by LeRoy Clary
I counted on my fingers. “Someone may spot me and shoot me. Or see the sailboat start to move and investigate, then shoot me. Or they might hear the engine when I start it. Or it won’t start. Or I crash it into other boats because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I can go on.”
“I get the picture. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing—other than trying to grope around in the dark to take a boat you don’t know how to drive when there might be people shooting at you. I think I get it. You don’t have to bite my head off just because I ask you a question. What else?”
“I have to pee.”
She smirked. “Oh, I took care of that problem long ago. That reminds me, I may need a bath sometime in the next few days.”
Well, that was one problem that I could also solve, although why I hadn’t done the same earlier attested to the fact I hadn’t yet adjusted to the new world we lived in. I let it go and instantly felt better. The sun was still high enough that it wouldn’t be dark for a few hours. I could use a nap, but with the pee and the little water that had seeped inside sloshing back and forth, sleeping in the narrow boat didn’t seem an option, even if I could get comfortable as I tried to stretch out.
I leaned back, put my head on the top of the seat, and closed my eyes. If nothing else, I could rest and review my plans along with all the old man had told me. I silently thanked him again.
When I opened my eyes, it was almost dark. Sue was floating right beside me, her hand braced on my kayak to steady it. I’d scooted way down in the seat, my legs placed up on the front of the boat. A kink in my back kept me from sitting upright until I worked it out.
Sue said with a cruel grin, “All that worrying didn’t keep you awake, I see.”
My mind felt refreshed. We let the wind and currents push us where they wished. I now had total confidence in the small craft, and in our abilities to paddle them. Only a storm would challenge us, and we might welcome a storm because it would keep others inside while we stole a sailboat probably worth as much as a small house.
Sue wanted to talk and talk. Nerves, I think. She told me about her school and how the girls had formed cliques in the last couple of years, the gringo blonds became cheerleaders, others became geeks, jocks, kickers, or farmers. Few of the names she used were complimentary.
“Race?” I asked.
“Not so much. Different likes. Culture. And money, of course.”
That was observant of her. The cliques when I was in school were not about race either. They were about interests. Maybe a little about economics. A boy who had brown skin and a nice white smile, along with a pretty car made him just as popular as others. Of course, if he was on the football team, that also helped.
Since leaving school and later becoming a hermit-geek, I’d spent little time thinking about the racial issues that others said were tearing the country apart. From my experience, which was admittedly one-sided, I had my own opinions about that. People were people. Some better than others at sports, academics, or social games. Race or color had little to do with it, just as the fourteen-year-old in the other boat had said. How she got that smart in so little time, I didn’t know.
For me, it started at the beginning of my education. First grade is a distant and vague memory. However, in second grade, our class had been mostly girls and that changed a lot. Of the eighteen students, ten were female and every boy knew not to spend time with them! That left seven boys, besides me. Of them, I had to find a friend, because everyone knew a boy didn’t choose a girl for a friend at that age. One boy was fat and ate all the time. Another cried over something different almost every day. That left a pool of five boys to make friends with.
Of those five remaining, three had been in the same class the year before and were a trio of best friends, doing and saying the same things, and they didn’t want any joiners. That left me with a choice between a white athlete who was something of a bully, and a skinny brown kid from somewhere in Central America. Well, his parents were from there, he was from North Seattle. But Juan and I were thrust upon each other to avoid the rest.
He was a computer guy, more into hardware. I was into software. We formed a friendship that lasted for five years until my folks bought the house in Arlington and we moved up there. We stayed in touch for a while, but it wasn’t the same. I hadn’t thought about his color since the first few days of school that year. He was simply, Juan. My only friend.
No one in Arlington had replaced him. Most had attended the same classes since kindergarten, and I was the outsider. That is not really a fair assessment, of course. Most were nice enough, I just didn’t click with one, and any girl I pursued quickly rejected me. I remember walking the halls of the school day after day without a single one of them saying hello or offering a smile. On reflection, that was more my fault than theirs. If I had offered a smile, I may have received one in return.
I hoped my friend, Juan was immune to the flu and he was doing well, although the odds I’d been calculating before Sue showed up were not promising. With an eighty percent extinction rate, or even seventy, coupled with the deaths sure to come within the first month from people killing each other, put the total death rate nearer ninety.
Ten out of every hundred seemed an optimistic survival rate if Marysville was a gauge. Yes, it had seemed that way when we’d ridden through, but I quickly realized there may have been many more hidden in basements, people hiding in the nearby forests, and other places. They were doing what we were—staying out of sight. As they emerged, the percentage of survivors might be significantly higher.
Wishful thinking, I chided myself, reversing my optimistic thinking. Each of the survivors would then become an enemy until he or she proved different. The old man at the house that exploded had told me that. I believed him.
“We should head in,” Sue said, interrupting my attempts at solving all the problems of the world.
She was right. Clouds hung low to the west and the sun had sunk behind them, making the twilight last longer and the sky surreal with pinks and oranges. In the dimming light, I doubted if anyone ashore could see us. As we paddled closer to shore, the darkness would intensify until we might not be able to see at all if the clouds moved in and blocked the stars. There might not be any lights on the shore to guide us.
“Not too fast,” I muttered, also thinking I could use a little more time to plan and shed some of my nerves. That was true before I made most major moves for the last few years, and as a result, I’d talked myself out of doing many things. Fear can be a motivator—and for me, it was usually a deterrent. Instead of solving the issues, I dodged them by doing nothing.
This was something I had to do. I forced my mind to understand and accept that. The sailboat was our answer to long-term survival. Failure to steal one was not how I wanted to die. Mental images of ravenous hordes of faceless degenerates attacking me consumed my thoughts as much as the possible reality of them eating me. That fear pushed me onward.
It was success or failure tonight. If we failed to locate a sailboat, we could try again in a day or two and know more about how to do it and what to watch out for. Tonight, as we’d discussed, could become a scouting venture. If the marina was heavily guarded, or if we tripped an alarm, or couldn’t find a boat we could take, we’d learn valuable information for another try.
Hell, if it came down to it, we could use the kayaks and paddle north along the shoreline, go ashore at night and scrounge for food and water, then paddle north again the next day. We’d find a boat of some kind, eventually. A sailboat if we were lucky, along the way. There must be hundreds of motorboats we could steal and go north to relative safety.
My spirits perked up. If I encountered danger, I’d leap into the water and swim to the waiting kayaks and escape in the darkness. Then, as my mind often did, it brought up an obstacle. Can a person get into a kayak in deep water? If so, it probably took skill and practice and I had none. Sue would have to meet me where the water was shallow.
The su
nlight failed and clouds covered most of the sky, which was good because it made it darker and harder for others to see us. There was no moon yet. No lights were on the shore, no candles, campfires, or gas lanterns. Everyone was scared to use them and draw others to them, I guess.
To the east, a vague dark shape was the high hill the city was built on. It loomed over us. Below was the marina.
In the darkness, we almost paddled into the rocks of the breakwater. Only the faint sound of the wavelets slapping the rocks a few feet away warned us where we were. We turned and paddled parallel to the breakwater, finally reaching the end.
It occurred to me that, in the darkness, Sue would never find me if I had to swim for it because of danger. I paused and said, “Hey, if we get separated and there is trouble, paddle outside the harbor as we talked about. If there is trouble, don’t try to help me, just get away. Meet me on the other side of the breakwater where we are. I’ll swim out to it and climb over the rocks. Paddle along the edge and wait for me to call you. I can get into the kayak here and we’ll escape and come back in a day or two.”
“Good idea,” she said.
We paddled around the end of the breakwater and proceeded slowly to where the boats were moored. There were hundreds, many identifiable by the masts rising into the night sky. Either our eyes had adjusted to the darkness, or the clouds had thinned a little. As we neared the nearest, the sounds of the night increased.
Something metal tapped against the aluminum mast of a boat and ropes tapped out an irregular beat on another. Boats rode up against protesting plastic fenders as the water moved against the hulls. Each boat contributed two, three or more unique sounds to merge with the thousands of others. It reminded me of a beehive with each bee contributing a little buzz of its own until the whole thing was a hum that could be heard fifty feet away.
What we didn’t hear were voices, footsteps, or other noises from humans until a shot from a rifle or large caliber pistol split the night. It had come from above us, in the city a hundred feet in elevation higher than the port. The shot was quickly followed by two more, of smaller calibers. Then silence.
We paddled again, slowly and silently. No talking. The masts looked like a forest of bare trees rising up in the darkness. More gunshots sounded—this time from a different direction. They came from ahead of us and to our left, down where an industrial area and papermill had dominated the waterfront for a hundred years.
Behind us, a half-mile away, was where a small naval base had been built. The last few times I’d passed by, there were no ships tied up, but a fair number of sailors still worked there. It seemed odd to build a navy base and then not use it all the time, but again, I know little about the military.
The yacht harbor of the marina was split into two parts, one set of docks on the south side, another on the north, with a waterway like a main road separating them. Any boat leaving would have to pass through that one opening. Before finding a boat, I wanted to inspect both sides of the opening.
I wanted to look for signs of people, of course. But also, examine the boats. Sailboats dominated the nearer spaces, but closer to shore were covered boat docks of every size, where motor-cruisers tied up. Yachts, to my way of thinking.
We paddled to the north side, where a smaller cluster of docks held several hundred boats. I climbed out and knelt on the floating dock while Sue drifted a few feet away holding my kayak alongside hers. If she needed to hurry, she could paddle away and leave mine.
Once on the dock, I kept to the deepest shadows and moved silently—my gun was drawn and ready. If I needed to use it, I wouldn’t hesitate to make whatever amount of noise was required.
The docks shifted under my feet as I moved on the floating platforms. No lights came on, no alarms or sirens sounded. There was no sign of watchmen.
A larger sailboat was tied up to the end of one dock, more of a ship than a sailboat. It was an older design, the squat hull made of iron instead of sleek in design made of high-tech plastics. It had two massive wooden masts instead of the usual metal one. What caught my attention was that in the dim light I noticed the larger mast had squarish rings attached to it. A ladder. From up there, my view of the marina would be excellent, even in the dim light.
I climbed aboard, climbed the ladder as if being chased, and reached a small platform where I could stand. Using all my senses, I felt, sniffed, listened and even tasted the air for anything out of place. My eyes darted to every corner where a person could hide. Once assured I was alone, at least for now, because there could be people sleeping inside the boat cabins, I almost relaxed.
The clouds thinned a little more and allowed the rising moon to send fingers of white light over the horizon. There were boats obviously too small, others too large, many were cruisers and fishing boats. While I didn’t know how long a thirty-five-footer was, there were dozens of the general size we wanted. I estimated ten steps is about twenty feet, so we needed something in the range of fifteen steps along the dock, as measured by my eyes.
Only one dock away from me a glint of light reflected off the roof of the cabin of a boat about the right size, if maybe a little larger. It was the kind of glint that a solar cell reflecting moonlight might make. While I couldn’t be sure that was what it was, I decided to investigate that boat. The reflected light could have come from chrome fittings, a sliding window like a sunroof, or plastic hatch, but it was about the right size boat, and I felt lucky.
I slithered down the ladder and leaped back to the dock in total silence. The docks were laid out like a giant E, only with more arms. An E with twenty crosspieces. To reach the boat I needed required me to run to the head of the dock I was on, down a ramp and up the next arm of the E.
My feet were light on the dock, and I was listening and feeling for the vibrations of other footsteps on the dark metal docks. I paused at the next section of the dock and planned my next move. A dart and a sprint took me to another place of concealment, or another shadow.
By now, I hoped Sue had paddled to the end of the breakwater. She must have seen me climb the mast of the large boat, so she knew to move off. I went down the arm of the dock I wanted and the third boat from the end. It was the one I wanted.
My heart pounded, my breath came in uncontrollable pants anyone close by would hear, but I remained alone. I stepped aboard and squatted. When nothing happened, I scooted to the front of the cabin and reached up to touch the roof. It covered in solar cells; a mat of thin plastic tied to the roof with small fasteners and Velcro. The entire roof seemed to be covered with them. In a splash of light from the moon, I saw my guess was right.
My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and I could almost make out details. I went to the rear of the boat and stepped into a shallow bathtub sort of area, surrounded by padded seats. A heavy canvass was folded on a seat, probably from where a workman had left it. A huge upright steering wheel stood in the center. I sat behind the wheel on a little stool attached to the floor, letting my eyes further adjust while my fingers groped until they found a square recess about four inches on each side.
There were chrome letters imprinted on the lid. I knelt and twisted and turned my head until a bit of light from the moon glinted on the letters. The bottom word said, start. Above it was, run. Then off. And above and to the left a bit, glow.
That told me the engine was diesel. Solar panels and a diesel engine. A single upright mast so the boat was not too large. And there had been no warning or sighting of me. The only thing that would have made it better was if there had been an ignition key in the slot near the four words. Just like a car, the sailboat needed a damn key to start it. Nobody had mentioned that.
I should have spent time on the internet researching how to hotwire a sailboat. Until I figured that out, the boat was not moving. I didn’t know how to sail, let alone spread one to catch the wind. My heart fell. I’d have to come back after solving the problem.
Wait.
If I had a boat and wanted to go out sailing on it, I would
n’t want to get all the way to the marina and find I’d forgotten the key at home. I’d have a spare. The spare would be on the boat.
Inside the tub area, I went to the door or hatch to the inside and found a secure padlock holding it closed.
“Calm down,” I told myself. “You can always return tomorrow night. Now, think.”
The hasp was solid, not like those cheap ones you buy in hardware stores. The lock was the kind that was advertised as unbreakable. I circled the cabin on the little walkway that ran around the sides. I looked inside through the windows, but it was far too dark to make anything out but a few tiny pricks of light. The windows seemed like the kind that slid open, but they were all firmly locked on the inside.
The folded canvas on the seat gave me an idea. I went back picked it up. It was heavy, stained with dried paint splattered on it. At the side window of the cabin, I used the railing above it to hold the canvas in place while I refolded it to the right size and had six layers of canvas packed as tightly against the window as possible.
Planning ahead, I went to the dock again and made certain there were no locks or devices that would keep me from releasing the mooring ropes and pushing the boat free. I unwound the loops of rope on the dock cleats until only one or two remained and when I was ready, they could be undone in seconds. I disconnected the hose for water, and unplugged the electricity—although there was none, the heavy weatherproof cable was plugged into a unit on the dock.
Back on the boat, I waited, then gently pushed on the canvas cover over the window with my shoulder. Nothing happened. I pushed harder. Still nothing. So, I backed up and gave it a solid kick.
The window broke, but most of the noise was obscured and absorbed by the layers of canvas. A dull thump was followed by the muted tinkling of falling glass inside the cabin, and that was quickly lost in the rattles, thumps, bumps, and sloshes of the marina.
However, I waited, gun in hand, for what I hoped was ten minutes. Then, so I didn’t cut myself, I carefully broke the remaining glass from the frame. I rolled through the window and slipped inside to find myself on a sofa. My eyes adjusted and immediately found a little desk, complete with switches and the few tiny lights I’d already seen. My fumbling hand found the little drawer and pulled it out, hearing pencils rolling on the bottom.
