperation tightening his squint.

  “Keep going, to the rail,” I tell him.

  “Come on. You don’t really want me up there?” he asks. The boat lurches hard and dips down into a trough. He yells at me to turn around. You need to get me back to the wheel, he says, It’s going to hit any second. But I ignore him, because something has come into me and I feel just as crazy as the men I killed below. Get up there, and stand on it, the railing, I tell him. And then, when he starts to open his mouth again, I fire into the air, just by his head. Instantly he steps back, and then he walks right up to the rail. Get up on it, I tell him. Come on, he starts again. But his words don’t do anything and all I hear is rain. I shoot two more rounds off and his hands start to move up the rail. Then, he’s got his legs wrapped around it and he’s hanging into the spray that vaults up as we move down into the trough. He leans in violently but hangs on.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he yells. And then, just like that, the ship levels out. I feel all the hatred in the world rise up into me, and with it flies away all of my better judgment.

  “Go in,” I tell him.

  “What?” he says, barely audible through the gusting wind.

  “In,” I say again. And when there’s just another moment of silence, he starts to climb back down. I fire off another shot at the deck, right where his feet are, and he leaps back up onto the rail. And it cuts through my head—what if you run out of bullets? But then he says it, and I lose every bit of cool I have left: You would have screamed like a little bitch!

  I pump the trigger over and over, all around him but not at him, until he falls backward and over the rail. I walk up and look down, watching him swim to the surface after the splash, struggling to make it above the froth, against the long and high slopes of the swells. And then I look up, the first time I’ve looked away from the man. Expecting to see a hurricane returning. But the sky isn’t blacked out at all—there’s no eye wall. All a lie like I thought. And then, just like that, a surge of panic runs through me. What if he had the keys on him?

  But I don’t care—I’ll break the metal bars apart somehow. We’re going home, I scream up at the rain. And I realize I’m screaming it to Voley. And running back across the deck, almost tripping, I call down to him, through the darkened space below deck: We’re going home boy! And he barks up at me. But I can’t go down. I have to try to steer the ship. And it comes into me, some of the things the Capt’n taught me in Michigan: lean into the waves. Run the ship right at them, in a straight line. Don’t let her get sideways. And without a single idea about where I’m heading, I get into the wheelhouse and grab the wheel and find the throttle. And then, looking ahead at the gray bands, with not a shred of the blue or the stars in sight, I keep the bow pointed directly at the widest length of the visible swells. We’re going home, I say to myself, over and over, though I don’t know where we are or where we’re going. And just like, adrenaline lights up every fiber in my body, and I become like stone set into the wheel, keeping her straight, running into the swells, watching every motion of the sky and the waves and the rain and the spray and the wind. And there’s not another thing in the world I can do but hope we’re moving out of the weather, and toward the south or the west. I send a line up to Poseidon, and ask him to get me home. And I ask Russell if maybe he can help a little too. And then I tell myself to shut up, because I’m just talking to myself, and my head returns to the foam.

  Chapter 28

  The ship rides easily over the tall swells, and none of them seem to break anymore. Just a long ride up, until it feels like everything will fall over the edge of the world at the other side, and then the descent. Each time the ship hits the bottom of the trough I watch the hill of sea in front of us, waiting for it to curl over, but it never does. Every pass is the same as the last, and then I realize the water is calm enough that I can turn the ship safely. I scan over the sky, trying to find some kind of clue, some measure of where the blue was. Where the open cut of stars should be. But I can’t tell anything and the sky is growing too dark and gray. I know it’s not storm-dark though, and it’s just the night, and I keep myself hooked onto the wheel, the cold stiffening up my joints so that I’m like a gargoyle, frozen on just like John was. I try not to think about him or the others downstairs, or the fact that Voley’s still locked up and I don’t know how the hell to get him out yet. I just keep my eyes straight ahead and watch for a change in anything. The color or the rain on the win
dow, or even just a quicker rise and fall. But things seem to keep leveling off, like we’ve come through the worst, and now we’re pushing into better weather. But I don’t have any idea where we are. I try to peer into the dimness to see signs of clouds dipping toward the water in just the way they’re not supposed to do, the sign of another twister touching down. Anything to prove my reservations are real, that I’m wrong to think we’re making it through this alive. John’s words still bite at my head, and it pushes up the same gut shock: We’re in the eye wall. For a moment, I tell myself he was right. And it’s just that the storm is so massive that I have to crawl across a hundred miles of the eye before I hit the next wall. But it’s all bullshit. A crazy man’s last words to get me off guard.

  It comes over me how proud Russell would be. And in the same stroke, I feel a wave of nausea. Something about the way he would feel disappointed too. Even though I saved us, killed them all, I’ve eaten people just the same as them. And I let the sadist out in me too. You could have just shot him, I beat myself up. But then I ignore it. He’s dead. Russell’s dead and he doesn’t know one way or the other how the hell you’ve done since the pack, or what you’ve done. And back and forth my mind takes me through the new picture of myself. A cold killer and a face eater. But I know, no matter how bad my head taunts me as I start to fatigue at the wheel, it’s not true. I’m not like them. Because the way a person acts occurs by degrees, not by black and white measures. And in that idea I see a lie—because there are certain things that have to be black and white. A license for middle ground ends humanity. The veneer becomes too muddy. It all spirals through my mind too much, and I focus on the sky, looking for stars. But there’s not one sign of the scar of light, nothing to tell me I’m not in Kansas and pulling hard toward the Great Plains suction. And part of me wants to scour the ship for the red powder, because they must have some on board somewhere.

  When everything gets so calm that I don’t need to steer right at the swells anymore, and I’m so blinded by the night that I don’t think I could do it if I tried anyway, I go across the deck and toward the center hatch to check on Voley. With the flashlight out again, I walk down the steps, keeping the machine gun tucked under my right arm just in case the dead have risen. But there’s nothing but the awful smell of the steel drums and Voley’s instant hello. He barks as soon as my feet make it to the floor, and then, he whines a bit more as I get close enough that he can smell me.

  Alright boy, I say, nervous that now that I’m not at the wheel we’ll get turned around by a rogue wave. But the ship feels calm and firm, and each long running rise and fall does nothing to roll us. I’m going to get you out of here soon, okay? And just like that, after I rub his ears for half a minute, I go back up onto the deck. I make my way with the flashlight carefully over the slick surface to the fore hatch and kneel down to unhook it. It raises easily and I shine the light down in there. Right on top is all of my gear. Further down I see more supplies—boxes and bags and some silver metal. Maybe canned goods but I can’t be sure without hanging my head lower inside. I get down a little and see the bones. Cracked so that I can’t tell if they’re from an animal or a human. Or isn’t that the same thing anyway? my mind rattles off. Animal or human. And then, when I see the remains of a skull, I shut the door.

  I stand out over the bow rail and look at the low seas and breathe in the air and feel the rain hit against my cheeks. I look up and open my mouth. Let it all fall in. Something about it tastes less metallic. Like we’ve been transported to some place that’s pure. And knowing I won’t have a clue where we are until daylight returns, and even then I won’t know, and that I need something to help me stay awake, I duck down and open the hatch quickly again and pull out the black box. I shut everything up and bring it back to the wheelhouse. Once I’m out of the rain and I still feel confident I don’t need to hang over the wheel, I crack the box. I pull out the radio and hit the button. The yellow slit turns on. Somehow it looks duller than I remember, but it still works.

  I tune the thing to the first preset and wait. I read the numbers out loud slowly: 49.100. Then, the static comes in against the rain and the soft wind of the night. I click the receiver and call out to Pikes Peak.

  “Hello?” I say. “Anyone there?” There’s not a sound on the other end. Just the fluctuating white noise that rises and falls and crackles the same way as the waves and the spray. My eyes move away from the radio and I shine the flashlight on the throttle. I see two red knobs on the end of two short silver shafts connecting it into a metal box. And then I see the power symbol near the top. It says FWD and I push the thing up an inch. Right away I feel the ship pull a little harder. And then, deciding that whatever fate it is that lies ahead in a straight line, I want to get us there as soon as possible, so I mash the thing. All the way up. And the engine comes on just a little bit louder so I can hear it working over the sound of the rain. And then, I flip through the radio and waste the night, trying every band I can until I fall asleep on the chair against the glass.

  Chapter 29

  When I open my eyes, it’s like I’m in another world. I check to see if I’m dreaming, but after several double-takes and pinches, I know it’s real. The gray is at its lightest color again, and there is the scar of the blue, wide and bright. Within it is the gold-white menace of the sun, beating down with all the fury it showed me on the pack. And there, way out in the horizon, I see white shards. The remains of the pack. They’re so far that I can’t be positive it’s the same ice, and even if we came in close I might be unable to tell still. But I scream anyway, and shout up to the sky.

  As far as I can see, the sea is nearly flat. And the ship’s motor still seems to be pumping away. I step outside into the rain and it feels lighter, like it’s getting ready to turn off again. And I know, or at least naïve hope tells me, that we must have been pulling south or west all night long. Once I see the white wake of the boat over the stern, I can’t help but charge to the hatch at the center of the ship. I holler to Voley and leap down the stairs and almost trip.

  “We did it boy!” I yell before I even know what I’m telling him we did. And then he starts up, battling the metal bars and trying to break out. I leave the hatch open and let the bright sun pour down some into the stinky cabin. I only pay each body a quick glance and then look away. And I can’t seem to comprehend that I did all of this. Just me. And I look at Voley and the lock setup and almost try putting a few bullets into it. But I know I can’t trust the ricochet, and that even one stray bullet is too much risk. It’s like I couldn’t even go on if something happened to him now. So I use the flashlight to scour every shelf of the cabin for the key, but there’s nothing. I find more fuel, some food, maps, clothes, and other gear, but no key. And finally, when I know there’s nothing I can find below the deck to free him, I promise I’ll be back, and go above again.

  The blue line in the sky is so fat that I think I’m dreaming again. And the winking sea smiles back at me, no threat at all. I make my way over to the bow hatch and lift the door. I climb down into the tight storage space and ignore the corner filled with bones and try to find anything that might break the lock. But there’s nothing. So instead I grab some of the silver cans from near the bottom of the compartment and bring them back onto the deck. At least I can feed him, I tell myself, as I try to smash the can apart. And when it doesn’t do anything but dent, I go grab the knife and start to stab and twist into it. Finally, I get a slit wide enough that juice starts to come out. I pull it up to my nose and smell it. And then, without a note of anything rancid, I let the stuff fall onto my tongue. It tastes delicious and I force out a giant wad of the peas into my hands and then shovel the rest into my mouth, barely chewing. And then I drink the pea juice and look up to the sky and open my mouth. The rain is barely falling now and I get just enough to wet my tongue. And it’s just when I’m about to break the second can and bring it to Voley that I hear the noise. It’s a voice.

  I freeze and grab the gun from the
deck by my side, the whole time thinking it will be too late. I stick the butt under my armpit and pivot, facing the long sleek floor of the deck all the way back to wheelhouse. Someone else is on board the ship. But then it hits me: The radio.

  I run past the center hatch and throw down the can of peas. By the time I get to the receiver there’s nothing but white noise again. And I click the receiver and wait, saying hello over and over again until I realize I must have imagined it. Or else there really is someone else alive on the boat. Some compartment I haven’t discovered. It’s only after I’ve about given up, and am ready to check below deck to see if one of the men somehow survived, and had only been knocked out, that the static clears.

  “Pikes Peak here. Do you copy?” comes the woman’s voice. I practically fall over the receiver and my hand is shaking when I press the button in. Yes, I’m here, I reassure her. And then I click off as fast as I can and wait. My eyes dart around in apprehension, watching the too-good-to-be-true horizon, the flat stretch of canvas brown, as flat as I’ve seen it since Wyoming. And then, I twist around and study the white formations stuck in the horizon. And even as she responds, I can’t help but realize something impossible about the sight—the shapes haven’t moved. They haven’t even stayed the same size. They’re getting bigger. Too big to be ice.

  “We thought we’d lost you for good,” she says shakily, tension running just as high in her voice as mine. She tries to hide it with a chuckle.